Notes: Written for the Connect the Characters challenge.
Pairing: Hermione/Barty Crouch Jr.
Warning: underage, non-consent, magical coercion.
She doesn't mean to disturb him. It's just that it's nearly curfew and she's got a very pressing question about the Unforgivables that Professor Moody didn't cover in class. So it's with trembling legs and shaky hands that Hermione Granger goes into the DADA office, knocking on the door that leads into the professor's quarters.
"Professor?" she calls, knocking on the door again. To her surprise, it swings partway open, on very creaky hinges. Lamplight spills into the deserted office, flickering and golden, and Hermione cranes her head around the edge of the door, squeaking in shock.
Professor Moody isn't there. Instead, a very tall, lanky man with floppy dark hair and a very sour expression stands there, looking down at a flask on the table and muttering under his breath. He looks vaguely familiar, but Hermione can't place him.
The squeak she makes startles him, and he whirls around, wand in hand. With a flick, Hermione is dragged forward, the door summarily closed and locked behind her.
"W-who are you?" she stammers, her mouth going dry.
"The question is, my darling child, who knows that you're here?" the man asks. His tongue darts out and slathers his bottom lip.
"N-no one," she admits and immediately wishes she hasn't.
"No one?" the man looks delighted. "Well, then. Doesn't that sweeten the pot. You're Miss Granger, aren't you? Hermione Granger?"
"Yes," she whispers, confused. "How-how do you know my name?"
"Oh, yes, you wouldn't recognise me like this, would you," the man says with a smirk. He waves his hand at the corner of his bed, indicating a very rough-looking wooden leg and a magical eye rolling around the covers. "Now do you?"
"Pro-professor Moody?" Hermione's mouth gapes open. "But you-you..."
"Not quite, but good guess," the man smirks. "Allow me to introduce myself. Bartemius Crouch, Junior, at your service." He makes an eloquent bow. "You can call me Barty."
"You-but you're dead," Hermione whispers, feeling like she's just been pole-axed. "You died in Azkaban, you..." She can't move. She wants to, but she can't move. Her skin is hot and prickly, and there's a buzzing sound echoing in her ears.
"Not quite," Barty grins. "That was my dear mother. Polyjuiced to look like me, actually. Polyjuice is a wonderful Potion, don't you know. Shame one has to drink it every few hours." He scrunches his nose and eyes the flask on the table with distaste.
"But the Headmaster-" Hermione blurts out. Barty laughs.
"Him? He sees only what he wants to see," Barty sneers. "What a blind spot he has, particularly when it comes to dear Harry Potter..."
"Don't talk about him!" Hermione says, angry, trying to struggle against her invisible bonds.
"Darling?" Barty says sweetly, leaning in close to the Gryffindor fourth-year. "Be a dear and shut up, would you? Although first, tell me one thing-why were you looking for Professor Moody?"
"I wanted to ask him something," Hermione replies, almost haughtily. "About the-the Unforgivables," she falters, suddenly remembering she's talking to an escaped Death Eater, presumed dead.
"Oh?" Barty's interest is piqued as he prowls closer. "What about them?"
"If they can be self-cast," Hermione nearly whispers.
"Oh, that is a good question, good question, indeed," Barty giggles. "I presume you mean for the purposes of self-motivation, suicide, and other things of that ilk?" Hermione nods, flushing crimson.
"Well, I don't know about that," Barty muses. "But I do know that I can certainly cast them. On, say, you."
"You wouldn't!" Hermione gasps. "The Headmaster would find out-you'd be given to the dementors-"
"You seem to have a very high opinion of your illustrious headmaster," Barty observes. "I wasn't going to kill you, silly girl. No, no. Just...this." He flicks his wand at her in a lazy spiral. "Imperio!"
Despite knowing that she should be terrified, she should be fighting, Hermione feels immense lassitude spread through her limbs. Her mind empties itself, perfectly blank, and she looks at the Moody imposter with glazed brown eyes.
"You're a pretty girl, aren't you?" Barty whispers aloud, one finger reaching out and stroking along her chin. Somewhere inside, Hermione hisses and hexes him. Outwardly, she does nothing but blink. Her eyelashes flutter a bit as his finger moves downward, trailing along the delicate line of her throat and across her collarbone.
Get down on your knees, a voice orders in her mind, and she knows it's Barty's voice, but she is helpless to stop herself. Her knees creak as she lowers herself down, kneeling clumsily on her robes.
"You know what to do, don't you, Hermione?" Barty smiles, as his voice propels her inside. Before she's quite realised what she's doing, she's unbuttoned his trousers and taken him out, her mouth already going to sloppy work.
She is vastly inexperienced-he can tell that just from the choking sounds and the unwieldy way her tongue slides across his skin. But it's quite exciting, more exciting than he thought possible from a fourth-year, and it isn't long before he's panting, gripping her hair in both hands as he empties himself into her mouth, with a silent command to swallow. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she's perfectly pliant beneath his mental grip.
"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks, more than a bit patronising as he straightens and buttons up his trousers once more. "You're quite accomplished at that, Miss Granger. I'd give you points, were it not for the time." A dark red blush spreads over her cheeks and he watches the phenomenon with fascination.
"Now, my darling," he tugs her to her feet, brushing aside a stray drop of his come from her bottom lip and straightening her robes. "You will forget all of this. All you will know is that tomorrow night, you must come to this office no later than twenty past ten. You will make your excuses if you have to and say you have a question. You will come alone. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Hermione whispers, still blank, her mind still wreathed with the Imperius curse. Barty admires its effect on her for a moment more before turning to the damnable flask on his table-top and downing its contents. In a few minutes, he is the grizzled Professor Moody once more.
"Miss Granger?" he barks out. She blinks at him in confusion, and he smiles, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. "Obliviate!"