Bad Romance

Author's Note: So, holy shit. That is the most reviews I have ever gotten for a single chapter. You guys are SERIOUSLY amazing. I keep forgetting about all of the problems in my personal life because every time I check my phone, there's always at least one new review. Each and every one of you guys is amazing and intelligent, and if I don't respond to your review, it's usually because I am just pinched for time, but will hopefully get to it as soon as possible.

WARNING: This chapter is explicit. I tried to keep it tasteful, but unfortunately, there is such a thing as plot-related sexy tiemz. I tried to keep all unnecessary stuff out…I don't think it's too graphic, but I felt like y'all ought to know. Also, I might write a more detailed version and post it on LJ or something. All hands in favor…?

JSKDFHJF. I REALLY HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS CHAPTER. I know I alway say I'm insecure about chapters, but THIS ONE especially. Agh. You all will see why. *Fidgets* And now to go check my inbox excessively and wait for the flames :P

Chapter Thirty Six: The Hollow

"Th-that's just—" Hermione stammered, trying to tug her arm from Tom's sight, but his long fingers tightened round her wrist painfully as he stared at the inside of her forearm with great interest.

"A powerful term, and not one that is normally seen in…" Tom paused, his eyes sweeping over her face, "…print." Hermione gave up trying to writhe away from him—the damage had been done already. Any further attempts at hiding the scar would not only be futile, but they would also heighten the scar's significance. The best thing she could do was to stay calm, though being essentially topless and pinned to a desk with the future Dark Lord positioned between her legs made relaxing rather difficult. Beyond all of this, she was also uncomfortably confronted by her own relief at having worn one of her more attractive bras. Seriously, I'm acting like Lavender Brown or Ginny, she thought irritably. Taking a deep breath in, Hermione tried to release Tom, but he leaned forward, his free hand guiding her leg to remain wrapped around him. Hermione swallowed rather audibly as he stared at her penetratingly. "I suppose you won't volunteer how you got a scar this significant," he said softly, his eyes burning holes into her.

And then Hermione felt it: a strange pawing, slipping sensation. She registered what he was doing and let out a gasp as she instinctively did what she had been practicing for weeks now: Tom was using Legilimency on her, so she closed off her mind abruptly. She had expected him to be intrigued by her use of Occlumency, but his eyes flashed as he seemed to ram against the closed doors of her mind. He narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled, and pressed her harder against the desk.

"That is a private matter, Tom," she warned in as cool a tone as she could muster. Think fast. Come up with something to sate his curiosity…She grasped at proverbial straws before coming up with something. "I was…er, the subject of…bullying," she said rather lamely, knowing as soon as it was out that Tom would not believe her.

"Lying again," he said silkily, bringing her arm to his mouth. "Hermione, don't make me make you tell me how you acquired this scar…" For a moment, she feared the Cruciatus Curse. Remembering prior experiences with it, Hermione struggled wildly for her wand. She would not have the Cruciatus Curse put on her ever again, especially in such a compromising position. She'd rather take either of the other two Unforgiveables, and to do that, she would not go down without her wand..

But Tom did not seem to have Unforgivable Curses on the brain: he slammed her down against the desk and it creaked under her weight and his force.

"Let me go," she ground out, trying to use any leverage she could against him. Her wrist was beginning to ache in his tight grip as he pinned her against the hard wood, the candlelight shuddering around them. The friction between their bodies made them both bite back groans; Tom bent forward until he was using his shoulders to hold her torso against the desk. Hermione watched, her chest heaving and her heart pounding, as he traced the letters of her scar with his lips and tongue. Goosebumps rose along her skin and, without meaning to, she let out a whimper. She wanted to close her eyes against the delicious sensation, but the sight of Tom's lips against her skin was riveting. If the scar had not been burned into her flesh before, it certainly was now. For a moment, she forgot to try and fight her way away from him as she melted beneath him. His lips softly fluttered from her arm up to her shoulder, and he pulled away for a moment, his eyes dark with wickedness as he looked up at her.

"What about this one?" he murmured, using his free hand to run his fingertips along the scar that Dolohov had given her. It spanned from over her heart to her ribcage on the opposite side; it was mostly faded but Hermione got the feeling that, in tandem with Bellatrix's little gift, it looked suspicious as well. She licked her lips, trying vaguely to come up with a reason for why she had it, but Tom was sliding her dress further down her hips. "No lie for me?" he teased. Hermione heard the soft rustling of fabric as her dress slipped between them and crumpled on the floor. Tom drank in the sight of her with his eyes, and Hermione detested herself, for all she could think of was why Tom still had that damned sweater on. The heat was oppressive as Tom looked down at her, his eyes roving over her body. Remembering her wand on the ground, Hermione made to sit up, but with a single hand, Tom pressed against her chest and pushed her back down again slowly. His hand roamed along her scar again, then brushed over her hipbones, coming to a rest on her hip.

"Trying to seduce the story from me?" Hermione asked shrewdly, though her breath hitched as she felt his fingertips tracing the edge of her panties, his facial expression one of great intrigue. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment, his lips forming a devilish smirk.

"You doubt I could?" he parried lightly, arching his brows at her. Hermione scoffed, hating herself for how obviously her body was reacting to his touch. She lay there, staring up at him. Anything she said would sound like a challenge, or else like accepting the invitation implicit in his words, so she said nothing. "You really don't believe I could have you do anything I wanted?" he continued, tugging at the fabric of her panties at her hip. Hermione pressed her lips together. "I don't need the Imperius curse, Hermione. I think you want to give me everything."

Her mouth was dry.

"I don't," she said, trying to slide away from him, but as usual, he had managed to corner her. "I don't want to give you anything."

"Your body language tells a different story," he said coldly. Hermione's cheeks burned and she wrapped her arms around herself.

"I was just tipsy," she protested, "and I'd appreciate it if you went home now."

"Is that really what you want?" Tom asked coyly, hooking his index finger inside the waistband of her underwear and tugging slightly. Hermione exhaled hotly, her cheeks aflame as she stared at the hand threatening to pull her panties down. The sight of it was more provocative than anything she had ever laid eyes on. She seethed, scrunching her eyes shut as his hand released her underwear and moved down her leg. She could feel his warm breath against the skin of her inner thigh as he hitched her leg over his shoulder. "Because I think, as usual, you're lying," he said against her skin. Hermione moaned again involuntarily, keeping her eyes shut. He's trying to prove he can seduce the information out of me… she told herself, gripping the edge of the desk to keep herself grounded. And yet she was having an increasingly difficult time trying to catch her breath. Her palms were sweaty; when she felt his lips trace upwards, she gasped and tried to jerk away from him. Tom straightened, looking at her with his ever-penetrating gaze. Do not let him inside your mind, she warned herself, yet to see his cheeks flushed, his lips parted slightly as he too tried to catch his breath, Hermione felt her grip on reality slipping away.

"Yes," she said in a wavering voice. "I don't want you, and I refuse to tell you about my scars," she added, trying to sound firm. She feared that this might anger him, but he only gave her that maddening smirk.

"That scar is a significant one; you can't just brush it off. I knew you were different from the moment I first saw you. You can duel nearly as well as I can; that's an accomplishment. You already are skilled enough in Occlumency to fight my advances. You have private meetings with Dumbledore, you aren't going home to your parents…And now, these two scars…they look like the product of powerful dark curses. How did you get them?"

"I'm not telling you; it's none of your business," she said harshly as his fingers resumed tracing the edge of her underwear.

"Suit yourself," he said simply, "but I'll get it out of you—one way or the other."

"What methods did you have in mind?" she asked, trying to mimic his detachment. Tom smirked.

"A few things," he said casually, before leaning forward, his tongue running along the tender skin where his fingers just had. Hermione gasped again; involuntarily her hands fisted in his hair as her world blurred, her legs tensing around his hips. "But I thought perhaps we could continue where we just left off, anyway, since I intend to have you screaming my name before the night is out at any rate."

"High expectations," Hermione gasped.

She sat up and tugged at the hem of his sweater as their lips locked again. Everything was still spinning, but she knew she was stone-cold sober. This was not inebriation, this was unbridled desire, heightened by the fear of giving into such desire. She pulled him down with her, her hands slipping to his back and yanking the hem of his sweater upwards. She delighted in the feel of his skin there. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was furiously shouting at herself to stop this nonsense at once, but every time Tom touched her, every time his silver tongue flicked against hers, she abruptly forgot to listen to that particular voice. His hands roamed up and down her torso; it was entirely different from how Ron had touched her. When Tom's hand grazed her breast, she wanted to scream at him for only touching her lightly. Even though they were kissing, even though their hips were pressed against each other, it wasn't enough.

As she urged the sweater off of him, Tom helped her, and soon it joined her dress on the floor in a soft rustle. He laughed against her lips as they ground against each other, the desk creaking loudly now underneath the movement.

"I knew you wanted me," he taunted breathlessly. Hermione pulled at the white undershirt that had been tucked into his pants; when he drew back to yank it over his head, she admired his firm abdomen, his lean chest, his sinuous arms. "You will tell me how you got those scars," he said through clenched teeth as the friction and heat between them increased. Hermione could only cling to him as he pulled her against him, his hands moving roughly from her hips to her back.

"No, I won't," Hermione retorted, attempting to pull away from him. For a moment, they regarded each other, each panting, their cheeks flushed, their hair in disarray. As they made eye contact, Tom attempted Legilimency again; she barred him from her thoughts. It was not difficult as the sight of him half-clothed was consuming her brain, and she felt like all memories and thoughts had been banished from her brain.

"Insolent witch," he cursed after giving up on that particular attempt at Legilimency.

"Get out of my room," Hermione ordered, sliding off the desk and crouching to grab her dress. Tom stared at her for a moment, hard, before a strange, highly pleased smile lit up his angelic features, twisting them into something demonic.

"Alright," he said quietly, and picked up his undershirt and sweater. He pulled each on slowly, and Hermione hated both garments all the more for every inch of glorious pale skin they covered. When he had finished pulling the hunter green fabric over his head, Hermione watched in shock as he turned to retrieve his cloak from the hook by the door. "Good night, Hermione. Happy new year, and thank you for the gift." With a last sly smile, he turned and opened the door. Hermione frantically clutched the dress to her body, wrapping it around her haphazardly before following him to the door.

"That's it?" she blurted, reminded of how infuriating his nonchalance had been when she had guessed his favorite book. "You nearly forced yourself on me back there…and…" she sputtered. She was enraged that he, again, seemed so unbothered, so unflustered by having cut their activity short. Tom was out the door now, having just swirled his cloak around his shoulders gracefully. He looked over his shoulder at her, half-shadowed in the darkness of the hall. "You're just going to leave?"

"You did ask me to," he reminded her coldly, though there was a victorious flashing in his eyes. "Unless you'd rather I stay…?"

"No!" Hermione said violently, though the heat in her cheeks told a different tale. Tom turned to face her again, cocking his head to the side in interest.

"I could rip that damned dress off you now and take you right here against your door," he stated very calmly, as though reciting definitions from a dictionary, "or I could turn and leave, and we could both go to our own beds, frustrated and putting off the inevitable yet again."

Hermione shivered at his words and made to close the door to him, but that time was all it took for him to make his way back to her. The door slammed shut as he pulled her back into the darkness of the hall roughly, and Hermione dropped her dress in surprise. And then there was the ripping of fabric as he ripped her last garments from her body, and she could only moan into his mouth.

"All you need do is surrender, Hermione," he whispered sibilantly against her lips as her now ruined undergarments joined her dress on the floor, and she was lifted from her feet and pinned against the door by Tom's body. Down below them were the sounds of the bar as the patrons celebrated the end of one year and the beginning of another with indecent enthusiasm; all Hermione's desire-addled brain could bring itself to reflect on was how, by wrapping her legs around Lord Voldemort's hips and allowing him to do the things he was doing, Time was shattering around her.