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Hermione wasn’t a partier; she never had been truthfully. She preferred her solitude, books full of interesting information. People are interesting, of course, but often hard to relate to. Emotions are if anything, a downfall for the Witch. She can easily identify emotions, but understanding why her truthful answers cause them? That’s a bit of a bind.
So, parties aren’t her forte. Dating hasn’t been either. A disastrous attempt to get close to and bond with Ron, left her without half of her friend base. Frigid omega, he ranted at her, his Beta with Alpha tendencies (brought out by her) was offended she didn’t want him. Still. After two years, if that glare is anything to go by, and his tugging Lavender closer against his side.
It makes the feeling of indignant tears rise. It isn’t her fault! She had tried. He was her best friend. But then, he was supposedly Harry’s best friend too, and when the relationship with Ginny had broken down (Alphas rarely, if ever, made it into a bonded relationship with one another, apparently ), gone was Potter from the Weasley gatherings.
Thankfully, this isn’t a Weasley gathering. It was originally the only reason Hermione had allowed herself to be ‘bullied’ into attending this by Luna. Today is Beltane. Today the Ministry was attempting to ‘force’ pairings and magical progeny within a dwindling population.
Return to the old ways, the law stated, everyone at Beltane would be encouraged to imbibe pairing potions, thinly veiled heat and lust inducers, and the pairs who mated, would be blessed. Their mating would be recorded, they would be married.
Hermione’s non-magical upbringing rails against this. It’s the worst idea she’s ever heard of, but the execution of it was flawless. The law had passed that morning, long after the invitations for various Beltane rituals across the country had been sent out – a yes magically binding you to the will of the Gods. Gods no one taught about, unless you were an old family. Gods taught of in whispers.
Luna tugs at Hermione’s curls, pulling the elder Witch back into the present. “You’re letting the fairies take your thoughts, when they need to be here. Even in heat, we can keep our wits about us until the worst hits. Don’t let the unworthy come for you.”
It’s the most serious thing the black witch had ever heard from her polar opposite. Where Hermione is the color of the richest earth, Luna may as well have sprung from the light of the Moon. Where Hermione is logical, Luna is emotional, facts versus myth.
“This isn’t going to go well,” Hermione murmurs, plucking at the gauzy fabric of her robes. Luna had made her get them, vibrant and laden with meaning. Orange that shimmers gold, black thread that shifts silver in the light, white beaded Sankofa along her hem that catches the grass, a braided belt of turquoise beads wrapped around her thin waist, throwing into contrast her hips and bust. She looked amazing, though louder than she ever wanted to. The robes are daring, everyone’s are.
Indirect light shows more than the direct light of the fire will in these, and the youngest, most fit participants of the ritual had learned that quickly. Hermione had learned it quickly, what with Luna seeming to delight in dancing between shadow and light. She can see Harry across the bonfire, and every time the wind shifts, taking the light from him she can see the way the last two years had hardened him in a way war never could.
She hardly notices anyone else, and no one has even imbibed the ritual potions, there is only sweet meads and cakes being passed around as everyone mulls around.
“Welcome!” The bright perky Ministry official is on a dais, and her robes are resplendent, and … very sheer. Hermione’s nose wrinkles. That’s rather blatant. Where was the tease?
“Our first Beltane ritual is begun on this May Eve. It’s so wonderful to see you all, so beautiful in your robes, and willing to participate in the old ways. The potion will be magically dispersed in just a few moments, and then our Maying will begin. Through the night, dancing, and chases will occur, perhaps even some duels for rights to mating. Please, do not be alarmed. Our mated elders are patrolling and will keep things from getting out of hand. Our God will walk amongst us tonight, seeking out his Goddess, the May Queen. So, it is known and so it shall be.”
A murmur raises from the crowd, so it is known and so it shall be. Ritual magic is a largely unknown thing, Hermione had only come across whispers of it until she’d decided to attend magical university. Even having it as her minor, this Ritual is loose at best. Unplanned, no Priest or Priestess presiding.
Oddly that is comforting, even as her Goblet, once half full of mead, is replaced with a potion that is frightfully fragrant. Raspberry, vanilla – Hermione sniffs carefully at the brew, ignoring Luna’s indignant sigh beside her.
“This hardly smells like a potion,” she whispers after a moment, before taking a sip. “Mm!” the surprised sound leaves her before she can stop herself.
“As it should be,” Luna murmurs in return, sipping more liberally than her friend. “The old potions are far more palatable, though Potions Masters like our departed Master Snape would argue the efficacy was near nil.”
Hermione mulls that over, her swirling anxiety and thoughts calming with the next mouth full of potion she takes. Her eyes slide over the crowd, drawn to the shadows that gather at the dips of hips and apex of thighs. She isn’t usually so …overt. Her lips tug into a frown and she focuses on the fire, noting the soft music that’s started. It takes a few more mouthfuls of brew before Hermione is swaying to the music.
She feels so – light. Not her usual reaction to mood altering substances. There’s no anxiety wrapped around her heart, no worry plaguing her mind. She moves fluidly, hips moving side to side as she wanders around the fire. She deftly dances away from grabbing hands, giggles leaving her. It’s fun, the dancing, and she drinks as she likes, no longer thinking about the fact it’s potion and the goblet should have long been drained by now.
There are Alphas that prowl, instead of dance, and she pouts at them, curling her lips just so in invitation. There are some growls and a few dare to come within an arm’s length of her. She dances around them, scenting them, watching them. She can see the strength of their arms, their legs, the length of their phallus. Some are quite the specimens, one familiar redhead who used to smile all the time, but the scent of his sadness is too strong, and drives her dancing away.
A pair of wand callous hands grab at her hips, and she shrieks, the owner of them keeping out of her sight even as they drag her back against them. Pinpoints of heat blossom where those hands sit, and then again at her shoulders where they touch, the warmth swimming through her languidly. They smell of woodsmoke, of leather, of the wind, of arrogance, and home.
The arrogance, their surety she would accept their suit annoys her, and Hermione twists out of the grip, away from the would-be suitor toward the ring of firelight where couples writhe slowly. There is a pair who beckon her forward, and the curly haired witch goes to them, dances with them, trades gentle kisses before she knows they are not for her.
His skin feels too tight. His robes bother him, everything about them. Susan Bones had helped him choose them, Green to invoke Cernunnos, the brown and red cording used so symbolize his connections to the earth and invoke passion. They smell of only him, though he swears he can scent Susan on them.
She’s a wonderful friend, his partner in the Force, but she is all wrong for him, and him for her. They are both too demanding, an Omega raised by an Alpha with brass balls so big it had taken an ambush of thirty to take her out. He is simply too unyielding, too untrusting to take up with someone who doesn’t already know him.
The thought makes him growl and pace the fire light. The dancing omegas are of some interest to him, but one has been eyeing him through the fire. Hermione. His dearest friend from childhood, who had long since left innocence behind at his side. Tonight, she looks as if she fell to earth from the stars.
Bright colors suit her well, the form of the robes show the world the dip of her waist, the feminine curve of her stomach. He hates it. That bothers him that he hates it even before he quaffs the goblet of potion. It bothers him more when she starts to dance. He prowls the edge of the firelight, keeping an eye on her, dancing a bit here and there, always rejecting the wrists offered up to him.
No. They aren’t right. Scent is wrong, approach too bold.
There is a low shriek, and crashes in the brush. A hunt has been initiated, and it makes his lips curls a bit cruelly. Mating after a hunt, wherever you fall or are pushed up against, bark biting into your skin, dirt under your nails and pressed into your pores. A groan leaves him, the scent of musk and water jasmine pulling him to the now.
A waterfall of chocolate curls ends just above the curve of her arse, the perfect heart that leads to thighs he has wanted to grab in the quiet of the darkest nights to drag her over to him. Sinful thoughts that never left the safety of his mind. Hadn’t until this moment.
His hands are moving before he’d clearly thought about reaching out to grab at her. Her lush curves are there, warm under his hands. Her hair is a fragrant cloud of wood smoke, musk, that watery jasmine. She won’t let him properly dance with her, they’re only touching for what could be several breaths and she’s gone again.
Harry runs his hands through his hair in frustration. She hadn’t even looked at him. Hadn’t said a word. Just let him grab her, sparked a need deep in his chest and left like smoke on the wind. But he doesn’t chase after her. A no is a no even if it’s silent. So, he returns to stalking the edge of the firelight, losing his outer robe somewhere along the way, chest bare, pants keeping him covered and yet on display.
The night winds on, the fire dancing higher and more couples going to ground. Hermione hasn’t chosen anyone, though many have grabbed at her, enticed her. She gave them a moment of her time, graciously, goblet still in hand he noticed. Her cheeks are flush, whiskey brown eyes darker than he’s ever seen them before, shining in the firelight.
He knows her heat is stoked, simmering through her. He can tell in the way she walks, legs parted just so, he’s seen that stance before. When arousal is high and it’s easier to walk like that than stick to oneself. It’s a walk he’s seen before, just not on her. Upwind of her, he is distraught to not be able to scent her.
There is a growing need in him to shift, not like an Animagus might, or at least not what he recognizes to be what the shift feels like. This is something different. Shaking his head, it is heavier, and he stands straighter afterward. There are some gasps as he struts, hands on his skin, ones he shakes off. Some he slaps away with a low sound of warning.
His magic is pressing up against him in a way it hasn’t done before and finally with a breath, he lets it wash over him. His skin tingles and he doesn’t feel like his skin is a size too small anymore. He feels more than he has during past ruts. There’s one omega here for him. One that will make his magic sing and breathe his name in reverent skepticism. Hermione.
The soft gasps reach her before his scent does. Wood smoke, leather, wild forest, home. A complicated layered scent that makes her purr happily. The gasps have her eyes narrowing before blowing wide seeing the horned silhouette coming toward the firelight proper. Part of her is moving before she acknowledges wanting to.
Her steps are soft and sure, and taking her toward the horned man. Her man. Her mate. He finally decided to show up. He walks with a confidence she knows all too well. It makes her frown. Too full of himself, to sure of his aims being met, that his witch, his woman, his mate would fall at his feet in joy. It’s happened so many times now, this little dance of theirs – he never learns.
Green eyes lock on whiskey brown and her chin tilts up defiantly. He wants what he cannot presently have, no matter the slick running sticky down her thighs. He should know the dance by heart. Instead he grabs at her, drags her forward up against the hard planes of his body. Staring at her, not saying a word, all male and alpha and so much desire.
She’s not immune to it. Evident in the way she melts against him, reveling in his scent with soft deep breaths, the feel of his skin separated from hers with only a thin layer of her robes. Where had his outer robe gone? Did it matter? It was like two parts of herself speaking within the confines of her mind. She doesn’t pay it much attention as he moves them slowly with the still playing music. The thumps of the base seem to sync with her heart, with their hips, with the steady, mind numbing pulse betwixt her thighs.
It’s not until one of his hands thread into her hair she snaps back into focus. He wasn’t asking ,he was just taking. He’s so deliciously close, she can scent the mead on his breath, see the way his eyes have transformed from a sort of vibrant grass green to deep viridian that can only barely be made out. It would be nothing to let him have the kiss. To let him have everything.
But that isn’t right. He should work for it. She’s waited all fall and winter for him, just to have him swagger up like this? She’s been alone through so many heats, for him to look at her now? No.
She pulls away, pushing him back easily because her sudden move startles him, and takes off running. If he catches her, she’ll consider him. If he catches her, perhaps she will take of him what she so desperately needs. Hermione pays no mind to the tittering and soft jeers of ‘of course it’s Potter and Granger this year,’ as she runs from the circle, surefooted though she doesn’t know the clearing or the woods here. She dips and dodges through the underbrush, a giggle escaping her. This feels right. It is right. The moon seems to light her way as she runs farther into the forest, she isn’t even sure he’s followed until a particular primal bellow sounds through the darkness.
Laughter is pulled from her in response. Of course, her lover-to-be would be annoyed she’d run. She’d run the arrogance right out of him tonight if that’s what it takes.
“Catch me if you can, Harry!”
How is such a short woman so damn fast? He crashes through the forest looking for the signs of her. It’s easier than it would have been in the war. Her scent coats the way she’d run. During the war they’d all been so ill none of them had gone into heat or rut. The thought is shaken from him when he happens upon her outer wrap.
Snatching it from the tree, bringing it to his nose, he sighs and takes off again. Tomorrow they would both pay hell for this run, but right now it’s completely worth it. He can ignore the way his pants tug uncomfortably against his skin, ignore the elastic biting into his erection just so he can run. This is worth it, Hermione is worth it.
Hermione is worth everything. He grabs a tree as he runs to pull a quick turn, chasing her scent. The minx has changed course, leading him northward now. He wants her here, in his arms, her hands in his hair, his lips on hers. Not to run after her like this. Was it so much to ask for her to submit?
But… why should she submit just because he demanded it? He pauses, taking deep breaths, making sure she hasn’t planted a false lead for him to follow. Hermione was – is – the strongest witch he knows. She hadn’t bowed down to the likes of Voldermort’s minions, even when it would have been better for her to. So why, why, should she bow to him just because his cock was made for her?
He shakes his head. She didn’t need to bow to him because of that. She wouldn’t if he didn’t move his ass, either. He takes off, sure of the trail and sure of what he needs to do, replaying her actions repeatedly in his head. She rebuffed him at every turn. Every time he’d taken hold of her, she had twisted away, silently reprimanding him.
“Damn it, Hermione.” He grumbles as he fights through a patch of particularly dense brambles, stopping dead when he finds her dress. She’s running naked. He doesn’t pause to pick up the fabric, they can accio it later, he runs as fast as he can. No one else can have her. No one else should have the honor of seeing her beauty in full. No one else should be allowed near her this vulnerable, no one else was worthy of planting seed in her.
Only him.
It’s a risk, running nude in the forest. But, a worth while one. Hermione can blast anyone she needs to away from her with a flick of the wrist. Still, if someone got a bite in, she’d be done for. It’s part of the thrill, really, leading him on this chase. She has no intention of letting someone else have her, but the slightest chance is there. The gifts she’d left on the trail?
Well, motivation had always done well by her. Especially when it came to somewhat – obtuse – partners. Harry is many things, but particularly quick on the uptake when it comes to women’s hints? No.
Besides, the moonlight and cool air keep her moving. Her feet hit the ground rhythmically, and she strains to hear his pursuit. She ducks behind a well laden Hawthorne tree for a moment, breathing hard. It wouldn’t do for him to lose her trail, and while she was- more- than usual, she wasn’t invincible.
She sucks in deep breaths, eyes straining in the dim light for movement. She can’t scent him just yet, not even on the breeze that makes her sigh. It feels so lovely, sweat cooling at the dips of her back, standing fine hairs on end after being so warm for so long. Her magic presses against her skin and for a breath Hermione is confused by that. Just a breath before she trusts her magic, her whole self, and lets it flow.
No longer does the darkness of the forest hinder her. She knows every nook and cranny. The whispers of the grass sing of spring, and Hermione relaxes against the sturdy if slim trunk of the Hawthorne. It sings hello sister to her, and a smile springs on Hermione’s lips. Her hands flatten against the smooth skin of the tree, and her magic whispers back hello brother.
Their conversation is quiet, and serene, so much so that the quiet cries of the trampled grass never reach the Witch who should be listening. The Wizard knew better than to just crash into her space this time. He knew that this hunt had to end delicately, had to end with acceptance. He walks, quietly, cautiously once her scent perfumes the area.
She is parchment, mint, the tang of sweat, roses, and water jasmine. She is sensuality in the darkness, a tease he can’t wait to see fulfilled. She is well hidden, not immediately jumping out to him as he scans the forest. She’s here, has been here a while, from the smell. That at least is in his favor. Treading delicately, he looks for the shine of her hair, or a womanly shaped shadow in a plethora of shadows. Trees sway, their pollen muddling her scent for moments at a time.
“Hermione, come out love, come to me.” He doesn’t yell and doesn’t whisper. The pitch of his voice carries almost effortlessly, something that isn’t quite normal.
In his periphery, he sees a shadow freeze up. Not turning, he simply waits.
Hermione hadn’t even noticed him entering this part of the forest. But now her eyes zero in on him, hearing the petulant grumblings of the grass. Sniffing delicately, she confirms it is in fact, Harry. It’s nothing to change the pitch and tone of a voice with a little bit of magic, but changing your scent entirely?
That’s a bit trickier.
“Why should I?” She asks, throwing her voice with well-aimed intent. “You’ve been terribly rude all evening, Mr. Potter.” Hermione wonders, quietly, how she hasn’t succumbed to the haze of need just yet. Was it her magic that slides across her skin so easily tonight? Something in that brew?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” His apology is soft, but not quite Harry. Her teeth dig into her lip.
“It’s the Firebolt all over again,” she muses aloud, still throwing her voice. “A non-apology, meant to keep me at your side.”
“No!” He steps forward, away from where the shadows are frozen. “No. I was stupid, as a boy. I rely on you – your brilliance, it’s true. I think I always will, if only to stay with you. But you? Your love, friendship, trust?”
He turns in a circle, running his hand through his frightfully ruffled hair. “Hermione, I’ll do anything to keep that. Whether you want me to help you through this heat, biting my own arm until I cause muscle damage, deny my rut until I’m delirious - I’ll do that.”
“I never want you to hurt yourself so.” She edges from behind the Hawthorne, toward him, worry creasing her brow. “I want your sincerity, not your pain.”
“Then take what you need – any of me, all of me. It’s yours.”
“Harry.” Cernunnos. Her magic whispers just as exasperated as her voice is. She dances forward and launches herself at him. It’s a shock, to her slightly cooled skin, how warm he is. The springy curls of his chest hair make her shiver, but his arms are a comfort around her waist. Whatever had been holding back the fires of her heat was gone now. She was rapidly warming with just these simple touches.
“Hermione,” Hekate. He buries his face in her hair, breathing her in deeply. The urge to gather her up and press her back against a tree is strong, but he withstands. This is more important. Her consent is paramount. He can’t, won’t, take her without her word.
“Please,” she whispers it against the scruff of his jaw, “I’m burning. It’s you, has to be you, has always been you.” Thank the Goddess that they were chosen, a dim far away thought crosses her mind. If they hadn’t been the two to re-enact the God’s hunt for his May Queen would they be here? Who would have taken her? Hunted her?
“A kiss, first, love. I request a kiss first.”
“Granted, from now until the end of time.” She barely gets the end of her sentence out when his mouth slants against hers and they are lost to the fires of Beltane under the laden bows of her Hawthorne tree.