"To hold back the sun, to enjoy the end of its absence. To shut your eye." H. Cixous
Wine, red, almost black, in the candlelight. Swirling, swirling, in the crystal held by an aristocratic white hand with long fingers.
Draco watches the wine with deceptively vague eyes, his entire attention however, on the witch sitting across from him.
Hermione is also watching him twirl the wine in his glass, chin propped in her hands, elbows on the table across from him.
The remains of a meal between them.
The bottle of wine, half gone.
"But you didn't talk to him?" she finally asks, breaking the silence.
A slight shake to his head. "I couldn't. Severus put wards on the property. I couldn't get within a hundred yards of it."
Silence. Draco feels Hermione's eyes on him, searching his face. He keeps it perfectly blank, watching the wine.
Swirling. Swirling.
"Are you angry?"
Draco lifts his eyes from the wine he is holding and meets Hermione's. Something catches, pulls at the softness there.
He does not look away. Strength of will. Or perhaps, because he can't.
"Angry," he repeats, tasting the word, moving it about his mouth, on his tongue. "Angry." He pauses. "No. I am not angry."
Another silence. Hermione reaches for her own wine and raises it to her lips, sipping at it, earthy tones, slightly pungent.
Draco watches her.
His hand, tightening about a crystal stem, just slightly.
She puts her wine back on the table, tilting her head, candlelight catching at the curls about her face, a multitude of color. "You will kill him." A statement, not a question.
"Yes." A reply. Devoid of emotion and so much more terrifying because of it.
Hermione nods. She once would not have understood. She understands now.
"Will you speak with Severus?" This one a question.
Draco swirls the wine. Around and around. He sips it. Swirls it again.
"I will. If for nothing but an explanation."
She watches the wine. "Of course," she murmurs.
He puts the glass down and she looks away, back at his face. Watching, searching, but she does not see what she wants to see and looks back down. "But this is not why we are here. What you discovered about the binding spell? Is it something one of your ancestors created?"
A slight nod. "Yes, both times. The original spell was created several thousand years ago; the alteration was in the last a hundred years."
Raising the glass to sip once more.
Hermione bites her lip and stares thoughtfully at the table.
Draco places his wine glass down on the table so as not to shatter it.
She continues. "So, the information, you believe it is at this house where your father is staying."
"I do."
"Well then, we will just get Severus to dismantle the wards."
Hermione refocuses on his face. Expectant.
A pause. "That would not be entirely… wise."
Knowledge, flickering about her eyes, across her face. "Yes. I suppose not."
Draco leans slightly forward in his chair, just slightly, just enough.
"There's more," he says quietly.
Very quietly, his voice dark, liquid, and he sees her shiver. Slightly. Just enough.
Hermione registers his tone before she registers his words, something slow, warm, smooth, moving through her body.
Then her mind catches up.
"What do you mean?"
Draco picks up his wine, swirling it before he sips.
Hermione forgets her question. Hands on her lap clenching.
"How much do you know of blood magic?"
Hermione raises her eyes from where she was staring at his lips, looking at him in surprise. "What?" she asks, somewhat stupidly, inwardly yelling at herself to focus.
A smirk, just slightly, pulling at one side of his mouth, amusement, knowledge, flashing in his eyes.
Hermione unclenches her fists.
"Blood magic," she begins, "is associated between blood lines, mostly used in the time of dire need or incredible happiness. It is the most protective form of magic that exists."
A pause.
"Why?" she asks.
Draco places the wine glass down, leaning further towards the table, further towards the witch across from him. The look of curiosity in her eyes, warring with something else, something darker, hotter, calling to him, whispering. Whispering.
"Can you feel blood magic?"
Hermione tilts her head, just slightly. "Of course. You know that."
Draco leans his elbows on the table. Closer.
"Have you always been able to feel blood magic?"
Slowly, he watches in fascination as she processes what he just asked. Slowly. Dawning understanding.
"No." She finally answers, not meeting his eyes, staring down at the glass of wine before her.
Red, almost black.
"The original spell," Draco continues. "I believe it was a protective spell, blood magic."
The lip. Pulled between teeth.
Rigid control that does not allow Draco to move from where he sits.
"But, that's impossible," she finally answers.
"Why?"
Hermione leans forward without thought, intent on what she is thinking. "Blood magic is just that, blood magic; we don't share blood, we are not related in any way."
An eyebrow raising. Pale silver eyes glowing, growing harder.
A hand, delicate fingers uncurled, rising up to her chest, placing it at the point under her chin, heat, warmth, spreading, spreading.
A flare of heat so hot, so demanding under his chin. A reaction, a response.
"Oh," she whispers.
Flashes of memory, her wand tip against his chest, the slow rise of a single drop of red blood, almost black in the firelight, pooling, a winter's chill spreading through her hand, her wrist, up her arm, magic, swirling, swirling, and his wand, placed in the same exact spot.
The trickle of blood between her breasts.
Warmth, even as the cold froze her skin.
Present. Flicker of candlelight, the low, almost indistinct murmur of people around them and the louder roar of blood in their ears.
"But how? How is that part of the spell? What does it mean?"
Draco does not move, rigid against the table, an almost welcome pain at the edge of it digging into his stomach.
Control.
"I don't know."
Three words.
Lack of control.
Paradox.
Transgression.
Taboo.
Silver and brown across the table from one another. Too close. Not close enough.
Memories. Ten years prior. The last several weeks. Heavy. So very heavy between them.
"You don't know?" Hermione says, anything, anything to break this contact, a distant thought screaming at her, reminding her, but falling away, falling away in wake of this, whatever this is, warming, heating, pooling. The quicksilver eyes of a man in front of her. The compulsion a desire wrapping, curling, stroking up her spine.
Draco watches. Sees it all, playing about her features, the slight blush along her cheekbones and the flutter, the ever so slight flutter of the pulse in her neck. He sees it.
Reaches out with one finger, across the distance, so far, not far enough, touching that point, right there, the flutter of a heartbeat, racing, racing, skin against skin.
The contact searing.
Instantaneous.
No thought.
Reaction. Action.
Action and reaction.
A whirlwind of movement, galleons clattering to the table, swirl of black cloaks, hands, clasped, contact, too much, too much, the cold of winter night, the pop of Apparation, and there, just there.
Oh gods.
She cries into his mouth crushing against hers, his body slamming her against a wall, and it's glorious, wondrous, lips searing, tongues battling. And hands, everywhere, gods everywhere. She feels the smoothness of his fingers, reaching up, circling her waist, touching, skimming the skin.
A moan against her throat, he licks at her pulse, kisses along her jaw line. So hard, so hot against her, he feels her body quaking against the wall.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he sears against her skin, his hands moving up her skin, up her waist, along her rib cage, cradling.
She whimpers, back arching, his hands finding her breast, the nipple, circling with a thumb, around and around, his lips nipping, behind her ear, up her jaw line.
Her hands intertwined in white strands.
The silkiness. The fine nature of it. She holds onto him, thrilling in it, everything pooling, pooling, too much heat, too much fire.
Too many clothes.
Shrugging out of her cloak, pulling his away from his shoulders, memorizing, hands moving over the lean muscles there, mesmerized, focused. Finally. So focused.
Until he tears her shirt away, and the cold of the room, the frigid nature of it, reaches her skin. Just a moment.
Then, his lips, her skin, he kisses at her collarbone, just there, and there, memories and dreams. Kissing along her collarbone and the taste, gods the taste, he remembers it; ten years gone, she tastes the same, skin against his tongue.
Her hands rocking against him, his shirt open, and those delicate fingers, playing, playing, tweaking at his nipple, along his sides, one finger dipping down underneath the line of his trousers.
A growl against her skin, arms pulling her against him, contact of chest against chest, skin, a whirl of movement, one step, two steps.
Falling, falling.
The bed rising up to meet them and she almost cries at his weight, at the perfect nature of his body against hers, his mouth pursuing one breast, one nipple, tongue licking, flickering, teeth nipping, a hand playing with the other one, rubbing a thumb across and back again.
Back arching upwards. The hand moves, the mouth moves, lining the bottom of her rib cage with open mouthed kisses, her hands in his hair, as it falls along her skin, so soft, so perfect, memories, but more, and a pooling of desire so fearsome she whimpers when those hands finds her pants, unbuttons them and pulls them off her legs.
Cold. Without contact.
He stares down at her, at multi-colored curls fanned out around her head on the black of the bed, at her flushed cheeks, the rapid fall and rise of her chest, and those eyes, liquid brown, warm, desire clear, heated.
So beautiful, so incredible, a moment.
And she bites her lip.
"Merlin," he growls.
And he is there, against her, again, rough trousers against her naked legs, pulling him towards her, towards her, and it's too much, too much. Frenzied kisses, she rains them on his face even as his hands remember, memorizes, even as her own hands knead his shoulders, his chest, pushing, bruising with delicate fingertips.
And it's too much, too much, suddenly, too much, and she brings those fingers to his trousers, unbuttoning them, hurried, shaky fingers. She needs him now, now, her entire body screaming, and he groans, her hand coming down, cupping him, silky hardness against her hand.
White hair coming down, shadowing his face, resting his forehead against her chest as she moves her hands down slowly, cupping, and then back up, one thumb coming across the head, swirling the liquid there, down again.
"Gods Hermione, gods," he says against her chest, the breath causing her to shiver, sensitive, so sensitive.
And it's not enough, not enough. His head coming up, kissing along her jaw, again, down, again, and then down her neck, pausing at the fluttering pulse, the beating pulse, nipping, down, licking against the hollow of her throat, down, one breast, twirling around with his tongue, twirling.
And it's not enough.
One motion and his pants are gone and there, just there, fingers, bodies, moving against each other, and the contact, the contact so much, not enough, skin against skin, fingers pressing, harder, harder, a pant of breath.
Pausing, questioning, and there, just there.
Stilling, arms holding him up on either side of her, looking down on her, eyes burning, poised, heat against her, silkiness against her folds and he stares down at her and she looks up at him, and in her face so much, so much he can't read, so much he can, and in his the same, the same.
Opposites.
So very different.
Until he slowly slides himself into her heat, never losing eye contact, never looking away, slowly, slowly, and the warmth, the fullness of it apparent in the look between them, in the quicksilver eyes and the chocolate ones, sharing, a moment, a moment.
Full, so very full, and she brings her arms up, wrapping them around his body, slowly, never looking away, her hips coming up to meet his, slowly, filling, as far as she can, as far as he can.
And stopping.
Breath. The only sound in the room.
And then movement.
Slow at first, measured, until she can't anymore, until the feel of him, his hands, his lips coming down on her neck, the rightness of it, the heat, pooling in her womb, spreading through her, and she closes her eyes, feeling him, and gods its right, its perfect. Her entire being thrills at the feel of him moving in her.
And he closes his eyes, bringing his lips down to taste her skin there, and there, her arms holding him close, his arms coming around her to hold her closer still. The contact of skin against skin, chest against chest, and if possible, the deepening of his thrust making her gasp, making him moan, a growl, faster, faster.
And the magic, suddenly it's there, no longer warded, no longer buried. It's about them, circling, circling, their pace moving faster, faster, rhythm falling away, her lips coming down on to his shoulder and kissing, licking, bucking upwards, no control, her mind swirling with colour, with magic, with so much, silver eyes and white hair and the feel of his skin, the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him inside her, there, just finally, there.
And he throws his head back, pushing, once, twice, three times, pushing, pushing, and in the end, in the end he explodes in the clenching of her womb, explodes with her name on his lips, arms holding her against him as she bites down on his shoulders, quaking beneath him, his name on her tongue, blood against her teeth as she tastes him, feels him, cold and heat and so much more, and then a focal narrowing, narrowing, pleasure, pin point.
Gods.
Falling.
Magic swirling.
Swirling, swirling, swirling.
Until it can't go any farther.
Then.
Quieting, slowly.
A moment. Bodies intertwined, breathing in, out, together.
Then coldness.
Draco is the first to move, slowly sliding out of her and onto the bed next to her, moving upwards so his head is on a pillow and then reaching for her, pulling her, pliant, easy, into his arms, a curly head coming to rest on his chest.
A moment.
The sound of breath slowly regaining normalcy, the beat of blood, slowing, slowing, and then the rustle of a blanket, pulled up around them with a flick of a wrist.
The darkening of the night.
No words.
The slow fall of snow outside a window.
Silence.
A fire in the fireplace.
Passing of time. Not long. Long enough.
Her breath evening, slowing, flicker of eyelashes against his chest.
A sigh, her body growing heavy, warm, against him.
Draco watches her, the light just barely highlighting her face, along her jaw line, across her cheekbones, dark eyelashes against pale skin. A curl, resting against her cheek and the slow rise and fall of her chest against his.
Changes. Yes. But slowly.
Slowly.
Not yet.
He gently untangles himself from her, slipping from the blanket, shivering, just slightly, as he tucks the folds around her body, standing, staring, for just a moment, a mere breath, the blink of an eye, a finger, softly, barely there, touching the curl and moving it away from her cheek, gently.
Something tightening in his chest, pulling, crying even as he turns away.
A flick of a wrist. Fire leaping in the fire place, clothes quickly replaced.
And the quiet click of a door closing behind his retreating figure.