The Queen of the Night
Sep. 30th, 2011 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
worksofstoneRating: T
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. Animal Play Square.
Hermione doesn't like it when he smells of other women. These days, that takes barely more than the brush of a sleeve across his robes. She claims it's because perfume makes her nose tickle, but occasionally Draco has bruises that suggest otherwise, even on waning nights. As he hands their cloaks over to the coat-check girl, Draco makes a mental note to Scourgify them upon return. Not that anyone could see fading bruises, as Draco is dressed in tailored evening wear. He even wore gloves, until he pulled off them off upon entering the Royal Opera House. He turns away from the coat-check to look for his wife, but Hermione is already by his side.
They're running slightly late, and they barely have time to be seated before the overture begins. As a story unfolds on stage about love, loss and lovers reunited once again, Draco's attention drifts from the painted players below and steals to his wife. It's been almost two years since he got Potter's frantic fire-call, telling him to drop everything and come to the Ministry immediately.
Draco had stepped out of the ashes of a Ministry Floo and into the ashes of his former life. A gray-faced Potter been waiting for him, and somewhere after the words 'Romania,' 'attack' and 'not sure if she'll make it,' Draco's barely patched-together calm had snapped. Potter practically had to sit on him in the hallway to keep him out of Hermione's hospital room while the Healers tried to save her life. Draco had broken down and wept when they'd told him that she would survive.
She'd spent the first few weeks healing. He'd spent them alternating between visiting hours at St. Mungo's and locating a discrete and trustworthy metalsmith, investing a fortune in charmed locks.
The first month had been ghastly for both of them, and afterward Draco vowed that she wouldn't face her fate alone. He drew some comfort from the fact that he wasn't the first in his family to do such things. After Romania, Draco thought of his erstwhile cousin with more than a dull sense of regret; now sympathy and something akin to understanding breaches the distance between himself and Sirius Black.
Down below, they've moved onto the recitatives and Draco suppresses a flinch as the soprano goes slightly flat. He notices it more, these days. Hermione shifts beside him, a whisper of silk on silken skin.
His wife is swathed in a plum-colored silk dress whose folds and pleats only serve to frame a plunging neckline. Besides herself, only Draco and her Healers know the extent of the scars that are carved across her ribs beyond those sharply-marked silk lines. Her face is marked by the same claws, but those scars are temporarily hidden from sight. A serpentine gold chain is wrapped around her throat, skimming across her collarbone and falling like water between her breasts. Draco is tempted to spend the first act watching it glint with the rise and fall of her chest, as she watches the melodrama below. Her dark hair is piled in an elaborate twist and her eyes are further shadowed by distant stage's light. Draco thinks that his wife could serve as master study in contrasts: dark brown hair lying next to warm cream skin, rich silk meeting a heavy strand of gold, a woman with Gainsborough's curves and a face revealed by Sargent's sharp lines.
On the stage below, the tenor sings of the enchanting beauty of a dark queen's daughter, but Draco is sure that only Hermione captures all the hidden aspects of the night. Still, the players below are trying, and Draco eventually looks away from his wife to give them their due.
By the interval, the slightly flat soprano has given him a headache and he's certain that her aria in the second act will be one of the poorer renditions that he's heard. As the lights flicker on, Hermione catches his gaze and tilts her head towards the door of their box. He can understand the urge to see the outside.
Hermione's eyes are burnished gold by the hallway's electric lights. The crowd's voices meld into dull roar, but Draco can pick out scattered fragments of conversation as they make their way through the halls. He can't quite tell what everyone is saying, but he's sure that should his curiosity rise, Hermione could clarify.
She strides ahead of him, cutting through a crowd which seems to nervously part before her, likely watching people mill, cluster and be culled off from the conversational herd. Draco watches her and lopes behind. He remembers a dark forest, rich scents, and a pale hound running by the side of a dusky wolf. He shivers with the memory of a hunger which will not be met by anything served at the Royal Opera House's bars on any other night.
They find their way to their usual balcony, and Hermione fishes out her wand from her beaded handbag. The balcony doors open with a faint click. A gust of air greets them as they step out onto the small balcony, and Draco spots other people enjoying the night air below. The stars are masked by London's lights, but the moon still gleams brighter than anything Muggles have electrified.
It's late autumn and Draco can feel the wind's faint bite even beneath layers of silk and fine wool. He wraps one arm around Hermione's shoulders. Despite the fact that her dress leaves her arms and neckline bare, her skin is radiantly warm. Even so, she leans into his touch.
“How do you find the opera?”
Draco shrugs. “The staging is questionable, but the interpretation is not without merit.” It's the type of canned answer that he gives all the time at Ministry functions. Inoffensive. Bland. He finds tonight's performance tedious, but he's willing to sit through it for her. He's not insensible to the charms of the art form, just this particular production. They've had season tickets for five years running, as well as a front of the program listing under 'Anonymous' among the names of less wealthy or more ostentatious fellow aficionados.
“We could go home, if you wish.” She tilts her head up to look at him, and Draco's breath catches at the glow of moonlight on her skin. The opera might be tedious, but Draco is never one to deny his wife her moments of pleasure in the night.
“You look lovely tonight.” A conversation change disguised as a compliment is a classic fall-back, all the better because he means it, but a day dealing with Ministry officials must have dulled his mind. He should have remembered that Hermione's never yet been caught by that particular trick.
Her eyes glint and Draco instinctively tilts his head just enough to bare his neck. She leans in and nips his throat; Draco stifles a moan.
“I think the second act will do just fine without our presence,” she says and leads him away from the balcony by the hand. Draco follows willingly.
It never does to question the alpha of one's pack.
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. Animal Play Square.
Hermione doesn't like it when he smells of other women. These days, that takes barely more than the brush of a sleeve across his robes. She claims it's because perfume makes her nose tickle, but occasionally Draco has bruises that suggest otherwise, even on waning nights. As he hands their cloaks over to the coat-check girl, Draco makes a mental note to Scourgify them upon return. Not that anyone could see fading bruises, as Draco is dressed in tailored evening wear. He even wore gloves, until he pulled off them off upon entering the Royal Opera House. He turns away from the coat-check to look for his wife, but Hermione is already by his side.
They're running slightly late, and they barely have time to be seated before the overture begins. As a story unfolds on stage about love, loss and lovers reunited once again, Draco's attention drifts from the painted players below and steals to his wife. It's been almost two years since he got Potter's frantic fire-call, telling him to drop everything and come to the Ministry immediately.
Draco had stepped out of the ashes of a Ministry Floo and into the ashes of his former life. A gray-faced Potter been waiting for him, and somewhere after the words 'Romania,' 'attack' and 'not sure if she'll make it,' Draco's barely patched-together calm had snapped. Potter practically had to sit on him in the hallway to keep him out of Hermione's hospital room while the Healers tried to save her life. Draco had broken down and wept when they'd told him that she would survive.
She'd spent the first few weeks healing. He'd spent them alternating between visiting hours at St. Mungo's and locating a discrete and trustworthy metalsmith, investing a fortune in charmed locks.
The first month had been ghastly for both of them, and afterward Draco vowed that she wouldn't face her fate alone. He drew some comfort from the fact that he wasn't the first in his family to do such things. After Romania, Draco thought of his erstwhile cousin with more than a dull sense of regret; now sympathy and something akin to understanding breaches the distance between himself and Sirius Black.
Down below, they've moved onto the recitatives and Draco suppresses a flinch as the soprano goes slightly flat. He notices it more, these days. Hermione shifts beside him, a whisper of silk on silken skin.
His wife is swathed in a plum-colored silk dress whose folds and pleats only serve to frame a plunging neckline. Besides herself, only Draco and her Healers know the extent of the scars that are carved across her ribs beyond those sharply-marked silk lines. Her face is marked by the same claws, but those scars are temporarily hidden from sight. A serpentine gold chain is wrapped around her throat, skimming across her collarbone and falling like water between her breasts. Draco is tempted to spend the first act watching it glint with the rise and fall of her chest, as she watches the melodrama below. Her dark hair is piled in an elaborate twist and her eyes are further shadowed by distant stage's light. Draco thinks that his wife could serve as master study in contrasts: dark brown hair lying next to warm cream skin, rich silk meeting a heavy strand of gold, a woman with Gainsborough's curves and a face revealed by Sargent's sharp lines.
On the stage below, the tenor sings of the enchanting beauty of a dark queen's daughter, but Draco is sure that only Hermione captures all the hidden aspects of the night. Still, the players below are trying, and Draco eventually looks away from his wife to give them their due.
By the interval, the slightly flat soprano has given him a headache and he's certain that her aria in the second act will be one of the poorer renditions that he's heard. As the lights flicker on, Hermione catches his gaze and tilts her head towards the door of their box. He can understand the urge to see the outside.
Hermione's eyes are burnished gold by the hallway's electric lights. The crowd's voices meld into dull roar, but Draco can pick out scattered fragments of conversation as they make their way through the halls. He can't quite tell what everyone is saying, but he's sure that should his curiosity rise, Hermione could clarify.
She strides ahead of him, cutting through a crowd which seems to nervously part before her, likely watching people mill, cluster and be culled off from the conversational herd. Draco watches her and lopes behind. He remembers a dark forest, rich scents, and a pale hound running by the side of a dusky wolf. He shivers with the memory of a hunger which will not be met by anything served at the Royal Opera House's bars on any other night.
They find their way to their usual balcony, and Hermione fishes out her wand from her beaded handbag. The balcony doors open with a faint click. A gust of air greets them as they step out onto the small balcony, and Draco spots other people enjoying the night air below. The stars are masked by London's lights, but the moon still gleams brighter than anything Muggles have electrified.
It's late autumn and Draco can feel the wind's faint bite even beneath layers of silk and fine wool. He wraps one arm around Hermione's shoulders. Despite the fact that her dress leaves her arms and neckline bare, her skin is radiantly warm. Even so, she leans into his touch.
“How do you find the opera?”
Draco shrugs. “The staging is questionable, but the interpretation is not without merit.” It's the type of canned answer that he gives all the time at Ministry functions. Inoffensive. Bland. He finds tonight's performance tedious, but he's willing to sit through it for her. He's not insensible to the charms of the art form, just this particular production. They've had season tickets for five years running, as well as a front of the program listing under 'Anonymous' among the names of less wealthy or more ostentatious fellow aficionados.
“We could go home, if you wish.” She tilts her head up to look at him, and Draco's breath catches at the glow of moonlight on her skin. The opera might be tedious, but Draco is never one to deny his wife her moments of pleasure in the night.
“You look lovely tonight.” A conversation change disguised as a compliment is a classic fall-back, all the better because he means it, but a day dealing with Ministry officials must have dulled his mind. He should have remembered that Hermione's never yet been caught by that particular trick.
Her eyes glint and Draco instinctively tilts his head just enough to bare his neck. She leans in and nips his throat; Draco stifles a moan.
“I think the second act will do just fine without our presence,” she says and leads him away from the balcony by the hand. Draco follows willingly.
It never does to question the alpha of one's pack.
