A/N: This is a short scene of Sigurd as a young adult Viking where he dreams of Hermione.

Dreaming of You

Sigurd sat on his bed, a pile of furs on a pallet. It was where he slept since boyhood and it was anything but glamorous. It had been an exciting day. Today's vision showed that Hermione had been petrified and Ron and Harry went into the Chamber of Secrets with that useless professor. At the end, the basilisk and Tom Riddle had been defeated, leaving Potter to once again reign victorious. He even freed a house elf just to thumb his nose at his adversary, which coincidentally happened to be his great- great- whatever- grandson. The ingrate.

He pulled off his boots and let them drop heavily to the floor. He loved the days where the antics of the Hogwarts three came to him. They lived in a time and a world that he could only dream of. The leaps and bounds that magic would make in the thousand years that separated them astounded him. Once again, he longed to belong to that world.

He could even remember the year he turned eleven. Even knowing that Hogwarts didn't yet exist and that he didn't live in Britain, he still hoped for his letter. It took him two weeks to pull himself out of that depression. His mother was unintentionally cruel that year, telling him stories of the Hogwarts three in their first year.

Sigurd stood and pulled the leather laces out of his shirt, allowing the panels to gape over his white undershirt. With a grimace, he reached behind his head and pulled off both shirts, dropping them to the floor, allowing the cool air to caress his naked torso. His muscles rippled as he reached for the laces of his trousers.

A knock sounded on his door and his mother's voice floated through.

"Sigurd, Freyja has gone into labor. I am heading over there with the rest of the women. I will not be back tonight and you will have to make your own breakfast."

"Alright, Blessings for a healthy babe,"

"I will pass it on. Good night, Sigurd."

"Good night, Mother."

He heard the outer door latch as it was closed and smiled, sitting back on his bed, pushing his trousers down to the floor. It was rare that he would get the house to himself and he basked in the silence. He knew that many people couldn't stand the loneliness, the white noise, but he always reveled in it. His dreams were always so much more vivid and alive when there was complete silence.

Picking up the comb on his bedside, he began to untangle his hair meticulously. Unraveling all of the braids, he settled into the long arduous process until it shone with health. Gathering the long blond locks, he quickly braided the whole until it laid down his back in a single plait.

Naked, he pulled the furs down and slid into bed. With a flick of his fingers, the candle at his bedside was doused and he raised his arms under the back of his head. Behind his eyelids, he could feel the pull of a vision.

The first thing he noticed was that he was older. Probably in his mid-thirties making him only fifteen or so years older than he was now. The room around him was dark, hung with heavy velvets and dark wood furniture. The large mahogany bed took up most of the room and the naked feminine body lying in the center drew his eyes and captured them.

It was Hermione but she was no longer a child. His eyes roved her form taking special note of her long legs, wide hips, small waist, and pert breasts. Her wild hair was spread out on the comforter and her large brown eyes were wide and expressive. She raised her hand to him, beckoning, smiling at him as if he knew the answers to all the world mysteries. His stomach clenched and he couldn't stop his erection even if he tried. Not that he wanted to.

"Come here," she whispered huskily. He was powerless against her summoning and before he knew it, he was walking towards the bed, just as naked as she was.

"Elskede," He murmured lovingly. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he took her small foot in hand and raised her toes to his mouth. Running the side of his stubbled face against her arch made her moan and he did it again realizing that he could quickly get addicted to the noises she made.

Goosebumps rose on her skin as he kissed his way up her calf to the back of her knee. He put her leg over his shoulder and the new position gave him a glorious view of her glistening slit. She was mostly bare, only a small thin line of hair graced her mons.

He paid attention to the back of her knee, licking slowly and languorously, ripping her growing moans from her willing throat. The inside of her thighs was milky white, smooth, and begging for his tongue. How could he possibly deny them their rightful due?

His tongue left a wet trail from her knee to her center and it made her shiver.

"Oh," Hermione gasped, throwing her head back.

Dropping small dissatisfying kisses against her labia, he smirked as she brought her hands up to thread her fingers into his hair, burrowing them deep and clenching his hair in her fists. Sigurd avoided her engorged clit despite the painful tugging that tried to direct him to that most sensitive of spots.

"Patience, Love." He murmured. Wanting her to be so ready, so wanton, that her brain stopped analyzing and she only felt. He wanted her to feel the way he had for a thousand years. The difference was that he had every intention of giving her everything that she wanted but she was not going to leave his bed until he had showered her with ecstasy.

His tongue glided over her slit, the tip of his tongue grazing her nub. She jumped and gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. Putting her out of her misery, he sucked her into his mouth, enjoying the moans of pleasure. He slid two of his fingers into her warm channel, marveling at the sucking muscles inside of her. Never, had he wanted anyone as much as he wanted Hermione! For a moment, he closed his eyes, searching for the image that would dampen some of his excitement in a bid to last longer than a handful of thrusts like an untried boy.

His tongue swirled around her clit and she came around his fingers. He nearly came undone then, but the image of the elder women of his village bathing immediately gave him the dampening that he needed.

Leaving her quaking thighs, he kissed up her soft body. Covering first one nipple with his lips than the other, he gave homage to her breasts. Pink nipples were pebbled tightly against his tongue and he sucked them, imagining them for a moment heavy and full of milk, her body rounded with the quickening of his seed.

Whatever longevity he earned by imagining the women of his village was promptly lost as he imagined her round with his child.

Settling into the cradle of her hips, her hands ran up and down his back, tracing the sinuous muscles that moved beneath her fingers. His lips found her neck and he attacked that spot where her shoulders and neck met, her intoxicating smell surrounding him, forcing him to suck the skin. He was so hard it was painful and her slick folds massaged him, driving him crazy.

He pulled back, taking himself in hand and lined himself up to her core. Slowly he pushed into her and watched her flushed face go from gratification to acute need. Desire and love flooded him. He couldn't imagine himself being happy with anyone else. It had to be her.

He kept his pace slow and maddening, wanting to stay in this moment forever. Reaching between them, he found her clit and rubbed.

"Ahhh," Hermione panted and her nails dug into his back. Sweat glistened on their bodies.

He snapped his hips faster, watching as her face took on a desperate quality. He knew it wouldn't be much longer for him but he was determined to give her another orgasm first. It was with relief when her inner muscles constricted around him. She was glorious when she climaxed. Her mouth opened, her eyes closed, and her hands clutched him in a death grip. He could spend his life watching her like this.

His bollocks tightened and raised and he knew he was seconds from exploding. He thrust a final time and stilled, groaning as he filled her with his essence, only moving shallowly as he continued shooting deep inside of her.

Leaning down he captured her lips with his own, pouring all of his longing, love, and need into it. His tongue speared past her lips and caressed her tongue, exploring the cavernous depths of her mouth. She tasted like mint and something distinctly her.

Sigurd woke with a start, his stomach was cold where he had orgasmed on himself and his furs in his sleep. He grimaced at the mess but marveled at the vision he had of himself with Hermione. The girl- no, woman- that he had been prophesizing for the last several years. He rubbed his hands over his face and felt lonelier than ever before. How was it even remotely possible that that would come to pass? A thousand years and a continent separated them.

After another moment, he stood and walked quickly to the water basin that sat on a small table at the edge of the room. The rough cloth was dipped in the frigid water and used to cleanse his essence off of his skin. He had no idea how he was going to explain the furs to his mother. Even if he tried to wash it himself, he knew his mother would know. She always knew. Hopefully, she would keep her thoughts to herself.

As he washed, bits and pieces of the vision pushed to the front of his mind. The way she smelled. The way she tasted. Sigurd groaned as he began to grow firm despite the cold cloth he used to clean himself. There had to be a way to transcend the thousand years between them.

His mother had always taught him that prophecies and the future were like roots. It was a long and complex route with so many bits and pieces interwoven, so many choices that had to be made in the proper order. Many prophecies were useless because of roads not taken, choices not made. But there was always the possibility. He would not have the vision at all if it could not happen. And that glimmer of possibility festered within him, became his obsession. He would find a way to her, his Hermione.