"I thought you said you were good at predicting the weather," she says. Her hands are on her hips. She's drenched to the bone, her hair is messier than usual, and she's looking at him with a fierce furrow to her brows.
Luke's as wet as she is, the rain dripping down the length of him. Where she's tried spell after spell to dry herself, even going as far as being a Muggle and wringing her clothes of the water, she only becomes wetter and wetter.
There's a joke in there, somewhere. But Luke's kind of grown up a little.
He doesn't bother shaking his arms to try and move the water sitting along his back. He doesn't wring his clothes, either. His shirt sticks to him, his converse shoes soaked right through to his socks. The little wings have since given up trying to flap the water off themselves.
Hermione seems bogged down by the weight of his jacket, but she refuses to give it back to him.
"I'm the son of Hermes, Hermione," he says with a grin. He steps under the shelter she's spelled into being. It's temporary. Whatever curse has chosen to follow him will remain until he does the right thing and follows the orders of some mage who will kill him if he complies.
If she heeds him, leaving him be to clean up his own mess, maybe she won't be so soaked.
"I predict the estimated time of arrival for a package, not a storm."
Hermione huffs. "I know you said that," she mumbles. Wrapping her arms around herself, she murmurs once more, but he knows she's not cursing him like Thalia would.
He looks out at the forest before them. The water sits upon the ground rather than sinking into the dirt. Looking back at her, his voice is slightly softer, but loud enough to be heard over the downpour of rain. "Are you cold?"
"No," she says, tilting her head a little higher. She shivers, though. Luke's always been a thief for detail.
He rolls his eyes and takes a step closer toward her. She watches him from the corner of her own, tilting her head up a little. He knows she's making it a point to ignore the chill of her soaked clothes.
"You're not freezing like I'm the weatherman," he shakes his head. Standing beside her, Luke reaches out to wrap his arm around her. She steps into him, stumbling just slightly. Her hands remain around herself, but he can feel her fingers pull at his wet shirt and pinch the fabric.
Rather than allow his other arm to hang uselessly, he lifts it to wrap it around her, pulling her into him.
She sniffs, "I thought you said you were better at predicting the estimated time of arrival for packages posted."
He shrugs. "I cheat."
"Is this your way to try and teleport me back to Caer Glaem where George and Martha will stop me from following you?"
He pauses for a moment. "No."
"Liar," she says. She rests her cheek against his chest, prompting him to look down. She's not looking up at him. "I'm warm now. And I think I'll be warmer if you let me stay close to you." She peers up at him then, a slight arch to her brow, "It wouldn't be right if the Thief in Glory stole the Brightest Witch's warmth."
Luke makes a show of rolling his eyes. "I'm a giver when it comes to you."
"And I'm a taker when it comes to you," she says, gripping the ends of his jacket's sleeves with a pride that would, otherwise, evaporate the little pools of water this downpour has started to create.
With her in his arms and leaning on him, Luke, for once, feels less bogged down.
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drop a ship ‣ luke + hermione
for rachel; luke + hermione & this