Bewitched by You (A Marvel/Harry Potter Crossover) COMPLETED

Chapter Eight: Wires Crossed

Oh, sweet blood and damnation! He'd overshot them!

Well, of course he had! Loki groused internally as he shook his head, spinning on his heel to start back in the opposite direction.

When he'd stepped from the next tear, consulting the orb showed him the line of trees and wild shrubbery that was behind him. The indication that he needed to do an about-face if he had any hope of encountering them had not put him in the most pleasant of moods, despite his own foreknowledge that this very thing might occur.

Surely, now that the universe had put him so very close to the tools he needed, little, irritating, hiccups such as this would pop up along the way.

He paused midstride, fighting a yawn. Now that he thought on it, aside from those few moments of respite he'd taken that morning—which was now so very many hours ago, as he trampled through the forest in the near-pitch of night—he'd been walking for a day and a half.

Was he possessed of his true strength, this would not be an issue. But now, still weakened as he was?

Loki didn't want to rest until this was over and the Witch was his, but he knew he'd only hinder his own plans if he continued on as he was.

Cursing whatever force in the universe had created the need for sleep, he imagined a bed for himself. Yes, yes, he was well aware it was illusory—that he would, in fact, be laying on the ground, his head pillowed on the pouch in the orb was hidden—but at least it would look comfortable, and that had to count for something.

Gritting his teeth, he once more shook his head as he placed himself into that false image of comfort. Loki closed his eyes and attempted to will sleep to overtake him for a blessed hour, or two.

If anyone ever made him go to so much trouble again, he'd murder them in their sleep—usefulness to him notwithstanding.

* * * * *

Hermione opened her eyes, aware of something warm and sturdy surrounding her. The feeling was comfortable . . . and safe.

She'd felt secure like this as she'd fallen asleep, hadn't she? She must've, or she wouldn't have been able to fall into such a deep slumber.

That was when she heard it—the sound of soft, snuffling breaths close to her ear.

Inhaling deeply, herself, she caught the pleasant, fresh scents of crisp linen and the men's deodorant they'd purchased earlier that day. Of course, knowing she was likely to be in close quarters with the man, she'd insisted on giving the products a test-sniff, to be certain it was a smell she could tolerate.

What she could not account for was that she recalled falling asleep sitting up . . . and that there had been a faint wash of illumination from her enchanted flames dancing in the fireplace. Now, she was on her side, and staring into darkness.

Then again, she thought—chiding herself over how waking up mid-sleep was fuzzing her brain—that was probably what the solid warmth beneath her cheek was all about. She shifted by increments, not wanting to disturb him, to find that she was not imagining his proximity.

Rather than simply setting her down and going back to his own room after she'd fallen asleep, he'd laid on the bed with her. Her head was tucked beneath his chin and pillowed on his shoulder, with her cheek pressed to his chest. His metal arm was curled over her, protectively, but blocking the tent's dim illumination from her eyes.

Her arms, were another matter . . . . One was around his waist, while the other was bent awkwardly between their bodies . . . and both her hands were gripped tight into the fabric of his shirt.