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rillaliciousLJ, what is wrong with you today? There are all these good things to read on my flist and it won't load properly. *sob*
Eh, that's okay. I need to get some work done anyway. But if it's not working later, I'll be distraught.
Anyway, a couple of days ago, it was![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thistle_verse's birthday, and I offered her a birthday drabble, and she requested "Hermione/someone she shouldn't be seeing". Well, because my brain is consumed with crossovers, and I apparently don't do anything as a drabble anymore, here is the result. Enjoy! I love you, B!!! ♥
Crossover: HP/Inkheart
Characters: Hermione Granger/Dustfinger
Word Count: ~800
Rating: G
A/N: Thanksellensmithee for the beta. I picked this pairing because, well, Hermione loves books, and I can't imagine reading these books and not walking away with at least a little bit of a crush on Dustfinger. He just might be my very favorite character in all of children's literature.
It isn't right, she thinks, standing here at dusk, cloaked in the shadows yielded by the overgrown fir trees at the edge of the forest. She shouldn't be here, she knows. She, a married woman and he, whose heart is bound so consummately to another. But she has to see him with her own eyes, hear his footsteps on the dried needles carpeting the forest floor, watch him stand before her in the round, not as text on the surface of a page, but as a man of flesh and blood and fire.
If he answers her summons at all.
She feels inside her cloak for the book she's stashed away there, the book that may ensure his appearance tonight. From the moment she heard of him, first as rumor, then as unassailable truth, she knew that it must be she who presses its worn cover into his hands. He will get the one thing he wants most dearly, but she will afford herself this single selfishness first. She has to see the man who stepped out of the book, who has become real in the world that was always real for her, who was born of the words she read a thousand times over as a child.
The dark blanket of night is closing in when she hears him.
She steps out of her shelter and he stops, stone still.
"You're the one who sent for me," he says.
"I am."
"And you have it?"
"I do." She pulls the book from its hiding place. "Here."
He hesitates, watches her outstretched hands. She can see the longing on his face as he takes in the cover of the book.
"I intend to give it to you," she says. "This isn't a trick."
His gaze roams along the forest's edge, searching every dark space between the trees. She clutches the chance to watch him now, to study his face, to compare every last detail with the text she knows by heart. The scars are barely noticeable in the moonlight, his red hair falling over one eye, the color so familiar to her that it makes her smile.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I--Oh. No reason. This is the book. And I'm here alone. I promise. I want you to have it."
She steps closer. He looks curious now, intrigued. She steps closer again.
He places one hand on the cover.
"How long have you been searching?" she asks.
"Ten years." His voice is hoarse, fingertips glossing over the embossed title.
She lets her thumb slide up onto the cover, a slight shift in position, but just enough that he'll graze it with the tip of his index finger. She shivers at the contact. His eyes are on her now.
"How did you find me?" he says.
"Luna."
"The horrible blonde woman?"
"She's not horrible," she says, tartly. "She's eccentric."
"She wanted to publish my picture. For this whole world to see!"
"She only thought it would help," she says. "She doesn't know you."
"And you do?"
"Well, yes," she says. "A little bit. I know you from this." She pushes it into his hands, her own hands sliding beneath his, the curve of her knuckles fitting into the crook of his fingers.
"I am more than words on a page. What that old man wrote does not define me."
"Of course not," she says. "You're real. Flesh and blood. You can define yourself." But she feels the heat rising in her cheeks, because she has only now come to this conclusion.
Now, with his hands, the same hands that can train and tame fire, curled around hers, he is so very, dangerously real. She licks her lips, pulls away, leaving the book fully in his possession.
"Thank you," he says. "For your words, and for this."
"Have you found him then?" she asks. "Your Silvertongue?"
"You know about Silvertongue?"
"I'm very thorough in my research."
He smiles here, a fleeting expression that deepens those scars and dances like flame in his eyes.
"Yes, I've found him. Again, I thank you." He inclines his head, turns away to leave.
"If you need any help," she offers, though she knows she should not.
He pauses, facing away from her, and straightens. The flap of the bag slung over his shoulder twitches, and she imagines the marten is beneath.
"If I need any help, Hermione Granger," he turns his head, appraising her from over his shoulder, "I'll send for you."
And then, silently, he is gone. She inhales, a slow, steadying breath, then tucks her hands in her cloak and whisks around to the path that leads back to town.
Eh, that's okay. I need to get some work done anyway. But if it's not working later, I'll be distraught.
Anyway, a couple of days ago, it was
thistle_verse's birthday, and I offered her a birthday drabble, and she requested "Hermione/someone she shouldn't be seeing". Well, because my brain is consumed with crossovers, and I apparently don't do anything as a drabble anymore, here is the result. Enjoy! I love you, B!!! ♥Crossover: HP/Inkheart
Characters: Hermione Granger/Dustfinger
Word Count: ~800
Rating: G
A/N: Thanks
ellensmithee for the beta. I picked this pairing because, well, Hermione loves books, and I can't imagine reading these books and not walking away with at least a little bit of a crush on Dustfinger. He just might be my very favorite character in all of children's literature.It isn't right, she thinks, standing here at dusk, cloaked in the shadows yielded by the overgrown fir trees at the edge of the forest. She shouldn't be here, she knows. She, a married woman and he, whose heart is bound so consummately to another. But she has to see him with her own eyes, hear his footsteps on the dried needles carpeting the forest floor, watch him stand before her in the round, not as text on the surface of a page, but as a man of flesh and blood and fire.
If he answers her summons at all.
She feels inside her cloak for the book she's stashed away there, the book that may ensure his appearance tonight. From the moment she heard of him, first as rumor, then as unassailable truth, she knew that it must be she who presses its worn cover into his hands. He will get the one thing he wants most dearly, but she will afford herself this single selfishness first. She has to see the man who stepped out of the book, who has become real in the world that was always real for her, who was born of the words she read a thousand times over as a child.
The dark blanket of night is closing in when she hears him.
She steps out of her shelter and he stops, stone still.
"You're the one who sent for me," he says.
"I am."
"And you have it?"
"I do." She pulls the book from its hiding place. "Here."
He hesitates, watches her outstretched hands. She can see the longing on his face as he takes in the cover of the book.
"I intend to give it to you," she says. "This isn't a trick."
His gaze roams along the forest's edge, searching every dark space between the trees. She clutches the chance to watch him now, to study his face, to compare every last detail with the text she knows by heart. The scars are barely noticeable in the moonlight, his red hair falling over one eye, the color so familiar to her that it makes her smile.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I--Oh. No reason. This is the book. And I'm here alone. I promise. I want you to have it."
She steps closer. He looks curious now, intrigued. She steps closer again.
He places one hand on the cover.
"How long have you been searching?" she asks.
"Ten years." His voice is hoarse, fingertips glossing over the embossed title.
She lets her thumb slide up onto the cover, a slight shift in position, but just enough that he'll graze it with the tip of his index finger. She shivers at the contact. His eyes are on her now.
"How did you find me?" he says.
"Luna."
"The horrible blonde woman?"
"She's not horrible," she says, tartly. "She's eccentric."
"She wanted to publish my picture. For this whole world to see!"
"She only thought it would help," she says. "She doesn't know you."
"And you do?"
"Well, yes," she says. "A little bit. I know you from this." She pushes it into his hands, her own hands sliding beneath his, the curve of her knuckles fitting into the crook of his fingers.
"I am more than words on a page. What that old man wrote does not define me."
"Of course not," she says. "You're real. Flesh and blood. You can define yourself." But she feels the heat rising in her cheeks, because she has only now come to this conclusion.
Now, with his hands, the same hands that can train and tame fire, curled around hers, he is so very, dangerously real. She licks her lips, pulls away, leaving the book fully in his possession.
"Thank you," he says. "For your words, and for this."
"Have you found him then?" she asks. "Your Silvertongue?"
"You know about Silvertongue?"
"I'm very thorough in my research."
He smiles here, a fleeting expression that deepens those scars and dances like flame in his eyes.
"Yes, I've found him. Again, I thank you." He inclines his head, turns away to leave.
"If you need any help," she offers, though she knows she should not.
He pauses, facing away from her, and straightens. The flap of the bag slung over his shoulder twitches, and she imagines the marten is beneath.
"If I need any help, Hermione Granger," he turns his head, appraising her from over his shoulder, "I'll send for you."
And then, silently, he is gone. She inhales, a slow, steadying breath, then tucks her hands in her cloak and whisks around to the path that leads back to town.
