A/N: I just realized that I posted this story without even thanking any on my reviewers! I am so ungrateful, so I am reposting this right now, with a little new snippet about lightbulbs shoved in (Go look for it!)

Anyway, I rally want to thank Astronema for giving me such lengthy and lovely reviews and gave me the inspiration to post this up. To Doodlebug, too. The entire credit goes to the two of you. Enjoy the story and review, please! J *hugs and kisses*

****

As Drusilla stepped out of the library, she stared at the sky in surprise. It was already dark out, with the last ray of the sun creeping back to whence it came. The lights of the fair city were glowing as usual, twinkling like stars, and she frowned. She wasn't in the mood to admire them tonight; they looked too bright and cheerful for her current mood.

As if being stuck in a darned deep lavender dress—her robes were off to the wash again, and she suspected that Sylina and Hermione might have something to do with that— was not enough, it had to have really low necklines and those strange extra long sleeve ends that billowed out like sails or something, and often got entangled in her fingers this time and made her clumsier than ever.

Great. Now she was entangled both in her hands and her legs. Was there some kind of conspiracy against her or something? Or did The Powers That Be simply enjoy seeing her fall flat on her face every twenty steps when she would forget to hitch up the damned skirts?

Oh, that's enough of maudlin self-pitying thoughts, she told herself. It could get worse. She could have had no clothes to wear at all. It would be an improvement. Came another irritated thought.

Oh, damn.

Tightening the hold she had on the cloak that she had fastened over her shoulders earlier, she headed away from the lights and into the darkness that beckoned to her, absorbed in her own thoughts and her own world. Which consisted of random musings like Hermione living in the library all her life and marrying Ron in there instead of a chapel, where Harry and Ron were, and mostly…Haldir.

It seemed like though he was perpetually absent these couple of days, he had never strayed far from her mind, no matter how much she tried to shut him out. She now knew that on some level, he fancied her, too. But that fact gave her a lot more frustration rather than relief or joy, because he obviously wasn't about to do anything about it.

It was like stalemate, no one making a move, and she supposed that neither one really dared to.

She sighed and looked down at her feet, wondering if she had scared him away or something. Maybe he didn't quite mean what he said or she misread his intentions or something.

It was all very frustrating. What could she possibly do now? He seemed so firm in his statement that nothing would come out of it, and maybe, just maybe he could be right.

I mean, what for? She found herself thinking, growing more dejected than ever now that no one was around her and she did not have to put up a façade to show that it was not affecting her at all. What's the whole point in the end when I'm going to go home?

That sudden, errant thought was too horrible to contemplate at the moment, and she pushed it away quickly. She did not, and didn't want to care about what happened later. All she wanted to care about was now and let tomorrow take care of itself.

All she knew was that her heart was definitely lost to him.

***

Up upon his vantage point on a tree, Haldir stood alone as he watched Drusilla pass through the woods, her deep green cloak trailing behind her, effectively concealing her awkward movements within the Elvish garment. He stood within the shadows—so expertly hidden that even keen Elf eyes could not make him out—his face clouded with longing, regret, and worry.

He clutched the tree bark tightly, fighting the intense desire to wrap her up in his arms and never let her go, but he knew it was not to be. He wanted it, he wanted her. How much, only Iluvatar knew, and the intensity of the feelings he never thought he had was beginning to scare him. He had always been in tight control, his cold, almost frosty exterior giving none of his expressions away, his demeanor revealing nothing of his soul, and yet, this girl could still draw it out of him with the simplest of smiles, and how she did it was totally beyond him.

All he realized was that she had captivated him thoroughly that night, and when he gazed into her eyes after sending her to her doorstep, he knew that he was truly lost.

Lost in where, Haldir did not know.

Almost as if she'd sensed him, she looked up, a faint sparkle in her eyes. But by then, he was gone.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her as she moved on.

***

It's definitely my hyperactive imagination, Drusilla sighed, rubbing her temple and making a turn into the comforting silence of the wood, leaving the city farther and farther behind. It seemed like someone was watching her like some kind of experiment, and until now, that strange feeling had never quite left her.

"Lumos," she said to her wand, and it's end lit up brilliantly, lighting the way before her so that she did not fall into holes or any other traps, and that she could see if anyone followed her, friendly or otherwise. She'd been ambushed once already, and it was not an entirely happy episode. But then again, if it weren't for the secret stalkers, there wouldn't have been Haldir, right?

Why does everything have to go back to him?

It was quiet now, and perhaps this was the best time to think about the things that she'd tried to avoid during the past few days. Haldir hadn't quite given her an answer, and she wondered if he'd been scared away. Had she been too forward? He had been right about what he'd said the other day, that nothing would come out of it, but she knew that she was determined to try.

After all, having loved and lost was so much better than never having loved at all. And besides, it was too late now. There was no turning back for her. She knew that no matter what he said, it would never change the feelings that she'd now had for him. It had all been very sudden, actually, and Drusilla had no idea as to how it actually happened, only that it did. Maybe the fireworks started the night they danced, staring into each other's eyes, building a world with only themselves for a few sweet, sweet moments…

She wondered if he felt the same.

She wondered if he could ever love her.

She was so deep in her thoughts that she did not even have time to scream when a cold, clammy hand clamped over her mouth. It smelt of rotting flesh, and her stomach clenched, threatening to throw up its contents. She frantically tried to kick free of her attacker, but the foul creature simply snarled and held onto her tighter, rendering it almost impossible to breathe.

"Fresh meat at last," it hissed, spittle landing on her face as it shook her roughly. "It comes so willingly to us."

"About time, too. Save us the effort of going out and hunting." Another agreed, its voice like nails running over Snape's nasty chalkboard.

Orcs, she thought dimly as it batted her wand away, sending it clattering to the ground. In the darkness, she could barely make out half a dozen or more of its companions. What was she going to do now? There was no one to save her, no one to hear…

She bit its hand in a desperate attempt to get free, and immediately regretted it. The taste was horrible. The Orc howled and let her go, but not before striking her hard across the face, sending her sprawling to the ground, a trickle of blood on the side of her mouth. Stars exploded in her head as she landed on the hard ground, barely noticing the large blades the Orcs had whipped out, bloodlust gleaming in their maddened eyes.

"Drusilla!" came a very familiar voice, but one that she—for the moment—could not place. Her entire skull was hurting too much to really think…

There was another explosion of sound, this time of the soft thwack of arrows and an enraged shout, followed by the howling and screaming of the Orcs. There were more than she'd seen, and before long, it erupted into yet another battle, this one more gruesome. Drusilla was pushed to the side, her face sore and aching even as she reached for her wand.

Think of a spell, she thought, watching as one of the Elves fell under a few disgusting Orcs. Think!

No spell came to mind.

Haldir moved among the Orcs like a deadly panther, distinguishable only by his blades that flashed coldly in the almost non-existent light. Drusilla got to her feet shakily, watching the fight in horror. No matter if she'd seen it before; it was still terrifying. Those Orcs, the blood... the Elf who was even now seriously injured…she was horrified at the Elves' mortality. No matter if they were immortal and all that. They could still be seriously wounded.

She screwed up her courage to try to enter the battlefield—it looked like the Elves were winning again—to get to the wounded Elf, but she screamed as an Orc bounded up to her and tackled her to the ground, jaws wide open, showing all its grotesque teeth, and try as she might, she couldn't quite get the wand up…

Suddenly, the Orc was torn off her, and she saw Haldir's enraged face before he sank his blade into the offending creature. It squealed in pain, and before it could collapse on her, Haldir yanked the monster and threw it a distance away from her.

She stared at him, surprised at his thoughtfulness, and knowing for a fact that he was supposed to be off-duty tonight. So why was he here? He looked at her for a moment, as if sensing her unspoken question, then spun around to lop off an Orc's head before swinging to counter another's sword, drawing himself back into the fight once more, but never straying far from her. For that she was grateful.

Before long, the battle was over. She noted that there were seven Elves altogether, excluding the one on the ground, who was wincing in pain. Eyes widening and remembering the few skills that Madam Pomfrey had taught her—she may not be very good at simple spells, but she definitely had a knack for healing—she clutched her wand and knelt beside the wounded Elf before anyone could do anything.

He was new and kind of young—whatever young was in Elf standards—by the looks of it. And rather handsome, too, with long deep gold hair and green eyes. The Elf was dressed in the same garb as the rest of them, but his leg…it was soaked through with blood and most of it was seeping into the ground. Fighting down the lingering fear and the urge to throw up—the scent of blood in the air was so strong—she was oblivious to the other Elves' as she brushed the hair away from his head, taking his hand. He was so cold…

Remembering the dark time when there was war in the wizarding world and she'd been made to help the Healers, she surveyed his leg, knowing that at the rate the elf was going, he was probably going to bleed out before either could take him back to Lothlorien for treatment.

"How is he?" Haldir spoke, coming up behind her. She almost couldn't hear him.

"Not good," she said honestly, forgetting, for the moment, what they had spoken before. This was more important; she knew that. Understood that.

The Elf was pale, unnaturally pale, and she realized belatedly that he was going into shock. "No," she commanded, trying hard to not panic herself as she squeezed his hand and turned his head gently to face her. "Focus on me, don't close your eyes or sleep. Look at me."

The Elf nodded faintly and half-heartedly reached for his injured leg. "It hurts."

She smiled slightly and caught his hand in hers midway, giving him her most reassuring look that she knew Madam Pomfrey would be very proud of her for, since it seemed to be one of the few things she was actually rather good at. "I know. The blade probably hit through to an artery. It will be all right soon, I promise. What's your name?"

"Celornian." He responded weakly, growing fainter than ever.

Drusilla hesitated a little. He was fading, and she had to do something, and fast.

Gritting her teeth, she stuck a finger in the tear in his pants and ripped the material apart, successfully removing it. Fresh blood pumped with every heartbeat, and she forced herself to hurry, or else Celornian would most probably lose his life.

"What are you doing?" one of the Elves demanded frantically. "We have to take him to the Healer's soon or he will die!"

"If we don't stop the bleeding soon, he definitely will! And by the time you guys carry him there, he'll be dead anyway!" she snapped, her patience stretching. Her fingers fumbling over the too-intricate catches of her cloak, it was a good few moments before she could finally get it free. "I'm going to put a tourniquet on his leg," she explained, wrapping the cloak tightly around his leg after a little struggle with the stubborn material and tying it up as hard as she could. Obviously, warrior Elves did not know what a tourniquet was and how to properly stop the bleeding.

"And I've got to get it tight enough to stop the bleeding, but it must be loosened every few minutes to get the blood circulating, or he could lose the leg." Remembering Madam Pomfrey's earlier words to her, she looked at them in turn. "Can you guys do that?"

She located a suitable sized branch, slipped it into the tourniquet, then tightened it herself. The Elf was fading fast, his eyes dazed and dreamy. "He's going into shock again." She turned to them, her eyes desperate. "I need something warm to cover him with."

They all immediately surrendered their cloaks, and she took it gratefully, slipping it around the Elf. This time, the rest of the Elves helped, hitching their injured comrade up and making as little sudden movements as possible. Slowly, they made their way back into Lothlorien. Drusilla walked beside them, shaken by the earlier encounter and checking on Celornian, making sure that he was not bleeding overmuch. She was still holding on to his hand.

"Do you have a wife, Celornian?" she asked softly, trying to keep him awake. Apparently, this question was working. The

Elf's demeanor became less fuzzy and actually glowed a little brighter.

Literally glowed.

Drusilla stared, momentarily distracted with the notion that the probable reason they didn't need—what was that Muggle thing called again?—eckeltricity—yes! That was it!—in this place was because its inhabitants already gave off enough light to replace lightbulbs. An image of an Elf shining like a Muggle lightbulb made her snort in amusement, which she hastily replaced with a hacking cough, horrified with herself for even thinking about that at a time like this.

Celornian went on, oblivious to her grossly digressive thought processes. "Yes. We have been wed for fifty years."

"Wow." This was impressive. Fifty years was a very, very long time, and he still looked like he was no older than twenty. Back in her world, couples who were married for fifty years were old and doddering. Well, the Muggle couples, anyway. "Do you love her?"

He nodded weakly and looked strangely dreamy and awake at the same time. "Very much. She's the most beautiful being you've ever seen. Her name is Linuthiel, and we are expecting our third child." He smiled, looking blissful. "I believe I will name her after my sweet wife."

"What is she like?"

His smile grew wider. "Her smile is more dazzling then the Evenstar, her eyes more enchanting than Luthien's, her songs, ai! Sweeter than the very songs of the Nimrodel if there can ever be one!"

Not even understanding half the things the Elf said, she simply nodded and squeezed his hand for comfort and for the possible strength that she could offer him. "You have to hang on in there, do you hear me? Do it for your wife and your children."

Celornian nodded, and there was fresh determination in his stance. She could see that thoughts of his wife was monopolizing his mind and pushing him on, and she was glad of that.

If only Madam Pomfrey could see me now, she thought wistfully, thinking of Hogwarts once more. She would've been very proud.

They made their way to the Healing Rooms and gently deposited Celornian there where he could be properly treated by Elvish medicine. The Elves then lingered for a moment longer then excused themselves, moving to their posts and to send out more guards to the borders.

All save for Haldir, who had not taken his gaze off her since they entered the Healing Room with the wounded Elf. He simply stood a short way away and watched silently. But now, even as the rest of the Elves left the room, he moved toward her, and she couldn't help but notice the sleek predatory grace in his movements.

"I shall escort you back to your chambers, Lady Drusilla." he said softly beside her, with no inflection at all. She was about to say that she could take care of herself pretty well when she remembered the earlier Orc ambush. Shuddering at the horrid memory, she simply nodded, not caring if it was Haldir who sent her back. Despite herself, she felt a little thrill of hope and excitement at what it could mean, but she couldn't bring herself to really hope. What if she was wrong?

They walked in stony silence, the air tense and heavy between them. He said nothing, and she—after a few very awkward tries at making decent conversation—fell silent, following his lead. What was wrong with him, anyway? It was a question she mulled on more than once, annoyed at his coolness towards her and puzzled at what could possibly lead him to keep away from her. Haldir's eyes scanned the immediately area sharply, his trained eyes missing nothing. But he was tense, she could see it.

And she was sure that some of it did not come from the wariness of probable attacking Orcs.

Finally, they reached her door, and relieved, she moved to open it and was about to turn back to say a word of thanks to him when she caught sight of his tunic. There was a tear in the area near his rib, and it was bleeding. Oh, why hadn't she noticed it before?

"You're hurt," she began, a little apprehensive, reaching to touch the wound, but pulled back at the last minute, wondering briefly if he could allow her to touch him.

"It's only a flesh wound."

"It looks deep," she said, upon her second—and closer—look. And it definitely looked serious, all right.

Swallowing, she opened the door wider, motioning for him to enter. "Come on in, let's get that wound seen to."

"I will head to the Healer's later," he told her and tried to leave.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. I'm not gonna eat you. And besides, you're better at fighting than I am."

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes seeming to see through her soul. "It is not exactly you that I fear, Lady Drusilla." the undercurrent of his words sent a delicious tingle down her spine despite their present situation, but she chose to ignore it. He was bleeding, and that was what mattered to her.

"Will you come in or not? It's cold outside, and I know you're feeling extremely uncomfortable. So let's save you another trip to the Healer's and get your wound tended to." She fully understood what it meant by inviting her inside her room, especially at this time of the night, and realizing, with a thrill, that she did not care.

He hesitated for a moment, then followed her in.

"Take your shirt off," she said briskly as he followed her to the middle of her chambers. She fleetingly hoped her voice did not betray her sudden nervousness. "I'll just uh- conjure up some bandages and antiseptics and you'll be as good as new."

She turned and began to murmur a few words, a few tricks that she'd learnt from Madam Pomfrey. In a sparkle, a roll of clean white bandages, cotton wool, and a small bottle of dark liquid appeared before her. This would have to do, she decided, hearing the rustle of material on smooth skin.

Drusilla turned, and noticed that he had his back to her, and that he was nude from waist up. Swallowing, her heart began to pound violently against her ribs as she paused, hypnotized by the sleek taper of muscles on his back and his arms. Not only had he a perfect face, he had a very perfect body too, with all the hidden, caged muscles that he did not display openly but hinted at their presence whenever he made a slight movement.

Those clothes hide way too much, she thought, forgetting to breathe. Not too muscular, but definitely NO wimp. Oh, no, not at all.

The formidable Elf Warrior moved slightly, and she stirred from her daze, feeling slightly embarrassed and wondering if he caught her goggling at him..

Hastily opening the small bottle and dabbing a little of the strange-smelling liquid onto the white cotton, she moved over to where his wound was—oh Merlin. He's even hotter from the front—and carefully dabbed it onto the ugly looking wound. "This will hurt a little," she said, her voice thick through the sudden lump in the throat.

He stood very still, aware of the tension that was rapidly building up in the room, regretting the decision to come here. She was so close to him, close enough for him to reach out and kiss her senseless. Close enough for him to whisper his love for her. The pain he felt from the wound did nothing to ease his longing for this young Elf, who, even now, was oh so carefully making sure that the wound would not be infected, her touch infinitely gentle.

It was like nothing he had ever known before. The gentlest of touches, the faintest of caresses, the bitter sting of the liquid that kept bringing him back down to the ground. It all reminded him of the love that he was so afraid to touch. He was afraid of the rippling feelings between them, so much like what she was doing right now. It hurt like hell, but he felt a strange sense of sweet happiness and fulfillment when she touched him.

Aware that their bodies were so close together and their lips a scant few inches apart, Drusilla swallowed again and looked up. To distract herself from wondering if his lips were really as kissable as they looked, she said to him, "It's your off-day today and you're not supposed to be in the eastern borders. Why were you there?"

His voice was soft and deep, and it seemed to caress her soul. "I was out for a walk."

She considered that for a moment, then remembered the strange feeling she'd had of being watched earlier. It had to be him. Deciding to take a chance on that, she asked, "You were not following me, then?"

His answer was cool and collected. "Why should I?"

"You tell me." She said, unrolling the bandages. "You totally ignore me for two days and then tonight you were suddenly following me since the time I stepped out of the library and into the forest. I'm not saying that I'm upset about you saving my life back there. It's just that…" she paused, wondering if she should say it. "I'd like to know why."

There was a long silence, and she purposefully averted his eyes from his, knowing very well that he was trying to pick up on her thoughts. She concentrated on dressing his wound, securely wrapping the bandage around him and marveling inwardly at his body.

She wondered if he was thinking about her the same way she was thinking about him right now.

Another long, indecisive pause. Then he said, in a voice so soft that she had to strain to heat them, "Perhaps I like you."

She glanced up at him then, only half-joking, not daring to believe what she'd heard. "Perhaps?"

He made no answer and simply gazed at her. She could almost see the conflicting thoughts and emotions running through his mind at the moment. Silently, he lifted her chin towards him with his fingers and dared to cup her face, his eyes glittering, alight with longing and sweet regret. "Nothing will ever come out of this, Drusilla."

"I know," she said, trying to hide the pain mingled with sweet desire that flared up within her, burning hot in its intensity. "For one thing, you're old enough to be my father's ancestor. And another thing, you're from here, I'm not." She swallowed. "I have to go home one day."

He took a breath and stared at her steadily, looking all the more beautiful and unattainable under the flickering light that cast shadows on the face she knew of as absolutely flawless. "I have to walk away from this. It would save both of us the pain."

"I know. I have to walk away from this, too." She wanted to die. Why, oh why had she thrown herself at him like that? Why did she have to fall for him, of all people?

They stood staring at each other, unspoken emotions flying between them, charging the very atmosphere in the air with their tension, their hidden excitement, the unbidden passion that leapt between them. He refused to relinquish his hold on her face and his dominance in her eyes.

His fingers traced her lips, and a rush of warmth shot through her, tingling and making her face hot. He looked torn. "I should…"

"Walk away, you said," she replied, leaning into his gentle touch, knowing, with a thrill, that he could not make himself leave, no matter how hard he tried to.

She raised her head and he cradled her face again, stroking the bruised side of her mouth tenderly. Her heart pounding in her ears, she placed a hand on his bare chest, enjoying the soft feel of his skin against her palm. He seemed a little taken aback by the gesture, but then his lips were on hers, tender, unsure.

Her heart sang his name as she pulled him closer, her fingers lacing around his neck as he leaned down to meet her lips. Everything seemed to melt away from her now, save for the bliss she experienced as his kisses grew more and more passionate, and as she began to respond in kind. Her knees grew weak, and would have given out if not for him wrapping his arms tightly around her waist as if he would never let her go.

They gave themselves to the moment, kissing fiercely, each wanting desperately to explore the other's mouth, wanting to caress and to taste, committing it to memory that would last forever.

Oh Merlin, she thought giddily, tangling her fingers in his hair that felt like spun silk. He's a damn good kisser.

The door flew open.

"Dru! Guess what we—" Ron's excited voice died in his throat as the two leapt away from each other, startled at the interruption. Ron took in the compromising situation—the Marchwarden of Lothlorien half-naked and kissing with Drusilla—and his face turned even redder than his hair—which was saying a lot.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry!" He mumbled, thoroughly embarrassed at having interrupted them and quickly beating a hasty retreat. Oh man, how was he going to live this down? He shot out of the door, slammed it, and sprinted to his chambers, hoping that Drusilla didn't decide to kill him later. It had been very obvious then that they were in the middle of doing something, and he groaned mentally. Of all people, why did the unlucky one always had to be him?

***

Drusilla stared at the shut door, surprised at the speed of which Ron had entered and departed. The mood was definitely shattered now, but she didn't seem to mind. A deep sense of contentment rose within her at the knowledge that Haldir definitely could not resist her, and that he seemed to like her as much as she liked him. Maybe even more, she didn't know. All she knew was that there was no turning back from here, no matter what anyone said. Whatever happened, they would tide through it together. One look at his eyes told her all she needed to know. The Elf regarded her for a long moment, a rush of a certain emotion he now identified as love—unstoppable in its force—surged through him, and he couldn't resist reaching out and stroking her cheek, feeling the warm skin beneath his fingertips. By Iluvatar, she was so beautiful…

"The night draws late," he said softly, dreading the words that would come out of his lips later, suddenly wanting with all his heart to spend more time with her, but the other less selfish, more sensible part stated that she probably needed her sleep after the shock she had earlier that evening, and that being around her was fanning his desire for her to considerable levels. "I have to leave you to your rest, milady."

She looked crestfallen. "I'm not sleepy."

He had to smile, and a pang shot through his heart. She was but a child. "You will see me in the morning, Drusilla."

Drusilla wanted to ask more questions, but that would make her appear too clingy and she might come across as too immature to him. So not the effect she wanted. She nodded. "I wasn't worrying about that. Good night, Haldir."

His reply to that was a gentle kiss on her lips, then he inclined his head in a gentlemanly gesture and exited the room, leaving Drusilla was a strange sense of peace and a tingly little feeling of loneliness at his absence.

***

It was a wonderful morning, with the gentle call of unknown birds in the trees, the warm sunlight spreading over the floor and Drusilla's bed. The door was once again opened, but this time, it was by Hermione, looking as fresh and as ready as ever.