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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5048 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from anything in the Harry Potter universe -- stories, characters, settings, prior art.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
At (Surrendering to) 40
”In the end, our job is simple: surrender to nature. It’s sometimes best to get out of the way and let nature handle things. We can learn a great deal from observing it work its own kind of magic; there’s an ancient elemental wisdom there, one that often asks for only the smallest bit of assistance. Once that’s provided, we must humble ourselves to avoid sabotaging success. As concerned caretakers, we may not always see a clear course to follow, but that’s fine; nature will show us the path to recovery and renewal. Trust it to do so…” — The Bureaucrat’s Guide to the Rehabilitation and Re-establishment of Endangered Species page 499
On this Mabon, one unguarded kiss saw them enshrouded in living vapor…
They were disrobed.
They were disarmed.
They were enraptured…
Sandalwood gave away the presence of magic surrounding them for its own purposes. Mabon brought harvests of plenty to tide over the winter and shepherd in the rebirth that was Imbolc.
Hermione’s thoughts dissipated, diffused with the characteristic scent she defined as “Draco” — his overly expensive Parisian soap and shampoo were saturated with sandalwood oil. This dominant note was chased by the aromatics of cedar and hawthorn. Every inch of his aristocratic wardrobe absorbed the woodsy petrichor of cedar — one of the nine sacred woods of the Druids — as natural protection against cloth-consuming pests.
She’d never noticed hawthorn as a distinctive fragrance until their time at uni. His wand gave off the seductive musk of sex whenever she’d handled it, sending shivers of sensation straight to her center. She’d always needed time alone, after touching his wand, to touch herself and relieve the need it impelled.
The Mist, encircling her ankles and climbing her body like a leotard, jump-started her eagerness (as if any further stimulus was needed). Draco, far more adept at letting desire overtake him, let the Mist rocket him towards readiness. He’d been without physical pleasure since before his children left for Hogwarts as first-years, unwilling to disappoint his chronically ill wife by violating their vows.
Now, at the junction of his long and muscled legs, proudly stood the source of his reputation in the dorms of Hogwarts — a magnificent instrument of sublime pleasure, capable of rendering the girls of his house insensate with no control over they're own bodies. Dripping with desire for her, his knob emerged from the narrowing foreskin around it; a healthy blush colored it as it stiffened from Hermione’s scent, her presence in his life.

“Is é ár n-am, ár, leonacht. [It’s our season, Lioness.]”

She understood (despite lacking a working understanding of ancient Gaelic, the mother tongue of the Druids).

“You’re wet,” she teased about the veritable stream of seed running down his length. “Not supposed to start without me.”

Draco wound himself around her as their clothes fissured away into ribbons, reforming themselves neatly on the hamper in the ensuite. Now naked, he pulled Hermione closer — pinning her stiffened nipples against his chest and his raging erection against her soft belly where it wept in want of her. Held tightly by one arm around her waist, Hermione moaned at his gentle massage of her scalp while he kissed her wantonly, mimicking the moves they’d shortly be making with more sensitive parts of their bodies.

“Circe! You’re hard all over,” she panted at the feel of living steel, carved from flesh and rippling against her. Taut muscle sprouting downy hairs tightened her tender tits.

Taking the lead (a chauvinist habit she always meant to mention to him but never remembered once foreplay scrambled her thoughts), Draco ravaged her, letting his tongue stroke her mouth like a cock. More and more of her weight leant into him — a sure sign she was surrendering to his skills. Thus she didn’t notice when his hand left her waist to make it’s way between them, parting the folds covering her most secret bud and lazily spreading the nectar she’d made for him. His talented fingers slid easily over the tender flesh, spreading good feelings in rhythms synchronized with his rubbing.

“Éileamh mé ortsa, cailleach. [I claim you, witch.]”

Hermione canted just a bit away from her lover, making room for a tactile investigation of his member. The bittersweet memory of their first Imbolc — of when he was hers, if only from dusk to dawn — seared the feel of him deep within her flesh and heart.
Poor Ron never stood a chance; long before their “Rose” encounter, she’d given everything she was to a man fully versed in the indelible deflowering of a willing virgin — on a Druid holy day consecrated for making. Four precious pairings during uni, blessed by the woodland deities, ruined her for any other.
Her penance finally paid, Draco was hers to claim.
With room to maneuver, she laid her palm firmly around the head of him and spread the copious fluid she found there — massaging along the contours of the cap, around it and down his shaft as far as her arm could reach.
His moan — so deep and resonant that the foundation stones of his ancestral home hummed in harmony — made it worth her effort. Her small hands set the entirety of his skin ablaze, every inch as sensitive as the organ she titillated.
It had been years since either had given or taken pleasure of this sort…

“Banphrionsa, an fómhar deireanach atá agam… [Princess, my sweet harvest…]”

Despite earnest efforts from both, neither could move from arousal to ecstasy by foreplay alone.

“Wanna come, baby…”

On this night, much like another in their shared past, Druid magic set the tempo for what would be a consequential coupling.The agenda for their sacrifice had been preordained by the first practitioners of the faith, who lived in the days when the world was young and humans were one with the natural world.
What could be more natural than the coming together to reap Earth’s bounty?.

“Mmmmm… my favorite harvesting tool,” came complementary to her stroking.

Draco wanted to bed her, but the combination of her hand on his cock and the magic in the Mist shut down his volition.

“An t-am chun tú féin, mo mhaité [Time to knot you, mate],” he growled, suffering with the effort to come.

The same insistent thought rampaged through Hermione’s head as well, becoming a clarion call as her legs trembled and her knees jellied from the pressure to climax.

“Bed,” she bossed. “Legs aren’t working…”

It became quite apparent neither was truly in control on this holy feast day.
Mist lowered them to the carpet — now richly dense and soft as feathers — to place them where gratitude would be manifest: Hermione underneath with Draco above her, his weight cushioned by his arms and the thick pile beneath. Mystical fire replaced the natural flames, to give light — but not heat — to their offering to the goddess of sustenance and preservation; they would heat this sanctuary with skin, sweat and straining.
Her back curved upward to assist his reach as he suckled, partaking of all the gods made available to him in the woman he’d hated then loved then coveted — and now belonged to. Thank-yous randomly drifted through his sexually-consumed brain, aimed at the omnipresent deities responsible for his ecstatic joy. Hermione’s nipples, large from childbearing and nursing, flushed deep siena in this light and pebbled from his attentions. Laving each tiny bump evoked the soliloquy of “Dragon-Dragon-Dragon..”, urging him to continue and praising his prowess.

“Tá coinin daingean, milis agat, leomh. Ná bí ag súil go bhfaighidh mo bodán Sleabhac arís [Your cunny’s tight and sweet, Lioness. My cock will never get soft again].”

Her hands returned to his hair, his nape and his chest. She well remembered that his sensitive nipples were wired straight to his cock. She’d teasingly tweaked one during a late night study session in their uni flat and he’d spent in his trousers.

“Feeling empty, Dragon. Where’s my birthday present?”

Her touches were meant to move him to the main event; she had no desire to arrive at bliss before him. Not tonight.

“Ag dul go dúid tú — crua, Cailleach ghránna. [Gonna fuck you hard for that. Smart-arsed witch].

The ample head of him — bulbous and claret-tinged in its engorgement — replaced his fingers on her flower. Gratitude demanded sharing of what was theirs to gift to each other.
Silently she pleaded, through tears laced with desire, to deliver her gift to the Mabon deities. She couldn’t get more beautiful in his eyes — wanton and lovely and his after long years of yearning. Faith — that their joining would seal her to him, bind her as his partner — jerked Draco’s hips forward to make them one.
His baculum, the Druid-inherited cock bone that prevented his leaving her sheath entirely until ejaculation, pressed the ridge of his knob against the sensitive ridges of her own erogenous area. It had only ever truly worked with this witch.
The carpet beneath them transformed again, raising gentle slopes to support her hips. She rocked upward with his downward strokes, meeting him midway. In this way he buried himself within her, scraping every inch of her inner walls as she squeezed every inch of him from head to root.
They were a machine, moving with uncanny gracefulness to a climax that would appease the demanding gods and goddess of the season. Minutes became hours as their offering approached in the fullness of their efforts. Where Imbolc begat the season of the rebirth, Mabon begat the season prolific harvest.
What had been torrents of delight-giving fluids from each merged into a single life-giving liquid — his teeming with base elements targeting her contribution to the next season, hers sweet with nutrients to sustain his contribution through the arduous journey to triumph.
Their simultaneous release saw them lifted by the Mist to provide maximum penetration and assured sustenance through the coming winter of chill winds and hidden life.
The Druid blood coursing through Draco’s exhausted body honored his Makers with the Druid blood his mate would nurture, as she’d done once before… many, many seasons ago…

Magic met the morning… and the universe continued its advancement towards “normal”…
- 9
- 10
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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species