#ostara2024

[iputaspellonyou2024]

Blessed Ostara my witches! 🌱💕

Art by Moonchild_soph

[sailtomarina]

Exact Complements, Part 4 (complete)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

cw: implied/referenced sex

He was still snug inside of her, the cocoon of her embrace his focal point. Magical surges still powered through them. She must have felt the same way, a beatific smile stretching from ear to ear and her eyes just as bright as the vibrant blues and purples their bond created. 

Antonin was reminded of the dancing lights of his homeland as their energies arced from their bodies to weave into one another so that he could no longer see where he ended and she began.

“What have you done?” 

The words came out far harsher than he’d intended, though he probably should have been angry at what was obviously the result of careful planning and execution. In reality, he felt as if a weight he’d long borne had been lifted and he could suddenly move freely, each motion as effortless as breathing. 

Her radiance dimmed at the question. “I only did what you yourself wanted.”

He could feel himself beginning to slip out and rolled them to their sides so they still faced one another. He recalled the bundles of dried herbs in her bathroom. “The sage and sweetgrass?”

“The sage and sweetgrass.”

“My mama always said I didn’t respect the old magics enough.” He’d thought them too rudimentary for the wonders that modern magic would create; too weak to actually make any conceivable difference. It was only after she’d passed that he learned how wrong he’d been.

“She sounds like she was a smart woman.”

“She was. Just like you.” He traced runes and circles into her skin. He’d thought the scribbles scattered throughout her home associated with her work, or the product of her unending quest for knowledge. Written in ink on parchment like they had been, always incomplete, they had been powerless. She would have needed a permanent space to replace that which had been lost. “Where?”

She didn’t need the full context of the question to understand what it was he was asking.

“The attic.”

“I have seen your attic. I saw and felt nothing that would explain what you did.”

“You saw what I wanted you to see.”

“Explain.” The more they talked and he showed he was not angry, rather curious, the more she eased back into his arms.

“Do you remember the Room of Hidden Things?”

He nodded.

“That room has another name: the Room of Requirement.”

He mulled over the phrase, rolling the words around until realisation struck. “A room that adjusts to one’s needs.”

“Like a room for practising defence, or filled with chamber pots.”

“Or a room with the largest bed you’ve ever seen.” At her scandalised look, he couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. He’d been an exceedingly horny young man, all too eager to wet his dick in whatever witch was daring enough to challenge him. He’d probably read every single book in the Hogwarts library pertaining to sex and the human body. The discovery of his very own secret room in which to carry out his misadventures hadn’t seemed odd to him back then; it had simply been yet another castle mystery to which he thought himself the only one worthy of finding. “Your attic is the same.”

“Yes.”

“You must show me.” That his witch not only knew of the castle room, but had mimicked its magic, shouldn’t have surprised him. He couldn't help it. She astounded him at each and every turn. 

“Only if you agree to move in.”

He baulked at the idea . It wasn’t that he disliked her cottage; it was perfectly lovely. It was also cluttered, difficult to navigate, completely controlled by her feline guardians, and far too lax in overall security. The attic did not count.

“But I like my cabin.”

“And I like my cottage with its attic you won’t otherwise see.”

He scowled, knowing she’d won this particular battle. 

She took pity on him, her fingers carding through locks of his hair as she added a concession. “We can still keep the cabin for whatever you’d like: visiting friends, a place to study or do research, or a getaway when we don’t want anyone to disturb us.” She emphasised her point by running a leg up his own before hooking it over his hip and pulling him close enough to feel her heated core.

“I like that idea.”

The burst of colour from their bonding had faded by now to a shimmer. Sunlight streaming through the window made it even more difficult to see. What would it look like at night? Would it set the room aglow, putting the stars and moon to shame?

“And what about the idea of forever being tied to a witch who will never be subservient to you?”

Her question dragged him from his daydreams–he’d already come up with several scenes he wanted to enact with her, the night sky as their backdrop. Now came the previously absent ire.

“I hope you do not think me a wizard desirous of such an uneven partnership. I do not want nor need a slave. I want a wife who will be a partner and lover equal to me in every way.” His hand drifted up to settle around her throat, giving it a light squeeze. “I want you exactly as you are.”

Her eyes grew wider with each punctuated word, her lip tucking in as was her habit. He growled and did what he’d imagined earlier, darting his head forward to nibble and soothe over her worries. She looked dazed as he pulled away.

“You really have no problem with any part of me?” She seemed to wrestle internally, brow furrowing and clouds once again beginning to darken her light. “I don’t know if I can have children after…” she trailed off.

His breath caught as understanding dawned. His curse and her miraculous recovery. He hadn’t considered consequences of this nature since nobody else had survived to display any lingering symptoms. “Has that been a problem for you in the past?”

Her nod nearly sent him plummeting into self-flagellation, but she yanked him back just as quickly.

“I wasn't ready then, even if I didn’t know it yet. I don’t even know if I’m ready now.” She paused to suck in air, which she slowly let out before continuing, a noticeable tremor in her voice. “If that is a wish of yours, then that is the one thing I am sorry for. I have as good as chained you to a future without children of your own, a sentence I wouldn’t want to pass on anyone no matter who they are.”

So tender, despite her plotting.

He resolved to cherish this witch and do whatever he could to show her that none of that mattered. 

“Whether we do or do not have children matters not to me as long as we remain at each others’ sides.” The hand at her throat shifted to cup the face dearer to him than any other and bend her forward so he could press doting lips to the crown of her head. 

She shivered at the act, and he pulled her even closer. He could fall asleep just like this, and likely would have if she hadn’t shifted, one knee knocking against his own.

“I hate to say this, but I really need to pee.”

“Blyat! I am an idiot.” He sat up and gestured towards the door in the corner. “Of course you should.”

She slipped away, quietly shutting the door behind her. Antonin wasn’t worried about her trying to run away, not with her wand having rolled under the bed and the invisible bond he could feel stretching between them even over this short space. He knew no amount of distance or time would break the connection except for death; that was how powerful the melding of their magic had been.

He’d heard tales, and had even seen it firsthand between Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but that she’d taken the steps herself to ensure their inevitability went far beyond his initial expectations. He’d hoped, yes. He’d even thought it possible given enough time for them to get to know one another. He knew he could be charming and that she hadn’t exactly been treated well by aspiring lovers. He was confident that he could seduce her into wanting him just as much as he wanted her.

He was a fool, and now he was her fool.

The door opened. She stood naked within its frame, her eyes already trained on his reawakened erection.

“Would you like to put on another display with me, solnyshka?”

Her teeth flashed just before she launched herself at him, hands pinning down his unresistant limbs beneath her. 

They did not leave his bedroom until late in the day to satisfy the grumbling of their stomachs. The kitchen counter, then the heavy mahogany table he’d imported from Russia, were their detours for a different sort of sustenance. They did, however, make it back to her cottage before nightfall. She had to feed the cats. He, in turn, fed his cock down her throat mere minutes after she showed him into the attic. There were no additional arguments about him moving in, because Antonin couldn’t ever imagine leaving her side, not that she would have let him do otherwise.

1546 WC

Cross-posted on Tumblr, FB, and AO3

Props to Hwaet WeGardena for asking me about the cats, who I had the oversight to completely leave unnamed! Well, no longer. Please meet Sabriel, Lirael, and Clariel, whose names are inspired by characters of the same name in Garth Nix's Abhorsen book series.

For the epilogue-sort of people: they do end up having children. Obviously any magical damage she sustained before didn’t stand a chance to the combination of their raw sexual energy. SCOFF. OF COURSE. I’m thinking…two daughters and one son. The son only comes after Antonin lives several years with the joke that he is forever outnumbered by women. Their last child and son arrives long after they’d expected to have children, but is very well loved and spoiled. The cats somehow survive until all three children grow up and move out, and, even after they’ve passed, Antonin swears he sees their ghosts from time to time scaring away mice and sitting on his face to wake him up.

I like to think they patent numerous spells and potions together as they continue to live humbly in the countryside. They want for nothing but each others’ company, which is perfect because it takes another decade before Hermione is able to clear any remaining charges against him so that he can walk openly within Britain’s borders. Even then, he prefers to stay home unless they travel outside of the country.

[sailtomarina]

Exact Complements, Part 3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

cw: explicit sex

The disapparition happened so suddenly and smoothly that Hermione didn’t have time to brace herself for the usual jolt at the start and stumble at the end. One moment they were in the kitchen, and the next she opened her eyes to a dimly lit room. They stood next to a large bed, two windows on the opposite side shuttered closed and through which sunlight struggled to stream.

There was no question that this room was his; there might not have been many items gracing the walls and tables, but she quickly noted a stack of familiar books on one night stand, and, to her surprise, a slim pair of reading glasses resting on top of them.

“Something amusing?” Dolohov’s question sounded amused in itself. He still hadn’t let go of her, one arm hugging her close and the other hand still interlaced with her own.

She shook her head without turning to face him, knowing that were she to do so, it would render her thoughtless. Warmth seeped through the layers of clothing between them like they weren’t even there.

Whatever had possessed her to stay when she’d first recognised him also compelled her to take pleasure in his intelligent, softly-accented speech. That same impulse was the reason she hadn’t gone to Harry when she’d received his letter. As horrified as she initially was to discover that the missing Death Eater had not only survived, but now intended to pursue her, she’d also been intrigued.

He was immensely powerful; she had felt the truth of that in her many hours of agony in her bid for survival. Then, when she’d broken into his mind to wipe his memory clean of their discovery at the cafe, she’d been startled to find her own likeness inhabiting the deeper recesses of his mind. There hadn’t been time for a closer inspection, but she’d thought about him long after and the possible reasons for her having left any impression on the wizard at all.

What she’d experienced with him downstairs reaffirmed her suspicions. Everything she’d read about soul magic indicated a likely resonance of her powers with his own, the likes of which she had yet to feel with anyone else. The more she’d learned, the more the root of an idea lengthened and spread until she could no longer bear it.

For all of the times he’d broken into her home, blasting his signature everywhere like a dog marking its territory, he never seemed to notice the signs of her planning. Practise runes and circles on scraps of parchment littered her work spaces. Her bathroom had basically turned into an aromatherapy spa with the bundles of herbs she had lying everywhere. Growing up, she’d always adored classic bangers and mash, but he wouldn’t have known that looking into her fridge now. She’d foregone meat in preparation for the time, whenever it might come.

That time was now.

Her face still turned away from him, she pointed her wand towards the windows. “May I?”

“You may.”

A twist of her wrist slid open the shutters, allowing the sun to bathe the bedroom in light. Now she looked up at him.

He was absurdly attractive. She’d have to be out of her mind, blind, or willfully ignorant to not notice. Every time he spoke or moved, she was struck by the languid ease in which he carried himself. It was no act when her breath caught or her heart beat so wildly it felt like she might die. Hermione was a grown woman with carnal needs and he ticked every one of her boxes like he’d been custom made for her.

Vivid blue eyes reminiscent of lapis lazuli and rimmed with thick lashes crinkled at the edges as they met her gaze. The illumination from the windows revealed every age line, from the wrinkles in his forehead to the curves around his mouth. Whether they were from laughs or scowls, she did not know. 

Even though he was much older than her and likely knew magic she wouldn’t encounter for many years yet, Hermione didn’t think any of that mattered. She had always learned quickly and wanted more than what was initially offered. She would grasp this devastating man and bind him to her.

They didn’t break eye contact as she let the vinewood slip from her fingers. Soft puffs of air tinted with tea perfumed her face with each exhale. She was still a tad annoyed he’d tricked her earlier, but there was no denying the results. In the future, she might not be so forgiving.

The soft bristles had been a delightful surprise when he’d kissed her, and she reached for him now, cupping her hand to the bearded cheek and ghosting her thumb across his full lips. He caught the flesh between his teeth, but didn’t bite down.

Two could play that game.

Hooking her thumb and tugging down rewarded her with a startled grunt. She didn’t let go until she’d pulled him down to her level and he’d loosened his jaw enough for her thumb to slip free. She rotated her wrist to press that same spit-slick thumb into her mouth and against her tongue.

“You are a minx.” His voice was a rumble against the hand trapped between them.

She released the digit to rest her palm against his firm chest. “And you are a villain.”

This time when his eyes crinkled, they revealed deep dimples beneath his beard. “For you, I can be good.”

She pushed lightly against him until he released her. The loss of his arm around her waist and his body against hers was staggering. She’d felt so warm before, but now, despite the sunlight, a chill crept along her limbs demanding she burrow back into him. Hermione ignored the sensation and fingered her buttoned collar as she backed towards the mattress until it pressed against the curve of her arse.

His eyes burned as she undid each button, then let the flimsy thing flutter to the ground. Her skirt followed to puddle at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but her nude undergarments.

He stepped forward to lift a handful of her hair to his face and inhaled deeply. “Lovely.”

He stroked a finger down her torso along a familiar scar, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from arching into the touch. His scar. His magic. The pearly sheen left from his purple flames began at the hollow of her throat and branched around her left breast, inviting him to finish his exploration by closing the hand over her soft flesh in a gently kneading motion. He paid the other the same worship before dropping to his knees to wrap both arms around her waist and look up at her. “May I?”

She didn’t like that he was still clothed and tugged at the fabric along his shoulder. “Take this off.”

She felt slightly childish at his chuckle, but inwardly cheered as he let go to undo a few buttons before pulling the entire shirt over his head in his impatience. Muscles rippled across the shoulders and what she could see of his chest, but before she could insist on the rest, he took a firm hold of her once more to press an open-mouthed kiss to her sex.

Hermione temporarily forgot all about her demands. There was only his tongue sliding along her slit, then the toe-curling sensation of him circling with unerring precision the bundle of nerves at its apex.

Then he wrapped his arms around each thigh, and she shrieked as he tilted her off balance so she landed on her back along the bed. Her knickers were gone just as quickly, yanked down her legs and tossed across the room in a blur of movement.

“Antonin!” His given name was plundered from one set of lips as he besieged the other. Hermione struggled to get her elbows beneath her and see him, but she found herself writhing in the throes of her rising need instead. Panic sparked. She needed him to come with her for her plans to succeed. She wasn’t sure she could come again if she did so now.

Her flailing hand found purchase in his hair, silky to the touch. She tugged, the motion pathetically weak. “An–mmmm. Antonin, please, I need you.” 

Her pleas went ignored, though he did shift his hold to drop one hand on top of hers and squeeze it, the tender action of it clenching at her heart. 

When she did come, it was with his hand still holding her own and the machinations of her mind blown a startling white. He took her protestations, her attempts to hold on just a little longer, and rendered them helpless as a wave of blinding pleasure suffused through her entire being.

“You bastard,” she groaned, even as she floated in an inner pool of fulfilment.

“Now, now, that isn’t a very nice thing to say after what I just did, is it?” The bed dipped as he lay down beside her.

It wasn’t until he’d turned her head to tangle his tongue with hers and she reached for him that she realised that she’d finally gotten one of her wishes.

“Mmm, let me look at you.” Hermione leaned back from him, her hands firm but playing with the hair covering his chest, and took him in.

Broad shoulders as she’d already seen, a lean and muscled torso, scars criss-crossing in varying thicknesses and lengths, and a dark trail of hair at his lower belly extending down to a small bed within which a very lovely cock, thick and long with a prominent vein, lay in stiff repose, looking like its own version of a model posing for a painting.

“You’ll wreck a man’s will giggling like that.” He didn’t sound wrecked, or upset at all. Laughter of his own tinged each word.

She peeked back up with an apologetic lift of her brows. “Forgive me? Rest assured, I am more than pleased with what I see.”

“Apology accepted.” Again with the sudden movement, his body rolling atop her own and his arms bracketing her from both sides. His dark hair fell like a curtain around them, creating a brief respite from the outside world. “Last chance to run away, little minx.”

True to her lionhearted nature and the voice inside of her demanding she act quickly, Hermione took the heated length of him in hand and guided him to her entrance. “Last chance for you to run away, my so-called villain.”

In one thrust, he was inside of her, the width of his stretch tearing through a barrier, still newly-grown.

“How?” He looked down at her, his eyes wide with realisation.

She bit her lip as she smiled, shaking her head. She would explain all later.

“You are mine now,” he said after some pause, finality in the phrase. “Mine every day until the end of our days.” 

Another push, deeper than the last. He hauled one leg over his arm, widening her so he could bury himself deep enough to brush her cervix. The sounds she made were disgusting in their desperation. She hadn’t thought herself capable of it, but she was already close to her second climax and Antonin didn’t look anywhere near finishing.

“Come now, sing for me.” Both legs were slung over his shoulders now, her body bent nearly in half as he angled himself in such a way so that the curve of his cock rubbed her just there with each maddening slide. There was no stopping her rapid ascent, nor the way she tumbled head first into the open sky, caterwauling her despair and bliss in equal portions. 

He murmured in his native tongue, the indecipherable language a soothing balm to her destroyed sense of control. The grip on her calves was hard enough to bruise and the smack of his balls to her arse increasing in tempo with each drive of his rigidity.

“Give me one more.”

“I don’t think I can,” she sobbed.

“You can. Come with me, solnyshka.”

His palm beneath the curve of her back tilting her just so as he kept up his relentless rhythm yanked her straight back to the precipice.

“Please, please, please,” she begged, not even sure what it was she was begging for. She didn’t think the needy voice sounded anything like her own.

Then she was there, crying out her ecstasy to his own triumphant roar as he pulsed inside of her. The moment seemed to go on and on, and she would have believed that she’d fallen from one orgasm into the next as she spiralled through the interweaving circles of light that bound them to one another in their mutual conclusion.

Because prepared as she was with a purified body and mind that had undergone numerous rituals within a room in her home not even Antonin’s magic could detect, she now held the reins of their bond he’d as good as handed over with the gift of his seed. 

The consequences of their actions settled into place with finality, visible to eyesight now and every time they came together of one mind and body.

“What have you done?”

2179 wc

Cross-posted to Tumblr, FB, and AO3

“Solnyshka” is a Russian term of endearment meaning “sunshine”

Soooo, what do you think of our conniving Hermione and her ritualistic preparations? I was on the fence about whether or not to have her just as manipulative as Antonin, but I like how it plays with my earlier chapter on balance.

This seduction might seem fast, but you don’t even have a clue just how enigmatic this man can be. He might as well breathe once on you and you’ll want to bonk the man crazy. I want to bonk the man crazy…or be bonked? Why not both? 

[sailtomarina]

Exact Complements, Part 2

Part 2/4 for the DEG's Ostara Fest featuring four different prompts for each day of the celebration. Day 2 is Renewal (Fertility, dawn, sun, rebirth, awakening)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Hermione followed him into his home without further comment, and he caught her gaze roaming over each floorboard and painting as he led her to the kitchen. Antonin knew his log cabin was far different from her own cosy cottage. He favoured rustic design and minimal decor; most everything had a clear purpose and meaning. 

That was unfair. He knew her home—warm and overstuffed as it was with knick-knacks, plants, and books—meant just as much to the witch. She might have over lingered in her relationship with that ginger of hers, but Antonin had noticed that she didn’t otherwise clutch onto meaningless things. She just had a larger heart than he with plenty of room for more.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

He poured two cups, doctoring them each with just a splash of fresh milk.

“Why am I not surprised that not only do you know how I take my tea, but that you take yours the same way?” she asked, her voice wry but lacking any suspicion as she accepted her mug and inhaled deeply before taking a sip.

“Because you know me.”

She held his gaze long enough for lesser men to find it uncomfortable, but Antonin was not a lesser man. She gave a little laugh, shaking her head and passing a hand over her eyes as she did so. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe what, sladkaya?” 

That lovely flush to her cheeks. He wanted to see the colour spread down her neck and across her chest. He wanted to follow it to an even pinker flower ripe for the plucking. 

“That I’m sitting in Antonin Dolohov’s kitchen and drinking tea, instead of reporting everything you’ve done the past several months.”

“Ah, yes. I would apologise, but I believe you found the attention flattering, did you not?” He played with the rim of his mug, busying his hands from reaching out and touching her.

The light from the rising sun filtered through the windows like it did every morning, filling the space and its occupants with light. Antonin felt like one of Hermione’s cats, of which she had three, fat and happy in the warmth of her company. They’d taken to him quickly when he’d first started visiting, yet another sign he and Hermione were meant to be.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes clenched shut as she sighed. “Godric help me, but I did.”

“Drink some more tea. It might help.”

Now she looked suspicious, narrowing her eyes first at him, then at her teacup. “You didn’t drug this, did you?”

“No, Hermione, I did not drug the tea.”

He reached over for the kettle once their cups were empty to top them both off. As he did so, he noticed her eyeing his arm, the sleeve of which he’d rolled up to his elbow. It was also the arm bearing the Dark Mark. “I can glamour it, if you like.”

“That wasn’t what I was looking at.”

That surprised him. “No?”

She shook her head, sending curls spiralling around her face. They were too short to stay up in the clip she’d used to pin back the majority of it. “No. I was looking at your veins. They’re quite prominent.”

He rotated his arm to inspect them, then brought the other up for the same treatment. “I suppose they are.”

He’d never put much thought into it, but now that she’d pointed them out, he quite liked how they looked. He imagined raw power flowing through them, just as much a source of life as the blood that had spilled from them.

He laid one hand out flat on the counter, palm down, veins visible across the back. Just as he’d hoped, she reached out, then paused, her eyes seeking permission. He nodded.

The initial brush of skin to skin, barely there at first, sent a jolt straight up his arm and into his chest. She jerked back with a gasp. 

“Did you feel that?” she asked.

“I did.”

“What is that?” Without waiting for an answer, she fully laid her hand atop his own.

Heat bloomed at the point of contact and spread rapidly, coursing through Antonin with a completeness and finality that reaffirmed everything he’d done up to this moment to make Hermione his. This was magic in its purest form. This was a recognition of souls.

This time, when their eyes met, there was no more barrier. She was fully awake to their inevitability. Antonin, for his part, had hoped even as he’d planned. Her survival of his curse, the only person to have done so and not without difficulty, had been the first sign of their complementary magic. She’d been far too young, too frightened, too sheltered. There were so many obstacles that could have changed the future.

Those were gone now, leaving only the two of them to make what they would of this second chance at life.

“That, my dear, is a promise.”

“Why didn’t it feel like this earlier?”

He flipped his hand so palm touched palm, fingers automatically slotting into one another. “We are inside my domain, and the tea we drank loosened the natural limitations we placed on ourselves.”

“So you did drug the tea,” she exclaimed, but without any hint of betrayal in the tone. He knew that gleam in her eye. He burned with the same hunger for knowledge.

“I did not drug the tea. This concoction is one of Severus’ making.”

She scoffed lightly. She did not, however, remove her hand. “Semantics.”

“It does not do to ignore precision in haste.” 

She would learn in time. Either way, Antonin was delighted. Not only had she willingly stepped into his blood wards, set to only accept the two of them and Thorfinn, but she hadn’t shied away from their magical reaction. Call it what you may—soul mates, kindred spirits, true love—they all pointed to the same logical conclusion. 

“For what reason then did you not drug us with Severus Snape’s concoction?”

He maintained hold of her as he slowly stood to his full height and moved around the counter so he had only to bend down to meet her lips with his own. He was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, he studied every curve of her face. The fine hairs of her brows, a shade darker than her thick mane. Golden flecks within the rich brown of her irises. Freckles faint against her milky skin. He knew extended sunshine brought them out to prominence. One day, he would kiss every single one. A stubborn chin and a defined jaw that challenged his own. A scar from Bellatrix’s cursed blade along her neck which would never disappear.

He already knew her face as well as his own. There wasn’t a single part of her that was not dear to him. Not the blood in her veins, no matter what others might say. Not the infamous temper that he adored. Not even those supposed moments of weakness when she emptied glass after glass with no one but her cats and tears for company.

“I would very much like to take you upstairs.”

He did not imagine her breath catching, nor the way her pupils grew larger at his words. They beckoned him forward, and he obeyed, lowering his head, inhaling deep, brushing past her high forehead and reddened cheeks. He hovered at the precipice, lips just above her own. 

“Please.” He wasn’t sure which one of them said it; it could just as easily have been either one of them.

What he was certain of was that it was not him that moved, but her–pressing upward to meet him, cushions moulding and nibbling and slotting into place. He couldn’t help but moan low in his throat at the sweetness, giving Hermione the window to slide her clever little tongue in and swipe along his inner lip in an indulgent caress before pulling back.

“Show me,” she said.

He didn’t need any further instruction. He helped her up to her feet and wrapped his free arm around so she tucked in beneath his chin. In a gentle twist, they disapparated.

1354 WC

Cross-posted on Tumblr, FB, and AO3.

Okay-okay, so, soulmate-esque. I’m a sucker for the trope, particularly between these two. Ohhhh, he tried to kill her? But she survived! It’s a sign! Now kiss and make up XD

I started out with him having drugged her pantry at home, but thought that was going too far. LOL. Yes, he has limits. He wants her to want him out of her own free will, because the alternative would be messy. He can do messy; he’s great at it, in fact. He just prefers not to whenever possible.

Part 3 has smut planned for it, if that was already obvious. I was always going to go there. It was as inevitable as these two.

[sailtomarina]

Exact Complements, Part 1

Part 1/4 for the DEG's Ostara Fest featuring four different prompts for each day of the celebration. Day 1 is Balance (Light/Dark, Warm/Cold, Night/Day, Sun/Moon, Fire/Water)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

cw: stalking, obsessed Antonin

He watched her through the window, the wooden slats disrupting the view into slices. Still, he’d never seen anyone more perfect, more worthy, more his. Hermione Granger. The girl he’d cursed was now a woman who’d not only survived, but had flourished. 

The day was still young with shadows clinging to the edges of the world in hopes for a little more time. Antonin could relate. He should have passed with the darkest era along with others like him, yet he held on. He survived. Just like her.

They were destined for one another; he just knew it. She was already marked as his, and she had been the only one to leave her mark on him. Nobody else would have dared, not after he’d killed his father. She’d reached into his mind and rearranged its contents as handily as sorting notes in a manuscript. Not even the Dark Lord had tried–there’d been nothing for him to find in Antonin’s mind worth notice; he’d made sure of it.

Knock knock.

The grin that spread across his face was not one many had seen save his soul brother, Thorfinn, and his dear Mama, rest her soul. It transformed a grim visage, erasing the years and showing him to be the mischievous wizard he could be. 

She’d found him.

Not that he’d expected any less of her. He’d left clues, here and there. First, a letter of intent. He wanted there to be no question in her mind about who sought her attention. He wondered what she’d done with it. Set it aflame? Delivered it as evidence to her Ministry dogs? Maybe she folded it neatly and placed it somewhere safe. The right-hand drawer of her rolltop desk, perhaps. 

Next, he’d left flowers of various types and meanings in the places she most frequented. She’d returned from the barista after making her order to find a sprig of honeysuckle, dew still clinging to the yellow blossoms, lying across her open book. A jog around the pond near her cottage and the bench she often used to rest gifted her a bundle of wild roses. Her nightly showers had her returning to bed, the flush of heat still on her breasts, only to find one yellow marguerite across her pillow.

No amount of warding could keep Antonin away. In fact, he viewed the escalating security a welcome challenge. Of course a formidable witch like she would demand only the best. He surmounted each and every one. He hoped she particularly liked the extra time he took to weave her wards back into place with only his blatant magical signature and the flower of the day to mark his passing.

They were exact complements of one another, he and she. Antonin knew she wanted him just as much as he did her; if she didn’t, why else would she continue living and moving around alone? She was as good as inviting his pursuit.

Now she’d turned the tables on him, locating his place of residence without any forewarning or visible precautions taken. She’d walked right up to his doorstep. 

It was his turn to test her.

Opening the door brought none of the wandplay he’d been ready to counter. She simply stood there, the rising sun streaming from behind her and painting a picture of holiness to which he nearly fell to his knees in worship. He only just managed to lock his knees and focus on her eyes, two heads lower than his own.

“Hello.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, nor ask why she was here. He wanted Hermione to know that she had been expected.

Up close like this, he could spot every freckle and count each lash. Her golden-brown eyes widened at his greeting. Good. She was surprised. 

“Antonin Dolohov?” His name came out in a whisper, followed shortly by a step back. She looked him up and down, disbelief apparent on her face and tension lining every muscle of her small frame.

Ah. So she hadn’t known it would be him.

He might have been disappointed had she turned and fled. He’d thought her aware of his identity when he’d first seen her. That she’d arrived under different pretences stung, just a little. But, she wasn’t fleeing, and she wasn’t attacking even though her hand wavered near her pocket.

“That is my name, yes.”

She snorted at the unaffected tone of acknowledgement. “I might have asked why you chose to live right next door, but I’m afraid I already know the answer.”

“Are you afraid?” he asked, honestly curious. She didn’t look afraid. She had none of the white around her eyes that victims usually wore, nor did she appear to be struggling to breathe. She looked wary, yes, but then again, he had been admittedly heavy handed in his contact. 

She stared at him, chewing her lip like she was undecided on how to answer him. He nearly let his mask slip. He wanted to be the one biting that lip. He would be the one to do that and more soon. She just didn’t know it yet.

“I know I should be. The letter, all the flowers…they’re creepy.” Her stance didn’t change as she awaited his response.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t offended. In any other situation with some other person he would have agreed with her. Only, they weren’t in those situations or different people. Every action he’d taken towards her felt right.

“If you’re not afraid, then what are you?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I like to gather as much knowledge as possible. I’m sure you can relate.” That one earned him a gleam in her eye and a faint upward twitch of her lips. 

“If I said I was intrigued, what would you do?”

He took a large step forward.

She stiffened, but remained in place.

He walked up to her, stopping only an arm’s length away, each step he took unhurried. He wasn’t worried that she’d run. He was confident he could counter any attack on her part, even without his wand in hand. 

“I would invite you inside and show you exactly why you’re correct to be intrigued, sladkaya.” 

He wondered if she was even aware of the way she licked her lips at his imaginings. Her eyes flickered across his face, then down his body, pausing and widening at the prominent display of his arousal. She jerked her eyes back up, rose tinting her cheeks.

His innocent little lion. She was just begging to be released from the cage built by her fame and golden reputation. She would probably give him the key if he asked nicely, but he was more inclined to batter the bars down and leave them bent and bruised, never to be used again.

He held one hand out, palm up, and raised a brow.

She took it.

1143 WC

Cross-posted on Tumblr, FB, & AO3

Flower meanings: honeysuckle/devotion, wild roses/pleasure and pain, yellow marguerite/I come soon

"Sladkaya" is a Russian term of endearment meaning "sweet"

I usually write a reformed Antonin with far more sweetness underneath that terrifying exterior, but decided to lean more into the side of him that built that reputation. He is supposed to be creepy. You should be slightly horrified. But, he's also kinda hot.