A/N: This short story is loosely based from the song "Mistakes Like This" by Prelow. It has explicit content and writing, so you have been warned.
Summary: If you've read my short story Neptune, I've decided to make another story, this time a short one about Isobel. Now this isn't a happy story. Well, not completely. A war is coming and a school, once free, is being taken over by a sadistic tyrant in pink after all.
This story is about a girl, Isobel MacDougal, a young Gryffindor who is just trying to find her way, and in the process, found herself in the arms of a boy. She found herself wrapped in these arms many nights and behind closed doors. But he was a troubled boy, one whom things never seemed to go right around and he attracted quite a bit of trouble. They were just two students trying to survive in a capitalist land where sometimes things aren't what they seem.
"Sometimes things aren't what they appear."
Isobel didn't know to what extent this reached but soon she will learn. She will learn that hard lesson in the arms of another who owned her all. She, in the mist of trying to pass classes, with school drama, a war on the rise, and trying to keep her own relationships afloat, Isobel will learn this at an ultimate price.
[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]
She gasped loudly, her back arching on its on accord, and her lips parting in a breathless, silent cry. Her hands found his chest and pushed against it, her back going limp and her body begins falling backwards, lost in the pleasure and his large hands were there to catch her, wrapping around her thin waist to hold her steady.
Bodies are trembling and pants filled the room, as did the heat from them being so close and so intimate.
Her long hair was raunchy and tumbled behind her. He had said he liked her hair, once. Sometimes he would run his hands through it; said her long waves and curls smelled of a sweet scent, something that he couldn't put his finger on, a smell almost like flowers. Earlier, he had tangled it around his fingers and yanked her head back, and she had moaned about it. She moaned loudly. He liked that shit.
Her hair fell behind them, a mess of bushy waves and curls splaying behind her back and over her bosom before he brushed it aside from her right mound to grabbed it for himself.
Her lip would catch between her teeth as his found the pulse on her throat and he would search for that special point that made her lips tremble and unholy noises come from her.
He was venomous; he was like poison to her, like as something that she knew would come back around and destroy her in the end. But it was moments like these that she didn't think of it; neither cared much for the addiction both caused each other. Right now, everything else would wait.
It was in moments like these where it was just them, that they were all this is, was, and will be. It was in these moments they relished in the pleasure they produced together even for a few hours to have her arms around his shoulders as he kissed—no, made those feelings go away, even just for a limited time.
Now, she could feel him all over her and could guess that there would be another hickie when he finished, and she wasn't surprised in the slightest.
She squirmed against him at feeling his tongue slide up her neck and a thought came to her that he seemed more urgent and hasty this time, his motions more rough and hands grabbed like she would slip away. She didn't protest.
And he liked leaving her hickies. His mouth was always merciless that way.
Her fingers found his shoulders and nails bit down harshly. Her other hand sliding down his chest as she felt his tongue slide across her jugular and over a bruise he had made earlier in their session. His breath was hot and feeling it splay across her bare skin made her stomach twist happily. A small noise escaped her throat as he gave a small buck of his hips and she moaned between tight lips.
Her plump lips opened to form a wide O-shape at feeling his mouth everywhere, and when his hand traveled to the small of her back, pushing them closer, she just about lost it.
It was in moments like these that made her want to shout and cry out in ecstasy. And he saw this coming, and wrapped a hand around her mouth to keep her quiet. He watched as her eyes squeeze shut as she let out a loud, yet luckily muffled mewl as she squirmed above him.
He glanced down for a moment to where they were still connected, feeling her muscles begin to tremble.
His hips rolled and she whimpered. She caught his hand sliding to her stomach and the quick look that passed his face as he bit his lip when they moved together.
And when he turned his eyes up at her, bright and marvelous as sparkling jade gems that boring into her, she found she couldn't hold his stare—she never could. And as she turned away, a bit shy now of all moments, something inside her made her toes curl and her breath hitches. His mouth attacks under her ear and she feels her stomach clench in that familiar giddy as he starts yet another hickie. His teeth graze her skin as his hot breath hits her ear and he groans.
She tries not to let out her nervous giggle right now as his hands slid across her body.
She watches the muscles of his abdomen stretch under her hand, a knuckle of her other finding her mouth and from her full lips his name flows like a mantra.
At one moment, their faces come together, so close that noses were touching and lips were already opened at ready. But they did nothing; they didn't touch. That was the one rule she had made: that they could look, they could touch, but kissing was a no. It was off limits.
Kissing was too intimate.
. . . .
That next morning, she had to be woken up to someone shaking her shoulder. Her roommates gathering the last of their supplies for class and calls of "you're gonna be late, Isobel," and "took you long enough to wake up" being reminders that the weekend was now over. She had merely looked toward them and then turned back over in bed. The sun was bright and blinded her when she sat up.
"What're you smiling at so early this morning?! You have Potions this morning, remember?!" one of the girls said to her, a girl with shoulder-lengthed straight black hair with the name Melanie.
Isobel wasn't smiling, just smirking slightly, hugging her pillow, still wrapped in her comforter.
Though she had a slight ache, she felt all she needed was a good stretch of her muscles before beginning the day. She thought it best to do so after they all left the room after seeing she was bare under the covers.
Isobel waited until all the girls rushed out their shared bedroom and it was once again empty before she sat up in bed. The sunlight was dancing around the room and warmed her bare skin. She wasn't surprised to awake alone, not in the slightest. They've done this enough times for it to be expected, routine.
She stretched and there was a slight throbbing, an empty feeling between her legs. She didn't much care if she was late for class today, she thought as she rubbed her eyes and yawned. She was too tired to think about stuff like that anyways. She had had her release, her "little fix," as she liked to call it. She was relaxed and stress free and couldn't give a care in the world right now this early in the morning.
. . . .
The halls of Hogwarts were emptying out by now, and she turned the corner towards the dungeon, adjusting her books under her arms. She caught sight of a few robes hurrying past in the direction the classroom and she quickened her pace. She focused on keeping her head clear for class—she had to focus this time.
When she had hung her feet over the edge of her bed that morning, feeling her hair fall behind her and thought it would no doubtly be a mess and the reason that she would be late.
She had looked down at herself—light red markings could be seen on her tan skin that collected around her thighs. Marks of his presence. Like a ghost these moments were, gone without a trace and any evidence except for a slight aching and a memory.
She had almost fell when she first stood from bed that morning, knees buckling for a second.
There were a few who were rushing inside the dungeon classroom now. It was a group of tall boys and they looked quite familiar.
Isobel unintentionally paused before opening the door. Remembering the look she was given by Snape last time when she came in late with rumpled clothes and hair, she paused to make sure she was decent before walking in.
The group of boys inched past her and she remembered seeing them at some Quidditch game in the past.
Quidditch. The thought about it, and briefly of him, flickered across her mind, of the boy she had been with just the day before. She shook her head instead, to clear it.
Isobel takes in a deep breath before walking inside. It's not that she didn't like Professor Snape, unlike a good portion of the student body—in fact, she hadn't had a problem with him as of yet. Also, this class—Potions—was the one she excelled in greatly, and Snape made sure to have made it known even though she wasn't in his house.
But as Isobel made her way down the row of desks, she couldn't shake the feeling that so many eyes were on her, and she quickened her steps. A lump appeared in her throat per usual and a slight color to her ears from a blush followed. She was grateful her hair hid them.
Her hand automatically raised to an ear on instinct and she quickly pulled it away, wincing at a bruise that was there—one of his marks. Her ears burned even more.
"Late again, Miss MacDougal…?"
Her steps faltered at Snape's voice echoing the classroom. She was the last one to file inside and she froze, not knowing what to do for a second. She didn't know how to respond and she gaped like a fish before he spoke again.
"Let's hope this doesn't happen a third time…?" He spun around, dark robe flowing to follow him to his desk.
Isobel's head dipped and she rushed to the her seat beside Pansy Parkinson and in a clumsy fit of rummaging in her bag, a few things spilled out on the table.
Her seat was at the front of the class and had been one against her decision, assigned by Professor Snape himself and was something she just couldn't understand why.
The Slytherin girl stares at Isobel from the corner of her eye as the other grabs for her parchment and quill. Isobel breaths a sigh when she takes her seat just as Snape finishes prepping for class.
Pansy shows a sly grin as Isobel rushed to writes down what was necessary before class, brows knitted in concentration. She knew that it was a matter of time until the Slytherin girl opened her mouth and unleashed bitter words no one wanted to hear, it always was.
"Is that a hickie…?!"
Isobel messed up the last letter she was writing and responds with a low "no."
Pansy's smirk grew wider. "Sure looks like one to me."
She ignores Isobel moving her hair to the side of her neck, hiding the mark from herview.
"My, my. I would never thought you, the innocent Isobel MacDougal, would be so...promiscuous," she laughs. Pansy did not try to keep her voice to a two-person conversation level.
Isobel doesn't even look her way and rushed to finish writing. "I'm not innocent, you know. I do have a brain and can think for myself." There was a hint of hostility in her light tone, one Pansy took notice of and wasn't too happy for.
"I'd watch my tone if I was you, you little Gryffindor. You aren't too good to not have me hex you," Pansy snaps.
Isobel ignored her further, not bothering to reply and kept writing.
There was a brief silence between the two as the tension died done. Snape had left the classroom for a moment, carrying a variety of large bottles—probably to the potion room.
Pansy tried again: "Well, let me see~," she cooed. "I wanna know who was the horny bloke that gave it to you and got in your pants."
"Uhh~…" Isobel froze, eyes growing wide.
Pansy reached to brush aside Isobel's hair but her hand was smacked away.
Pansy gasped. "He didn't get in your pants, did he?" she spoke in mock surprise. She had hissed that purposely loudly to draw attention. She chuckled to herself.
"Leave her alone, Pansy," a deep voice hissed behind them.
Isobel let out a sigh of relief. Pansy, however, grew ticked.
The Slytherin turned behind to see Dean Thomas leaning forward over his own desk and in their personal bubbles, brows brought together in defense.
"No one asked you. Stay in your lane, Gryffindor," Pansy sneered. She then turned back to Isobel with a look of mock shock. "Was it him, Dean?"
The shared looks of shock and mild disgust from the two Gryffindors gave her answer.
The sly grin remained on Pansy's face but before she could get another word out, the dungeon class door slammed shut followed by the sound of footsteps. The class turned to watch Snape walk from the back to the front of the classroom, calling for attention at the front. Isobel quickly pulled her hair up in a ponytail and brushed it back in place to hide her bruises.
Yes, they were hickies, love marks, but it's not like she was going to let anyone know. Especially Pansy Blabber-mouth Parkinson.
That day, the class was to make a potion at assigned stations. Snape decided to not use textbooks today and students were put into pairs.
Last time, Isobel had been paired with Ron Weasley, and if it wasn't for her pulling an all-nighter before for studying, they would have produced an explosive result, or a Finnigan result it was comically and popularly called.
Now minutes later and at their stations, she gave a nice grin up at Dean as he set out the necessary ingredients in front of their cauldron. The tall Gryffindor was one of the first Isobel met when she began Hogwarts. Of course, he was in a class ahead her due to her getting her letter late.
Pansy glared at Isobel from across the room and Isobel purposely didn't meet her eye, looking toward the teacher and waiting for direction.
"Today," Snape begun in his usual drawl, "you with successfully brew a perfect Laxative Potion."
"Bloody hell," Neville whispered.
Hermione's brows crinkled for a moment—they weren't supposed to learn that potions yet, she didn't think—but smiled with confidence anyhow. She could execute this just fine.
Snape's head turned in the direction of the shy brunette Neville. "Complaints…will not help you. I expect all potions to be completed in no less than twelve minutes."
This earned a collected groan. Only Isobel, Hermione, and two others smiled to themselves, confident in their brewing skills. Dean didn't make a noise knowing his partner and her excellence and felt secure.
That was another thing—though Dean Thomas, as well as everyone else in Potions class here, was ahead of her by year, they were all in the same age range.
And while Hermione is known at excelling in all areas of magical academics, potions and brewing was Isobel's specialty, though she didn't dare flaunt it. Though Isobel came in an entire year later than she should, she caught on fast. One of the first to notice this was Professor Snape himself, and had requested that she be placed in an advanced class for her talent.
"Two spoonfuls of billywig sting slime," Isobel read from the textbook aloud, her finger following along under the instructions.
Dean grimaced, passing her the large spoon and doing his best not to touch the slime residue on it. She grabbed it, unfazed, and added the required amount inside the cauldron. She peered inside and watched it begin to bubble. Dean joined, leaning over the opening from the other side of the table.
"What next?" he asked, looking up from watching the cauldron.
She read the next step aloud. The collection of all the students created an ambience of clattering metal and corking bottles and boiling liquid.
This went on for some time, the students trying to brew the potion correctly and flipping through textbooks. Some were doing fine, some were nervous; there was a minor error when one cauldron fizzed over.
Isobel monitored the flame under her and Dean's cauldron and was so focussed she didn't notice her hair had moved from hiding her bruises. Dean had to do a double-take when he looked over at her from crushing porcupine quills.
He faltered. "Um…"
She turned down the fire and waved her wand over the opening of the cauldron. The tip of her wand glowed a faint purple for a moment as the potion continued brewing.
"So, uh, what's the deal with your neck?"
Isobel paused. "Pardon?"
"Uh…" Dean thought about his choice of words. "I mean, like, who gave it to you? 'Cause Pansy was right, it does look pretty bad." He held his hands up in surrender when she squinted her eyes at him, irked. "I'm not trying to be mean!"
"One more minute left," Snape announced.
Isobel stared at Dean with a questioning stare and when he didn't move, snatched two crumpled ingredients from the table. Her hands went busy, cursing under her breath as she prepared and then added the amount to the brew.
"Well first off, I didn't know it was everybody's business. Second," she held up a finger for emphasis, still not looking up. "If you must know, apparently I'm allergic to boom berries, since someone thought it was funny to add some to my lotion this weekend." She lied with a straight face. She still hadn't looked up at him.
Dean clicked his tongue. He didn't think much of it—it did sound very believable, being in the same house as the infamous trickster Weasleys.
Across the room, Harry had looked up, having overheard Dean's failed attempt to whisper. No one noticed and he listened intently for Isobel's response.
The area along the sides of her neck was horrible, littered with dark bruises but the most prominent being a large nasty one close to her collar bone that was obviously a hickie.
It wasn't that far into the day and the girl was already getting heckled. But Harry released a a sly chuckle when her answer drifted to his ear. He wiped his hands on his pants when Hermione called his attention back and he turned back to their station.
Parvati had to be called for her attention too by her partner, Neville. A Slytherin boy almost elbowed a valve when he was eavesdropping too hard.
Dean studied Isobel for a second longer after her answer, not sure whether she was lying or not and whether to call her out about it. However, the narrowed arch of her brows told him to leave it be.
For the last remaining minute, the students rushed to finish at their stations, getting the right measurements, and making sure the potion worked in the last of 60 seconds.
Isobel glanced over in time to see Dean's disapproving look and before she could put the stirring spoon down and state something about what she did with her time was for her, Snape called that time was up.
The remainder of the class was spent on their professor going around to each station and testing the potion, awarding with compliments and points and insulting those who had done wrong.
Dean was almost a foot and a half taller than Isobel and she knew that he could probably see the bruise-like mark from his height. It wasn't covered that well by her hair and she played with her ponytail, purposely disrupting his view of it that she knew he was still trying to see.
When the teacher came around, she puffed out her chest, satisfaction radiating from her. Dean's hands shoved in his pockets, knowing the few points Gryffindor would receive for her, yet again, well brewed concoction.
A/N: This is planned to be drama-filled with graphic bits throughout the chapters. Try to figure out Isobel's escapades.