I'm conflicted about warnings and I'm also a bit stumped as how to write them.
This chapter and the next one get dark. They deal with the subject of Hermione's assault. It begins when the tense changes to present with the words 'I won't be afraid'.
Hermione, astride a giant wolf, burst out from behind a cover of clouds, and the look on Draco's face was priceless. She quickly took a mental snapshot, storing the memory for future occasions. His mouth was hanging open – so wide that she was afraid his jaw had become stuck. He rubbed his eyes, pinched himself, and then, when two more airborne wolves appeared, actually stumbled backwards and collapsed into a snowbank.
Anastasia saw this, smirked, and promptly stuffed several handfuls of snow down his collar. As if the blizzard wasn't enough.
Draco froze, staring at the Russian girl with a mixture of outraged indignance and betrayal, which was quickly replaced by steely determination. After all...
This.
Meant.
War!
He roared and then quickly jumped to his feet, packing together the biggest snowball the world had ever seen. He was fully committed to the idea of unmitigated retribution. Anastasia, realizing she might have bitten off more than she could chew, shrieked and sprinted away, yelling that it would be completely unchivalrous for such a noble gentleman like Draco to retaliate on an innocent girl. The 'noble gentleman' in question huffed and packed on more mass onto his monstrosity of a projectile. There wasn't a single hint of impending mercy in his actions.
It's unknown where this juvenile squabble could have led, had not (much to Draco's chagrin and Anastasia's glee) it been concluded by the carnivorous pack's arrival. With a look of childish disappointment, Draco let his snowball drop to the ground. He looked on sadly as it rolled away, thinking that girls usually do get away with these sorts of things…
Fortunately, the wolfish guests provided for a compelling distraction, and both Draco and Anastasia ran up to Hermione, the former still scooping handfuls of wet snow out of his clothes. He glowered at the raven-haired girl that was the cause of his misfortune, but then turned his gaze, shining with amazement and admiration, towards the Gryffindor witch.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Where did you… When did you…" he stuttered.
"Who are your friends?!" Anastasia exclaimed, interrupting him. The wolves seemed to like her; one gave a sloppy lick on the chin and let her scratch him between the ears. Hermione was glad to see that her own steed exhibited no such signs of puppish infatuation. He was aloof; just like her.
"What in Merlin's name, Hermione?!" Draco finally found his tongue. "You were right there with us! And then you're suddenly up high, flying on… what kind of wolves are these, anyway?! They're huge!"
Hermione responded with an impish smile that highlighted the dimples on her rosy cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Witch's secret," she said, giving him a coquettish wink, but then blushed at her own boldness and grew more serious. "We don't have much time, though. There's a storm coming!"
"A storm?!" Draco looked at her like she was crazy. "Hermione, look around: we're already in a storm!"
"Ha!" Anastasia barked from the side, still absorbed with tracing her fingers through patches of wolfish fur. "Silly English vizard! You call zis storm?! You come to Ural – I show you real storm!"
"She's right, Draco," Hermione agreed. "Come, I'll explain later. We have to go now; we have to be ahead of it!"
"Ok, but, wait, you mean… on those?!" Incredulous, he pointed at the wolves.
Hermione gave him a look that was more befitting of a Slytherin than a studious Gryffindor bookworm. "What," she taunted with a cheeky smirk, "scared?"
Draco puffed his chest up like a baboon. Scared of flying?! He was a quidditch star, and those times against Potter didn't count! Besides, if a girl could ride on a wolf, then so could he!
. . . .
. . . .
The Slytherin, as it turned out, was a well full of surprises. When Hermione heard him christen his wolf 'Akella', her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead.
"I didn't know know you read Kipling!" she exclaimed, both astonished and proud that he'd given muggle literature a chance.
Draco looked at her with a confused expression. "What?" he asked. "Who's Kipling?"
Hermione realized that you shouldn't assume things. It makes you look like an idiot.
"'Who's Kipling?'," she sputtered. "I… you… why'd you name him like that?"
"What, 'Akella'?" Draco explained with a shrug to his shoulders, "One of the teens that worked with me at McDonalds kept watching these movie things on his phone. He showed me one with a whole jungle: there was some naked kid and a bear, a puma, a wolf, and a snake. The snake and the wolf were pretty cool, so I remembered their names. Kaa! Kaa! And Akella."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, indignant that someone could be so unappreciative towards one of her favorite children's books, "and that movie is based on Rudyard Kipling's novel! It's a wonderful work of fiction!"
Draco wasn't really paying any attention to her words anymore; he was sitting on a giant wolf! Weasley would eat his broom if he saw. So he responded offhandedly with a single, unimpressed word.
"Whatever."
Hermione saw red.
"And what does that mean?!" she seethed, grinding her teeth together in a way that her parents would have certainly disapproved of. Her tone of voice was very distinctive – one which all men instinctively fear from their significant others. Draco picked up on it, registered he had crossed some sort of line, and quickly backpedaled. "Ughh… I mean..." he started to stammer, trying to recall what she had said. He was halfway successful. "No, I agree, it was, um, very good… yeah, and, anyway, the kid got fired a week into his job. Funny that."
Hermione sighed and let the stream of panicked babbling distract her. It would be pointless to quarrel over such a mundane thing. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," Draco confirmed, feeling relieved. "Couldn't tear his eyes away from the phone, kept mixing up orders. You know," he added reflectively, "such silly creatures, those muggles. They keep inventing all these funky gadgets, but all they're good for is wasting your time."
Hermione clucked her tongue. Couldn't really argue with that.
. . . .
. . . .
The 'real' storm was almost upon them when they took to the skies. Anastasia whooped; Draco picked up the cry, and even Hermione joined in. The rapid ascent caused her stomach to drop, her eyes to sting, and her soul to break out in song. There was something in this flight that added onto the uninhibited manner of the Shabash, breaking the remnants of any restriction or fear.
She yelled, feeling the breath freeze in her lungs and spread with winter sweetness. Flurries of snow circled around them, waltzing in graceful accord. For a second, Hermione's eyes focused on Anastasia, riding her own wolf, hair streaming behind her form in a current of silk. She felt a stab of envy at the sight. Why couldn't she have hair like that? Did Draco still consider her 'bushy-haired'? He'd certainly teased her enough over it at Hogwarts…
Was it pretty enough for him now? Would he like it more if she wore it up? It'd take some work, but she could...
Hermione blinked, bringing this train of girlish insecurities to a halt. She was too mature to be its victim… right?
Her eyes responded by flitting away from Anastasia and roaming towards Draco's frame, taking in the broad shoulders and the smooth plane of his chest. He was leaning forward against the wind, exuding such an alluring manner of self-confidence that it sent a tremor of buzzing warmth down to her loins. Looking at him, one would never guess this was his first time on a wolf. Draco took it all in stride.
The wizard must have felt her gaze, because he turned his head to give her a grin. Hermione reveled in the way his eyes wandered, pausing at her hips and chest. For the first time in years, such a gaze evoked no palpable disgust. She felt wanted, and it was the best thing in the world!
Feeling the traces of a blush creep up her cheeks, she looked away, heart thudding. What a night.
The fur under her fingers was soft in places, prickly in others. The wolf's muscles danced between her thighs as he leaped over clouds of naked snow. These tactile touches were sinful, wrong in every which way. She savored them all.
The wolf howled, the others melding their voices to his – notes hungry and deep, a harmony of the wild. They sped up, clouds of vapor parting from panting mouths. Faster and faster they ran, until Hermione could see no more. Her eyes were shut, the air whistling freely in her ears, a crust of snow on her face. A breath, a gasp, a shriek..!
They burst out of the blizzard.
The fires, the haze. Stirring satyr melodies. Hermione opened her eyes. She was back at Bald Hill.
For a second, she could not hear a thing. It was the quiet before the storm. She stared down at the queue of people wound around the hill and smirked. They wouldn't get anywhere. Only she had been chosen.
The silence stretched – a heartbeat, an eternity – and shattered. The time had come.
The storm was here.
. . . .
. . . .
Clouds of winter burst through the barrier in a stream of bubbly foam, filling up the tipsy sky beneath. On the ground, people and beasts shrieked, but it was not a cry of panic. On the contrary, it was a cheer, appreciative and celebratory. They raised their glasses to praise the new season; they bellowed and laughed and tumbled down into rapidly growing snowbanks. A snowman was quickly moulded together, a saggy carrot for his nose and another for his… hmph. He stood on the field, marshaling his troops with arms of oak as well as his other appendage.
The tomcat meowed; the mermaids giggled, falling grains of vanilla melting among locks of summer cream. The fumes were blown away, but the fires remained – they would burn bright till dawn, offering warmth and shelter for any living creature.
More wolves appeared in the sky, whole packs, gray and black and white. They carried beings of blue skin and charcoal eyes. Mustering their unconventional steeds, the riders charged ahead of the storm's front. They were shepherds of the cold, the heralds of change. Spears of frost and lightning flashed in their hands, as they divided streams of cloud into the directions of a compass, spreading out to the north, the east, the west, and the south.
Winter's wings would unfurl over the world tonight; her dominion unchallenged till that moment when the days grow long, and lungwort starts to peek through snowmelts, blooming with a noble hue.
But, till then, the months would be cold, the nights long, and the landscape white.
Our trio shared a glance and decided steal a slice of the pie for themselves. A pair of blue-skinned fae dared challenge them, lifting weapons with threatening glares, but then hastily retreated in the face of three pointed wands. The humans snickered triumphantly, their wolves echoing such sentiments with barks of wild amusement.
And just like that, the two witches and a wizard became the sole proprietors of several square miles of pregnant nimbostratus, ready to blanket the world in shades of ivory and eggshell.
"Where to?" asked Draco.
Hermione closed her eyes and pointed in a random direction.
"That way," she said, and her wolf howled in agreement. He wanted to run, to dash, to blaze through the sky like a comet ripping through orbit. Hermione felt his eagerness boil in her own blood. "Let's go," she whispered.
And they took off.
. . . .
. . . .
Their wolves were the ideal sheepdogs, nipping at wisps of cloud that tried to stray away. Hermione would trace their path later, never finding the point of origin, but recalling the cities they visited by the landmarks she saw. They flew over countryside at first, coating miles of field and forest with a thick blanket of snow. The winds below blew and raged, causing pine and spruce to bend like the masts of a ship caught in a squall. She remembered passing several small towns, dark, a few cars rolling on, their headlights lonely pinpricks in the vast ocean of the night.
More lights grew in the distance, as stacks of blocky socialist-era housing loomed from the ground – the suburbs of a larger city. They gave way to a more scenic center, host to buildings of medieval and even byzantine times. Hermione observed churches with steeples and rotundas, monuments, market halls, and government buildings flying the Bulgarian flag.
Sofia, she thought, placing their location. Victor had grown up in a community not far from here, before he left to become a quidditch phenomenon at 17. He'd been her first crush, but that had passed long ago.
Instead, she looked at Draco, just ahead of her, and her heart fluttered.
They passed Sofia, going north-west, to Belgrade and Budapest. Then, west, crossing into Austria, the Danube sparkling below them in slivers of moonlight haze. Hermione saw the banks of the river thicken and freeze as clouds rolled in, belching snow. She idly wondered if there had been any muggle weather forecasts warning people about the abrupt change in temperature. The sudden snow and ice was bound to leave people stranded; to collapse electrical lines, causing outages; to leech the life out of those caught without shelter.
Her past self would have been horrified, but she felt no pity for these people, nor the inevitable damages. She was the storm, the wailing gale, changing the land how she saw fit. A violent tempo beat in her blood as the wolves cried their glee to a cynical moon. She felt alive and free, unrestricted by chains of morality.
For nature knows no morals, no good or evil. Those are concepts for humans; rationalizations and compromises our feeble race requires to make sense of the world around us. Nature is simple. Nature is power.
Crossing the Alps, Hermione accepted this. She was part of something bigger; more than just Hermione Granger, bookworm and fighter.
She was free.
. . . .
. . . .
Anastasia left them somewhere above Innsbruck. She had been glancing longingly to the east for quite some time now. Hermione recalled that her friend had spent almost half a year away… she was homesick. Nudging her wolf closer to Anastasia's, Hermione whispered that she should go.
"But, ze potion…" the girl weakly protested.
"You can find us in St. Petersburg," Hermione offered. "And we'll go from there."
Anastasia memorized the address of their hotel, and then hugged Hermione, giving her a peck on the cheek. She almost fell off her wolf while doing so, and Draco had to ride up to assist. Anastasia blushed.
Hurriedly, and not looking at Draco, she waved her goodbyes, promising to come tomorrow, by noon, and rode off towards where in several hours time a rosy glow would tinge the horizon. Hermione watched her leave, lifting a palm to the place where Anastasia's lips had grazed her skin. It had given her an oddly pleasurable feeling, leaving her both stunned and baffled at the implications.
I'm just more sensitive tonight, she thought, trying to analyze her feelings with clinical detachment. Years of trauma-induced sexual repression combined with the uninhibiting and, frankly, stimulating events of this evening. It's bound to cause some confusion.
She instantly wiped her mind clean – some things are better left forgotten. There was no trauma.
Fortunately, a different memory came, flirtatiously hazy and vague: silky sighs over flickering coals… a woman's lustful gaze… the arch of her back, chest thrust brazenly forward, exposed to the world… a man reaching up, drowning in passion, his soul ripping away...
Hermione gasped, feeling someone's fingers brush on her skin, gently tucking a curl behind her ear. Heart beating wildly, she turned to stare right into Draco's gaze. It burned with intensity, sending waves of heat crashing through her body. He was so close, looking at her like she was the entire world.
"I want to show you something," he whispered. "Follow me?"
Not trusting her mouth to say the right words, Hermione just nodded.
The last of their clouds were spent over Zurich, and the wolves, free of their shepherding burden, picked up the pace. They galloped across a moonlit sky, the world below resplendent in its new dress. A dress of white... the sign of purity and new beginnings.
Perhaps, Hermione thought, looking at Draco's back. Perhaps...
She realized where Draco was taking her long before they arrived at their destination.
Paris. The city of lights, which they had left after only several days, and she had lamented at being unable to experience it as a tourist. Oh, to creep through its nooks and crannies! To witness its splendor and drown in its history! Draco – the same boy who had mercilessly bullied her for years – had remembered and brought her back...
They landed onto a platform at the top of the Eiffel tower, the sleeping city stretching beneath them in every direction. Hermione tapped her wand against the railing, clearing away the snow, and leaned against it, captivated, as she turned her head to wonder at the lit facades of the Arc de Triomphe, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, as well as the wide boulevard of the Champs-Elysees.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It is," Draco agreed, but he wasn't looking at the city.
His eyes were focused on her.
Butterflies in her stomach, Hermione turned to meet them. He was standing close, pupils dark and dilated. He reached forward to cup his hands around her, sliding his palms to small of her back. They were large, possessive, holding her firmly, but not pushing. He left that decision up to her.
I won't be afraid.
And a choice is made.
She takes the step forward, hesitant and and shy, tilting her head higher, so that their breaths mingle together, puffs of vapor settling on fur-lined robes. Draco leans in, the steady pressure of his body rubbing against hers in all the right ways, eliciting a surprised gasp from her lips.
The warmth of his breath counters the sharp intake of frigid air, and then it's too late to think, to fear, because his lips are tasting hers; they're soft and gentle, and they send her heart hammering through her chest. Her arms go up on their own, tugging at the folds of his robes, needing to feel him, touch him. His scent is tantalizing: rich, masculine, there's a touch of spice from cologne. Smells of the Shabash linger as well – the smoke, the wine... the sensual aroma of guiltless sex.
A nip at her bottom lip brings a sting of pain, unexpected and delightful. Her lips part instinctively, yielding to a primal demand. She feels his tongue, a caress of chiffon, light touches that make her knees go weak with desire. A desperate mewl comes from somewhere deep. There's a heat under her skin, a smouldering want that pools between her creamy thighs. Draco retreats, but just a little bit, an incessant tease. He peppers the edges of her mouth with kisses, moving along her jawline, down to her neck. She angles her head to give him better access, as playful bites send tingles of longing down her spine. Longing to be held, touched… made love to.
She can do this.
They stand still, chests heaving. The moon's soft glow dances in stormy eyes. Hermione feels warm and light, ready to float away.
"Do you… do you…" Draco fumbles for words, but she understands him perfectly. She presses a finger to his lips and quickly nods. "I do."
Saying those words sends a powerful feeling coursing through her body. She makes this decision. She's in control.
The wolves leave them at the entrance of a hotel and howl their goodbye. Their gaze is ancient, knowing. Hermione gives her evening's companion a hug, and then he leaps away into the sky, returning to his world. A lonely muggle on the street jumps at the whoosh of air, and then swears when two people suddenly appear out of nowhere. The muggle crosses himself and promises that, this time, he will quit drinking for sure.
Hermione is nervous and giddy as they enter and make their way to the reception desk. The hotel worker is perfectly professional, but he knows why they're here and processes them quickly. Hermione feels sinful that their intentions are so transparent. She blushes and looks away. Her foot keeps tapping against the floor, Draco's palm burning between her shoulderblades. Their key in hand, he guides her to the lifts.
They're kissing each other before the doors even close. The feeling of closeness, of togetherness, is intoxicating, and Hermione can't stop her hands from their ceaseless exploration. His robes – so elegant before – are now cumbersome and obstructive. She wants to feel his skin, to glide her hands over the tuned muscles of his abs and back.
The doors open, and they stumble through, groaning at the interruption. Hermione gasps when he reaches down, grasping the globes of her buttocks, kneading them with long and delicate fingers. Two can play at this game, she thinks with a roguish grin and grinds into him, hips dancing with a primitive passion born in a time when the first men still huddled behind sticks of meagre flame, seeking sanctuary from the dark. Draco hisses, biting his lips, as evidence of his male virility strains through layers of clothes. Hermione knows it's a response to her, just her. A burst of fire floods her veins, and she relishes in the power she wields over him. She feels wickedly risque, a temptress of the night.
"Pardon."
They tear away from each other, cheeks coloring crimson. An elderly gentleman raises an eyebrow and walks past them into the lift. "Bonne nuit," he wishes them, eyes twinkling. The doors close; Hermione's face is burning – caught snogging by a stranger in the hallway of a hotel! She should be ashamed. Her eyes meet Draco's, and an unwilling chuckle escapes. It breaks the floodgates, and then they're doubling over from laughter, relishing in the liberation it brings. How can something be shameful if you can laugh at it?
They race together to their room, insert the key, and tumble through. Draco doesn't turn on the lights; his hands are busy cupping her face, pressing his lips to her eyelids, her nose, her neck. Hermione revels in the way each sensation is amplified, a drug that she never wants to end. She grasps the clasp of his robes and rips it open, frantically, throwing off this cursed garment.
Draco pauses suddenly, leaning back. She freezes: has she done something wrong? But that question vanishes under the scorching look of his half-hooded eyes.
"You're so beautiful, Hermione," he whispers, and her souls sings in response.
His touches are tender, an age-old custom that has persisted since the dawn of life. Savoring every moment, she tugs off her robes, and he helps her remove her sweater. Her heart is beating wildly, a bird in its gilded cage. She lifts her hands, tracing the angle of his jaw with the palm of her hand, prickly stubble scratching her skin. His lips crash down on hers again, as he reaches for the hem of her shirt.
It really happening, she thinks with triumphant relief, I can! I can!
Her shirt goes over her head, rising waves of goosebumps waxing on naked skin. A sliver of embarrassment peaks through; shyly, she averts her eyes. She's never been like this, and doesn't know what Draco has imagined, but there's nothing special about her, nothing sexy. Her bra is simple; plain and practical, its color is a little off from one too many washes. She's not like a girl from one of those fashions mags that men enjoy to look at. She's not special or pretty or–
"Hermione," he gasps, awed, and she looks up. His eyes are glued to the top of her breasts, admiration and hunger warring within them. The insecurities flee, and the corners of her lips edge up, as she raises her hands to unbutton his shirt. He presses into her, devouring her mouth, his arms around her, pushing her with his body. She staggers backwards, elated at the way his skin is molding to hers, hits the edge of the bed with the back of her knees and then falls onto the silky bedsheets.
Happiness and desire sing in her blood.
Draco follows, covering her with his body.
She gasps.
No.
His hands and lips are continuing their movements, but the pleasure has fled. Cold rods of terror, nails on a dogwood cross, pierce her skin. The past is tearing into the present, bringing the one memory she fears above all others… the one she has kept locked away for years, pretending it simply doesn't exist.
It's the cellar. The silver-masked man.
This will not control me. No, please. No! Not now!
She tries to hold onto reality, to deny the fight or flight response, but she can't. Her sanity begins to drown in a quagmire of fear. She can't even move, can't breath. Draco is still on top, his weight pinning her down. Just like he pinned her down. But this is Draco! Her Draco! He's not here. Not here! Her eyes are shut, lungs burning.
"Stop, please!" she begs. "Please!" He grunts and laughs.
Draco's hand reaches to cup a breast through her bra. She jerks, desire gone, eyes panicked. Her lips twist grotesquely, a grimace of fear.
His hands, tearing at her robes, her shirt. "No!" she screams. He hits her, hard. The taste of copper in her mouth. Blood on split lips.
This is Draco, this is not him; this is Draco, Draco, Draco...
"Please don't," she whimpers. "Please… no. no. No."
Draco looks up, confused, noticing her stillness. She doesn't see him; it's too late, he's pressing her down, locking her into a cage, not letting her breath… She needs to get out, to run, run… It's dark, so dark. Just like it was back there. Is that where she is? Back? Has he come for her again? Why does it smell like this? Why does she feel it again? Why?!
The smell of rot. The touch of dirt. Her knees, forced apart.
NO.
Magic explodes from her form, brutal and raw. It flings Draco away, sending him flying through the air to crash into the opposite wall with a sick crunch. The wooden cabinets explode, the plasma TV shatters. Bits of shrapnel batter the walls as the mirror over the vanity is pulverized into dust. It spills onto the carpet and what is left of the chair, grains so sharp they can cut to the bone.
Hermione opens her eyes, sees the devastation. Draco slumps down to the floor, unmoving. She did this. This is her fault. Frantically, she scuttles off the bed, fleeing into a corner. Tugging her arms around her knees, she compresses into a tiny ball. He can't see her this way, can't hurt her. She chokes out a hoarse sob, her body trembling, rocking back and forth.
Back and forth.
"Don't," she whimpers again, just like she did all those years ago. "Please, don't…"
Tears come, unbidden, falling from the edges of her eyes, trails of despair etching into puffy cheeks. Pitifully, she cries.
She cries there, in that corner, under the garish light of a morning sun. She weeps for a girl that was robbed of something precious and beautiful. A girl that hurts so much and has never healed.
She trembles in that corner.
She trembles and cries.