I love Marcus Hermione...I willingly contribute another Scribble with that pairing. On the other hand, I'll put it out there now that Lucius paired with Hermione as a romance interest doesn't make me feel very creative...personally I prefer brunettes.

...

Hermione sighed and closed her book, flexing her feet in her plain shoes as she stared at the cover and tuned out the loudness of the Burrow. That restless feeling was eating at her, that sense of being misplaced…of not belonging…of being isolated while surrounded.
She was lonely.
Ginny squealed and chased one of her brothers through the sitting room, almost knocking over the loud ticking grandfather clock while the other Weasleys laughed raucously and shouted encouragements.
Carefully manoeuvring, she stood and tucked her book close to her side.
The bedroom she shared with Ginny would only be so quiet for long, and she settled and meditated.
Self examination was key to her occlumency. And her occlumency was key to maintaining a steady head and forward step as she dealt with a rebuilding world and boisterous celebrations while her body still wreaked with aches and her nightmares built into a raging storm.
Her magic was angry and defensive, and Hermione was managing it all the best she could while navigating the grief of the Weasleys along with their almost jarring sense of accomplishment and joy.
This feeling of being lonely, out of place, wasn't a new feeling. She'd felt it all her life in fact. It had just become more pronounced the more she used and studied and understood her magic. And then the war…
She'd asked older witches, but found no advice or recognition of the ache.
It was something she struggled with, always that niggling thought that she really didn't belong and so she strove and strove to prove herself. But she was a mudblood. She was one of the boys. She didn't gossip. She wasn't pretty. She was too smart. Too mouthy. Too blunt. Too small. Too scarred. Too much and too little and just not right.
Hermione swallowed and carefully lay down on the small musty bed.
She just wanted something steady to lean on. Something to brace herself on so she could take a breath and not be afraid that she'd surprise someone with her need to have support.
It almost felt wrong to need that support, she hadn't lost a member of her family. In fact she had protected her family and could go retrieve them with their safe word. And didn't that also rankle them, that she hadn't trusted the Order to protect her family?
A sigh escaped as she let her eyes drift closed.
It would be so nice to just be held.

Marcus flexed his hands, taking off his Quidditch gloves to rub at the itch. As fast as he flew, as much as he practiced, as hard as he trained; he felt restless.
He needed to be somewhere, doing something.
He sighed and tilted his head back, squinting into the surprisingly bright sun as he took his water break. His teammates called loudly as they hooted and hollered through practice, but his scowl sat entrenched in his face when usually their good natured goading could make him twitch a smirk at least.
But Quidditch wasn't giving him joy right now, wasn't distracting him.
His hands, and the strength in them, were lacking purpose.
The magic of the calling was pulling at his core, making his entire being ache with the need to satisfy the yearning.
He tossed the rest of the water over his head, cooling the heat from the sun on his dark hair, before barking out a taunt and diving back into the practice game. Even with the scowl on his face and the call on his heart he'd put his all into his game.
And he'd wait for a sign.

Hermione woke up from her sleep, feeling content and well rested. She blinked and furrowed her brow as the dawn sun filtered through the curtains over her face. She slowly took in her position encased in blankets and pillow—she enjoyed that feeling. It felt like she was being held and protected.
With a regretful sigh she pulled away from her cozy nest, bracing herself for the morning chill. Leaving the silencing ward on her bed brought her also into range of Ginny's snoring, and Hermione grimaced as she tiptoed and gathered up her kit for a shower.
Under the hot spray, she blinked away sleep and frowned.
She'd been dreaming.
It was so rare to dream now that she was meditating and practicing occlumency.
But she vaguely remembered being held, of contentment, her magic settling around her and being cradled.
She snorted and smiled slightly at the romantic dream, more focused on working out knots while she shampooed and conditioned.
With careful steps she made her way to the mirror, wiping away fog to check the healing of her wounds.
The one across the side of her neck pulled strangely, and her arm hadn't healed right. Among the other marks on her body they were the worst, but sometimes it felt like they were better because she could potion or spell them to heal cleaner than the older ones—those had left deep, dark scars. Hermione sometimes wondered if the adults in her life just hadn't cared—she'd discovered better spells and modified so many potions now it seemed that their efforts were lacking in healing her.
With a sigh she turned her eyes to the mirror, finally clear, and then gasped.
On the side of her stomach, a handprint stood out red and large on her pale skin.
Hermione carefully laid her hand overtop the mark, checking if her hand could somehow have made it in the night. But as she did so, her hand proved quite smaller, and the feeling of contentment washed through her along with a surge of magic.
She got the dreamy impression of an arm wrapped around her, cradling her back into a broad chest as the hand rested there right under her own.
Her eyes snapped up to her reflection, taking in her drying tussled hair and startled face.
She'd dreamed she'd been held.
And he had left a mark on her skin to help her remember that she was protected and sheltered.
A shaky sigh left her lips.

Marcus surged awake when the witch left his dreams, panting and chilled with sweat.
Oh.
Oh.
The Flint grin stretched his mouth so wide his cheeks hurt, and he threw himself on the bed to stare happily at the canopy while he tried to recall every detail he could.
She'd smelled bright, light and citrusy. Almost lemon?
And she was tiny, fit right into him with her feet against his shins and her head on his arm. But she was curvy too, soft and womanly. There was hip there under his arm, and his hand fell into a defined dip of her waist.
Her hair was soft, she had a lot of it. The dark strands had entwined over their pillow in a thick cloud.
He tried to remember if there were freckles on her shoulder or not, but the dream slipped away from him.
A scowl pulled his jaw tight, but he shook off his falling mood. It didn't matter, he'd dream of her again. Their magic had touched.
And she needed him.