A cold drop falling onto her face jerks Hermione awake. She shoots up with a loud gasp, eyes staring wide into the darkness. It takes her mind a few moments to catch up with reality. A shiver runs down her spine as the last memories before the darkness took her crawl back to the forefront of her mind.


"GET OUT OF HERE!" Harry shouts at her, shooting a spell over his shoulder at the just apparated Death Eater. Blood rushes to her head, the roaring sound filling her ears as the panic floods every last bit of her being. She turns to run.

They had walked right into a trap. In hindsight, they should have seen it coming. All looked easy. Too easy and rightfully so. Now, they are trapped, surrounded by Death Eaters and anti-apparition wards. Bolting down the hallway of the abandoned house, their future grave, Hermione trips over a body, falling to the ground. Hermione's eyes land on Ron's still face and his empty gaze looking into the distance. Her cry pierces the air.

"For fuck's sake!" Harry grabs her, pulling her to her feet. "GO!" he yells, pushing her forward.

She turns, running into his chest, crying, reaching for Ron. "I can't! It's Ron!"

"You can't do anything for him. Not anymore! Run!" Harry continues pushing her back, shooting spells left and right. "Get outside of the wards and get the fuck out! Don't look back. I will see you back at the safe house, alright?"

Hermione nods, sobbing. Her heart is shattered, the image of Ron burned into the back of her eyelids. She stumbles outside of the house into the blinding light that is followed by immediate darkness. She doesn't even remember hitting the ground, just Harry screaming her name somewhere in the distance.

"HERMIONE!"


Hermione blinks. Once, twice and then some more. The ache and emptiness in her chest growing exponentially.

Ron is dead.

Gone.

Tears roll down her cheek as the realisation sinks in more and more. Her sobs echo through the empty room, multiplying as they hit her eardrums. She curls into a ball on the hard, cold floor allowing the grief and pain to take complete hold of her. Ron is gone, Harry is hopefully alive but God knows where and she is…

Where is she?

Her heart sinks even lower into her stomach as the reality of her circumstance sets in. She dries her cheeks with the sleeves of her jumper, pushing herself to sit up. The room is pitch black, with no windows either. A shiver runs down her spine as she reaches and her fingers run over a rough stone wall, pieces of it damp, covered in moss. The only sliver of fleeting light is coming from under a door, but it is so faint it barely manages to make a dent in the dark reservoir.

Having seen plenty of muggle horror movies back when the world wasn't flipped on its head, Hermione knows better than rushing and banging on the door. The longer they, whoever they are, think she's still unconscious, the longer she stays alive and the more time she has to come up with something. Anything.

She has no idea for how long she had been laying in the dark, running through various scenarios in her mind when the space outside the door comes alive. The first part of the conversation is lost on Hermione as the voices are too far from the door, but with time they get closer. Giving her a taste of how bad her situation really is.

"You got her?" someone asks. It is a man, Hermione struggles to match the shrill voice to a face. He sounds surprised, even impressed. "Does the Dark Lord know?"

Someone else scoffs. That sound makes Hermione's stomach turn in on itself. She knows that sound more intimately than she ever wanted. She remembers everything about the owner of that scoff. From his long greasy hair, pale eyes, and sly smile down to his calloused hand around her throat. Hermione remembers his large body pressed against her back as the tip of his wand dug into the side of her throat

Antonin Dolohov. The man that occupies her nightmare more often than Voldemort himself.

"No. I want to keep her for a while," he says, smirk audible in his voice. Hermione gulps, pushing herself further into the corner of the room.

"That's not the order, Dolohov," a third voice barges in on the conversation. Somehow being given to Voldemort sounds much better than facing Dolohov. No number of Crucio curses could live up to what he had whispered into her ear at the Department of Mysteries. The memory of his voice; a phlegmy, moist sound in her ear makes her shudder.

"Patience, he will have her… sooner or later," Dolohov retorts casually. "Breathe, Fenrir, you can get a bite." He smacks Fenrir's shoulder. Beads of cold sweat form at the back of her neck — this is much worse than she thought.

The werewolf snarls. "He wants her unspoiled, Antonin."

"Are we really doing this? Who else knows we have her?" The first man is still unsure about their plan. Fear of being caught in the act seems to scare him more than defying direct orders. Hermione makes a note of it. If she ever makes it out, the dwindling morale might be a useful insight.

"No one. I snatched her when everyone was inside the house. Only Potter saw." A silence fills the room. She could have heard a pin drop if it wasn't for her heart beating ungodly loudly. "Merlin, as if he will go snitch to the Lord!" Dolohov exclaims, sounding exasperated beyond endurance by his chums.

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, sounds like Harry is alive. Her chest feels less constricted, allowing more air into her lungs. Harry is alive and hopefully safe.

Everything else is inconsequential.

Harry had been viscerally against her and Ron making Unbreakable Vows to the Order. But his complaints went unheard or more likely were ignored—by the Order, and Hermione and Ron alike. They swore to protect Harry with their lives without blinking.

Ron had fulfilled that promise already and Hermione has a feeling her time will come sooner than she ever thought.

Tears sting in her eyes again as she tries to remember the last words she said to Ron. It must have been back in the Order's headquarters as she doesn't recall seeing him alive at the scene. She swallows another sob as their last conversation comes to her mind.

They had argued. She cannot recall what it was about anymore, but Hermione remembers telling him 'Don't get killed' as they had walked out of the HQ to the Apparition point nearby. He had rolled his eyes at her with a growl of 'I am not that lucky'.

"She's a feisty little mutt," Fenrir warns him and Hermione jumps as the lock on the door creaks and whines, loudly protesting being opened.

Dolohov utters something fully in Russian, dismissing his warning. "What can she do? She has no wand…"

Hermione makes herself small in the corner as if that would hide her. The room gets filled with warm light from outside, forcing her to squint and shield her eyes.

"Unbelievable," the unknown wizard breathes out, almost as if he didn't believe Dolohov up until that point. "The Mudblood clearly knows where her rightful place is."

Dolohov lights the two torches in the room, letting out a small chuckle. "Not so bold without Potter, are we?" he asks as he finally squats in front of her. Hermione keeps her head down, refusing to look at him. "Come on, Mudblood, don't be rude—answer," he snarls, wrapping her ponytail around his wrist before yanking her head back. She yelps at the sharp pain in her scalp.

"Have we been feeling sorry for ourselves?" a man, she finally recognizes to be Avery, asks mockingly as he notices the dried tears peeling off her cheeks and her bloodshot eyes.

"I bet she's been mourning the redhead dummy. Rookwood got him good, I am willing to bet he did not walk that off," Fenrir barks a laugh, running his fingers through the tufts of hair on his face. Hermione snarls and attempts to charge at him, only to get pulled back down by Dolohov, who still has a pretty solid grip on her. The wind gets knocked out of her as she hits the ground with a thud.

Fenrir laughs even louder now. "Yeah, he didn't walk it off," he shrugs, taking her outburst as confirmation.

Dolohov doesn't seem so impressed with her temper, however. "Is this how you treat your hosts?" he asks, yanking on her hair some more. Her back arches as she tries to minimize the strain. "Use your words."

"Who gives a shit. I am dead anyway," she forces through clenched teeth.

"That would be almost too easy, wouldn't it?" he raises his brow, his tone clipped but yet almost playful. It strikes even more fear into her soul. Perhaps her worst imagination isn't the worst he could conjure.


Hermione loses track of time fairly quickly. It could be hours, days or even weeks. There is no way for her to tell. Her food gets delivered irregularly, yet they never mention anything that would help her realize the passing of time. Hermione is left alone in the dark with her thoughts.

Her stereotypical schedule gets interrupted by Fenrir bringing her food one day. She hasn't seen him since the first day/night.

He doesn't seem too ecstatic about it. Hermione doesn't let him out of her sight. "What do you want with me?" she finally asks, burying all her fear. Fenrir freezes at the door before turning to her slowly.

His expression doesn't tell her anything. He looks… indifferent, slightly irritated she spoke to him. But besides that—there iss nothing. "Patience, mutt. You will know at the right time." Hermione shudders. She would much prefer if he called her Mudblood. While degrading it would at least still suggest he thinks of her as a person, but mutt? Unpure and an animal at that.

She narrows her eyes at him. "You don't agree with this. Why won't you tell him? Maybe Tom would finally give you the mark," Hermione taunts him, perhaps stupidly so. Fenrir tenses at the use of Voldemort's first name. Hermione can see his jaw clench as well as his fists. His knuckles turn white.

She struck a nerve. Fenrir stares at her, ambers of anger catching fire in his eyes. It was a calculated risk, but perhaps she's not as good at math as she likes to think. Hermione slowly shuffles further away from him, self-preservation instinct finally kicking in.

"What did you call the Dark Lord?" he snarls. His voice is quiet but fear settles deep in her core from the rumbling sound. She moves across the ground faster as he starts walking towards her. Slow and dangerous. Stalking her across the room like the predator he is. Hermione braves looking up at him as her back is met with the wall. Her mind races to find a way out of this situation. A situation she caused because she couldn't keep quiet. The magic coursing through her veins is making her skin tingle as the panic sets in. He is looming over her, his face twisted with disgust. "Say it again." His voice sounds calmer than he looks.

Hermione presses her lips tightly together, shaking her head. She takes a nsteady breath, the courage left as quickly as it came and she is all alone now.

Fenrir starts reaching for her and without thinking she raises her hand. As if someone or something is guiding her, whispering into her ear what to do, a bright light shoots from the tip of her fingers. It hits the werewolf square in the chest and he stumbles before falling to the ground dazed.

She is not wasting any time; scrambling to her feet, Hermione bolts out the door. Adrenaline coursing through her veins; her mind fully engaged in getting out of there. She has no idea where she's running to, she's just trying to get away. Her body hits the wall at a sharp turn. Hermione falls to the ground with a yelp, rushing to get back up. She doesn't remember the last time she walked more than the few steps across her room… Her cell. Let alone the last time she ran.

Hermione pulls on a door with all her fleeting strength, yanking on the handle more and more desperately as it isn't budging.

"Please, open. Please," she cries.

Exhausted, she slides to the ground, sobbing. Finally, after all the time letting all her feelings flow free. She is terrified, tired, famished and very much would welcome death. Hugging her knees, she waits for Fenrir to find her.

He doesn't take long. With how loud she is breathing and the way her heart is hammering inside her chest, he would need to be deaf and blind to miss her. His eyes are fixed on her the moment he appears from behind the corner. With tears running down her face, she waits for him to get her—hoping he will rip her throat out or perhaps break her neck. The idea of imminent death does not scare her as much as she thought it would. Hermione likes to think there's more waiting for her in the great beyond. This world has just pain and suffering in store for her and she has had about enough.

Fenrir's large hand wraps around her throat, lifting her. The wind is knocked out of her as he shoves her against the wall, his fingers closing and crushing her neck. "You—"

"Fenrir. Drop her," Dolohov says calmly, suddenly standing in the hallway with them. Greyback's grasp on her neck releases at once and Hermione falls to the ground, gasping for air. Her shaking hand touches her throat, her mind still playing catch-up. Her eyes are wide as she stares at Dolohov, unsure whether she should be thankful or mad for still not being put out of her misery…

"The Mudblood hexed me!" Fenrir complains, pointing a finger at her like a petulant child.

Dolohov laughs. Fenrir stares at him, the offended look on his already twisted face amuses the other Death Eater even more. "That says more about you if the little girl with no wand bested you." The werewolf growls, baring his teeth. The vibration of it resonating through the echo-y hallway sends shivers down her spine.

A quiet sob escapes her. Dolohov's eyes finally lower to look at her. Hermione's still cowering on the ground, her chest rising quickly as she tries to catch up on all the breaths she missed. "This is what happens when you run. Get up," Dolohov says.

She tries to pull herself up to her feet, her hands climbing up the wall as she tries to balance herself. It takes nothing but one more violent sob for her knees to buckle, sending her back to the ground.

"So much so for delivering her to the Lord unspoiled," Dolohov rolls his eyes, giving Fenrir a disappointed glare. The werewolf scoffs one last time before leaving them there, Hermione can hear him muttering to himself.

Dolohov offers her a hand. She looks up at him questioning everything. His hand remains stretched out as he sighs, "Come on, grab it. I don't have the whole day."

She listens and hesitantly slips her hand into his. A jolt of static energy zaps her as Dolohov's fingers tightly close around her hand. He pulls her up, fairly effortlessly. Hermione stumbles as she stands again. "Thank you," she tweets barely over her breath as the man steadies her. His hand slips down her arm, curling around her elbow.

Zap.

"You look terrible," Dolohov frowns at her. Hermione blinks at him, this certainly wasn't what she expected in response to thank you.


Later that day he leads her down another hallway. Before she even realized he was holding her hand, they arrive at their destination.

A bathroom.

Awfully cold bathroom.

"You look terrible," he repeats when Hermione stares at him confused. He points at the bath in the middle of the room, closing the door behind them. "Strip."

Her head whips around to look at him again. "Are you out of your mind?" she asks, eyes on top of her head as most of her strength returned since the eventful morning, afternoon, evening… who even knew.

The bath looks more than inviting, especially with the steam coming out of it. It seems like a great way to thaw her fingertips and regain some feeling in her feet, but not if getting naked in front of Dolohov is one of the steps to get there.

"I won't look," Dolohov groans. Hermione raises her brow. "No. I am not leaving the room. Can't have you killing yourself. Now, get rid of the clothes, or I will help you," he mutters as he turns away from her. Hermione slowly walks across the room. Looking over her shoulder, she sees Dolohov still with his back turned, impatiently tapping his foot. Her fingers run across the edge of the bath and a sigh escapes her as she dips her hand into the hot water.

Sparing the oddly considerate Death Eater a last look, Hermione decides to go for it and quickly strips out of her clothes.

She lets out a loud exhale as her body gets submerged in the water. Her head falls back, leaning against the edge of the tub as her eyes close. Maybe if she tries hard enough, she can convince herself she's back at the Order safe house, soaking in their bathtub. Maybe she could make herself believe that she can hear Harry and Ron bickering in the other room. Maybe she can pretend for a second that everything is fine.

"It wasn't that hard after all, was it?" he asks, his voice sounding disturbingly close. Hermione's eyes snap open to find him sitting on the edge. In panic, she tries to gather all the bubbles and foam to cover herself. The desperate flapping of her arms amuses the man.

"Don't bother, I've seen everything I wanted before I made a sound."

Hermione glares at him speechless for a moment. "You've promised." That's all she manages to say.

"No, I said I won't look while you undress. You should clean your ears too," Dolohov says with a shrug. She grumbles at how casual he sounds. "Well, now would be a great time to say thank you," he adds, quirking a brow at her.

"I won't thank you for staring at me naked," she utters back. He laughs. Again. Hermione groans, leaning back, trying to get back to her daydream. But his presence is not allowing her to relax. She pries her eyes open, looking at him. "Why am I here?"

"To take a bath?" he offers immediately, earning a growl. "You need to ask more specific questions, Mudblood."

Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment. "Will you answer any question?"

He looks at her briefly. "Within reason—yes."

She nods, going back to her thoughts. Her list of questions is growing with every additional hour she spends in this place, but perhaps some of them she would like to leave unanswered.

"Why haven't you told him about me?"

Dolohov blinks, letting out a surprised chuckle as he did not expect such a question. Or at least not this soon. "I have a theory to test," he answers after a silence a bit too long for comfort.

"What theory?"

"Not so quickly," he tuts at her, clicking his tongue.

"You said you will answer anything," Hermione protests, growing bold within this interaction. She still feels she's on thin ice, but if you don't ask, you get nothing.

"Within reason."

"Am I being unreasonable?"

His eyes narrow at her. "Remember the hex I shot at you at the Ministry years ago?" A shiver runs down her spine. There's not a single detail she has forgotten about that evening. Hermione nods - it's hard to forget something that nearly killed her. "Did it leave a mark?"

She gulps at the oddly specific question. "It did…" Hermione whispers. No one knows about it. Not even Harry or Ron. It's a known fact that Dark Magic leaves marks, but this was different. At least it felt different. It took her months upon months to figure out. It only clicked when Dolohov broke out of Azkaban, shortly after Dumbledore's death.

They were linked in a way. Not in the same way as Harry and Voldemort; this seemed to be more innocent in a way, purer. She could feel when he was close, she could feel what she assumed to be spikes in his emotions—anger, happiness… It is like a sixth sense. Like a voice at the back of her head.

Dolohov rolls up his right sleeve and there just above his elbow is a circular scar. It looks like a burn. She would not think much of it if the same scar wasn't on the left side of her ribs. Exactly at the spot, he hit with that spell all those years ago. It still looks fresh as if she was hit just weeks ago.

"It should have killed you," he says casually. She gathered as much before but hearing him say it hits slightly different. "Do you know why it didn't?" he quizzes her.

"Because you didn't say it out loud?" Hermione offers her best theory so far.

"That might be part of it, but even Dark Magic has its limitations. Safety net to fall into if necessary. No matter what magic it is, it will never go against fate, destiny—call it however you want," he explains, dipping his fingers into the water. Hermione stares at him blankly, her chest tight as she is starting to see where he's heading with it. "My fate would be pretty dumb if it let me kill my soulmate, wouldn't it? Hence the mark."

She laughs. "You are insane," Hermione decides, shaking her head, adamantly refusing to believe anything he just said. "You said you will answer anything, but you've never said you wouldn't lie. I am calling bullshit on this whole thing. Why am I here? And don't lie. Please…"

"I am telling the truth. Just because it's not something you want to hear that doesn't make it a lie," Dolohov quips back at her.

"So you want to test a theory of me being your soulmate? —Merlin, does it sound ridiculous… How?" Hermione asks without thinking. It might be one of those questions she doesn't want to have answers to if she had to be honest. But it is out in the open now.

His eyes are fixed on her as his hand slips under the water. Hermione gasps as his fingers brush against her thigh. She tries to move away from his hand as she isn't a fan of the tingly feeling when he touches her bare skin.

"Do you feel it?" he asks, curling his fingers around her shin.

She looks up at him again, fairly distracted by his touch. "I think you need to stop touching so much leather, you are super-charged with static…" Hermione mutters, holding her breath as his hand travels up the inside of her leg. His hand is light and gentle brushing over her skin, when his fingers curl it's more of a tickle than a scratch. The slow drag makes her break out in goosebumps.

He chuckles. For a deadly man like himself, he laughs a lot. "Muggle science…" Dolohov shakes his head, low-key disappointed. "That's magic, baby girl. If I leave my hand there long enough, we will be able to feel the other's strength coursing through our veins." His voice turns into a whisper as his hand comes to a halt on her inner upper thigh.

Hermione blinks, sparing a look at his large hand under the water, splayed over her thigh. He squeezes her leg lightly, forcing her to look at him as her jaw drops.

"Do you feel it now? No static there." He flashes a grin. Hermione nods wordlessly as odd warmth slowly spreads through her veins from the point of contact. It trickles lazily like honey. "We are meant to be together," Dolohov continues, moving his hand ever so slightly up her leg. Hermione has nothing to say as their magic swirling in her veins works its way up to her brain, having already consumed her heart. She nods sheepishly, too gone in her thoughts to mind anything he does.

She slides down the side of the tub, giving into his touch as his fingers reach between her legs. He cups her and Hermione gives a keen sigh as he lazily circles her clit. Her mind is hazy, the power of their connection making her want more. She bites down on her lower lip as he applies more pressure.

And then he's gone.

"Come on," he says out of the blue, shaking his hand dry. Hermione grumbles, forcing her eyes to open. Dolohov gets up, grabbing a towel. His head turns away, as he holds the towel open for her. She stares up at him, eyes wide, chest raising as the build-up pressure in her lower abdomen slowly subsides. "You'll turn into a prune."

"I thought you already saw everything," Hermione whispers as she stands, wrapping herself in the towel.

He raises his brow at her, offering her a hand to help her out of the tub. "I still have some manners."

"Questionable," she mumbles under her breath.


"This is not… my room."

"Would you prefer to go back there?" Dolohov asks, traces of humor hiding in his tone. "In the towel?" His brow arches at her and he takes her silence as enough of a response.

Hermione is leaning against the wall by the door, taking the room in. It looked unlike any other place in the house she's seen so far. It is warm, lived-in… cosy even. Her eyes follow Dolohov around as he drapes his robes over a chair in the opposite corner before casually strolling to a wardrobe. He pulls out a shirt and as if deep in thought, throws it over the sofa sitting in the middle of the room.

"You still haven't answered my question," Hermione says eventually. He turns to her, furrowing his brows as he freezes halfway en route to the bookcase. "How do you want to test the theory?"

"Get dressed and I might tell you," Dolohov says, shooting a glance at the large white shirt on the sofa. "That's for you."

Hermione frowns. The high of his touch is slowly wearing off, the warmth from within her is escaping as well as the drops of his magic from her veins. The cold bites at her again. Despite all the proof he and her body have given her, she still has a hard time believing everything he had said. But no matter how hard she tries she cannot shake the feeling of his hand on her. She sucks in her lower lip, chewing on it, thoughts racing through her mind.

Having decided to mess with the man a little, she locks eyes with him. Hermione untucks the towel, letting it drop to the ground. The Death Eater's eyes widen at her actions but remain fixed on her face with burning intensity as she slowly walks across the room to the sofa. Dolohov scoffs, shaking his head lightly as she takes her time unbuttoning the shirt, slipping her hands through the sleeves, and doing it all up again. But he remains strong and not once his eyes leave her face.

"Did I pass your little test?" he finally asks as Hermione settles down on the sofa, tugging her legs under her.

She looks at him innocently. "Not sure what you are talking about. Now… How do you want to test that little theory of yours?" Dolohov's eyes flash at her growing attitude. Hermione realizes she's getting a bit too close to the sun, but there's not much for her to lose.

He unbuttons the collar of his shirt as he sits on the opposite end of the sofa, angling his body to face her. Hermione pouts at the Death Eater, disappointed by the distance he leaves between them. She would be lying to herself if she claimed she doesn't miss his hand on her bare skin; if she didn't wish he had gone further with her in the bathroom.

The light coming in from the windows hits his face, allowing her to finally get a proper look at him. Whenever she saw him in the past it was either in a dimly lit environment or he was wearing his Death Eater robes with the hood up and mask on. She is positive that the version of Dolohov haunting her dreams wasn't handsome. She remembers those pale blue eyes, they had always shone even under his mask. But the rest of him is a rather new discovery…

"I don't think I need to prove much more here, little one," he says, his tone low with an almost teasing, playful edge to it. Hermione shivers, the sound of the endearment makes her skin tingle. "See? I don't even have to touch you," Dolohov smirks at her rather prominent reaction.

"If I asked… would you touch me?" she asks sheepishly, realizing she has no leverage with this man. At least not anymore. Her body has betrayed her and given him all the power. She should hate him. It's Dolohov; second in command after Voldemort. He killed Fred; nearly killed her… She shouldn't feel attracted to him and not even remotely turned on by him the way she is now. But she is being pulled towards him by something much stronger than her will.

His brow raises, taking her in. She's huddling in the corner of the sofa, crimson spreading over her cheeks at her own words. "You can try," he invites her as he leans back further, one of his arms resting across the backrest of the sofa.

Hermione blinks at him, unsure how to handle the response to her not so well thought out question. Her cheeks are burning brighter. Gathering enough courage she raises her eyes to him once again. He is not letting her out of his sight, his head is tilted to the side. Dolohov looks amused by her flushed expression, he doesn't seem to believe she will take him up on the offer.

"Touch me. Again. Please," she blurts out and it is anything but playful nor seductive.

His brow arches higher at her first attempt. "You'll have to try better than that, princess," he teases her. "Come here," Dolohov adds, patting the spot next to him.

Without a word Hermione shuffles across the sofa to his side, sitting back on her heels. Just this small shift makes the pull that much more obvious, the air almost vibrates between them.

So close yet still so far away.

"Good girl," he croons to her. "Now ask me again, little one." He stops himself from touching her and tugging the stray piece of hair behind her ear. Hermione breathes out as his arm drops back onto the backrest. She nearly does not have to ask, she can see the magic dancing around and in between them nearly makes him break first.

Hermione presses her eyes shut for a second. Breathe, in… and out. She opens them on another exhale, slowly raising her gaze to his face. A small crooked smile forces one of the corners of his mouth upwards as he watches her with keen interest.

She boldly places her hand on the thigh closest to her before speaking. "Touch me, please," Hermione whispers, leaning closer to him. Her nose fills with the heady smell of his cologne—he smells expensive, unattainable and dangerous. The cologne should be a warning big enough. This man would be bad news if his past actions had not been big red flags already. "I need you to touch me. Please." Her hand slowly runs up his leg as she speaks.

Dolohov snatches up her hand just as it comes dangerously close to his crotch. A jolt of energy and magic rushes through her as he grabs at her bare skin, yanking her even closer to him.

"Uh oh." He clicks his tongue at her. Hermione leans against his chest to stop herself from falling into him. "Where do you want me to touch you?" Dolohov asks, keeping her close. She can feel his breath on her face with every word he says, with every exhale.

"Everywhere."

"Not nearly good enough. Be more specific."

Hermione gulps, meeting his gaze once again. The tip of his tongue darts out, running over his upper lip. She knows he's enjoying it. A lot. Maybe too much. Her heart is up in her throat as he's not showing signs of letting her put some distance between them again.

Dolohov slowly runs his hand up her thigh. She shivers, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as his fingers lazily climb up her leg.

"Here?" he inquires, resting his hand just where the lower hem of his shirt sits on her leg. Hermione nods feverishly as the familiar feeling slowly spreads through her veins. Dolohov nods, smirking as he slips his hand under the shirt that fits more like a dress on her, lightly tracing over her protruding hip bone and continuing up her side.

"And here?"

Her breath hitches in her throat as he cups her left tit, squeezing it lightly. She shakes her head, "Yeah, there too…"

Dolohov gives her an encouraging smile, rolling her nipple between his fingers. "Anywhere else, little one?"

Hermione nods again, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She leans into his touch more as her mind and heart run amok. Their connection—the one her body makes her believe in—is driving her mad. There is nothing she ever wanted more in her life than this man. She wants anything and everything he would be willing to give her, she would give him anything in return too. There isn't a single question under the sun to which she would say No in this very moment.

Dolohov shifts in position and starts slowly undoing the buttons she tortured him with earlier. Slipping them open one by one, not letting her out of his sight, watching her as the crimson spreads over her cheeks to her ears and as her breathing gets shallower with each inch of exposed skin.

"Do you still want to know how I want to prove my theory?" he asks as he finds her scar on the side of her ribcage. Hermione shudders as he gently traces it with his fingers, letting out a soft gasp. Finally, he pops the last button open, sliding the shirt down her arms. She's sitting in front of him fully naked, her body begging for more than a (fairly)innocent touch.

She peeks at him through her lashes, shivering as his fingers lightly run over her curves. "Yes, tell me… Please," she adds hastily as his brows furrow at her.

His mouth stretches into a smile. His hand slips into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her into his side. His lips right next to her ear, he whispers, "I will fuck you." Hermione shudders. The tone, the words, his breath on the side of her neck—all of it makes all the heat pool in her lower abdomen. "I knew you'd like that, little one. I will fill you up with my cum. It will be leaking out of you… and then—then maybe I will keep you forever. Does that sound good, hmm?" Dolohov purrs, nuzzling the side of her neck.

She shifts on her knees, almost sure she must be dripping onto the sofa. Never did anything sound this good to her. A low moan escapes her as he tugs on her hair more, attaching his lip to the side of her throat.

"What do you say, baby girl?" Dolohov murmurs against her skin, his free hand running down her side, pulling her top leg across his lap. "Will you be good for me?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes, I will. Just please touch me. Please," she nearly cries into his shoulder, fearing his hand would leave her bare skin. Hermione grabs at his shirt, bucking her hips against his side as she grows desperate. Her body demands more; she needs more than this. The fire spreads through her veins as he toys with her.

"Patience," he murmurs, licking a stripe up her neck. She is not given a chance to protest as his hand slips between her legs. His finger runs through her wet folds, collecting her arousal.

"You are dripping already," Dolohov whispers, almost in awe.

She pushes against his now still hand, trying to create the friction she craves so much. "I've been trying to tell you this whole time," she mutters, moving her hips.

"Attitude," he reprimands her, yanking her head back. Meeting his gaze, she shivers. His pupils are blown wide, only a sliver of colour on the perimeter; glazed over and fixed on her. Just her. A brief thought of whether he feels the same burning desire as she does crosses her mind. How can he remain so composed, calm looking when she's over here slowly but surely losing her mind.

He leans in, his lips less than an inch from hers. She could cry - that's how much she wishes he would kiss her, devour her… ruin her. And he finally does. Her eyes flutter shut as his lips crash against hers. His kiss is not like anything she ever experienced before—her brain is in override as he devours, nibs, pulls on her lips.

Breaking the kiss, Dolohov presses his forehead against hers. "Look at me," he demands, breathing heavily, his jaw slack. Hermione forces her eyes to open, her mind still lost in the sensation of his mouth against hers, his taste, his tongue exploring her mouth."Keep those pretty eyes on me."

She nods as much as his grasp on her hair allows her. His fingers between her legs move again, lazily circling her clit. He smirks at the flutter of her eyelids as he applies more pressure. She had never been with an older man, if she does not count Krum—but that hardly counted for anything. He was a miserable kisser and an even more awful lover. Never did she have the pleasure of being with a man with years of experience.

A moan escapes her lips as he pushes a finger in, her eyes widen at him at the surge of another wave of liquid fire through her veins. "You feel magical," he forces out, barely over his breath. Her eyes roll back as he curls his finger upwards, hitting the spot that makes her toes curl with the several next pumps. "Can you take a second one?"

It takes all the strength in her to speak. "I will take anything you want to give me." Dolohov's lips twist into a self-indulgent smile, his eyes flashing with all the possibilities that just got revealed to him. A soundless fuck falls from her lips as he slips in the second digit, driving her closer to complete insanity. She claws at his shirt, struggling with the buttons, unable to focus on anything but the tightening coil in her lower abdomen. His hand slips out of her hair, wrapping around her, holding her firmly against his side.

Her legs start to tremble as she inadvertently approaches the precipice with each stroke of his fingers.

"Don't come unless I tell you to, little one," he whispers against her face, drinking in the shocked and mildly offended look she just gave him.

Her hand slips up his chest, fingers curling around the collar. "I want to… I need to… Please, let me come," she pleads, leaning her head against him. The idea he wouldn't give her the release she craves so much, nearly drives her to tears. Though she may cry regardless.

"Do you want to come?" he teases her. Hermione nods feverishly against his chest. "How much?"

She groans. "Way too much." Dolohov laughs. "Fuck you, just let me," Hermione grumbles, all her self-control focused on keeping her orgasm at bay. If he won't let her, she will come anyway. She won't be able to hold for much longer.

"I should deny you for this attitude," he starts, lowering his head to her ear. "But I am not so cruel. Come, little one, come all over my hand."

He doesn't need to ask twice. The moment his lips close around the sensitive skin just under her ear, distracting her from staying in control, she falls into the abyss of uncontrollable rapture. She grabs at any part of him she can reach, her body seizing against his side. Her body feels weightless and heavy at the same time. No control over any muscle. She feels like her heart might give out.

"Fuck…" she breathes out, finally having enough air in her lungs to make a sound.

"Indeed," Dolohov whispers back, removing his hand. "You've done so well, little one. But I am not done with you. Not yet." He presses a brief kiss into her forehead and pushes her limp leg from his lap, letting her whole body slouch into the sofa as he sits up straighter.

She watches him undo the buttons she so struggled with earlier, yanking the shirt out from the waistband of his trousers. Hermione is mesmerized by the way his muscles move and flex under his skin as he sheds the shirt. The abundance of scars and old sloppily healed wounds shouldn't surprise her, but she still finds herself caught slightly off guard by how littered his body is with them.

Dolohov gets up from the sofa, scooping her up into his arms. "I am too large to fuck you comfortably on the sofa," he explains as Hermione grunts in protest of being moved since she just got comfortable. His words make her shiver, and ignite the old familiar throbbing sensation in her cunt. His hands back on her bare skin finish the job his voice and words could not. She wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzling her face into his chest. "The desk or the bed?"

She mumbles incoherently, too busy listening to his ever so slightly faster heartbeat. The question does not even register in her mind when she reacts. The regular rhythm of his heart transports her into another dimension for a brief moment. Her own heart slows down, mimicking his. Hermione melts in his arms. Her life outside this house is barely a faint memory; she feels safe in his arms.

Her eyes snap open as the sensation of free fall jerks her back to consciousness. She lands on a bed, eyes blown wide and staring at the man looming over her. Dolohov stares at her, taking her naked form in.

Hermione reaches for him. "Please, I need to touch you…" she whispers, extending her arms towards him, grabbing at empty air.

"Move back." His voice sounds strained, impatient as if the sight of the glistening cunt with her own juices kicked something into gear in his mind. "Baby girl…" he threatens her with a low tone when she doesn't move fast enough. Her eyes fixed on his hands working the belt and the fastening of his trousers.

She crawls further up the bed, her hand and feet slipping across the silvery silk. Hermione doesn't stop till her back meets the pillows piled at the top of the bed. Her eyes pour over the man slowly discarding the rest of his clothes. He looks calm, not bothered but only until their eyes meet. The way his pupils widen even more when he looks at her; the way something deeply visceral, instinctual, almost animalistic flashes behind his eyes—he is everything but calm. He is on the verge of losing it.

Dolohov grabs her ankle as he gets on the bed with her, yanking her down, closer to him. Hermione yelps at the sudden pull, suddenly finding herself trapped under his large frame as he straddles her legs, hovering over her.

He pins her arms on either side of her head. She squirms under him as another jolt of energy runs through her body upon contact. Dolohov leans down to her, running his tongue up the column of her throat to her ear. Hermione feels high as his lips latch onto the sensitive skin just by the edge of her jaw. A throaty moan escapes her and she can feel his lips curling into a smirk against her flesh. She writhes, trapped under him, fighting his grasp on her wrists—dying to touch him. To run her fingers over his skin, to feel every muscle and every scar. His cock pressed against her stomach is also proving ever so distracting, only fueling the fire and greed deep inside of her.

Letting off her wrists, Dolohov flips her on her stomach, pushing her right leg up along her side. Hermione's head snaps to look over her shoulder back at the man.

He smirks, running his hand down the ridge of her spine and over her arse. "I am a man of my word," he says as his eyes slowly return to hers, devouring her on their way. "I will fuck you… So hard and so good you will be begging for more. And I'll be happy to oblige, fucking my cum even deeper into you. By the time I am done with you, it will be dripping out of you…"

A shiver runs down her spine at his words, fighting the urge to just nod feverishly and begging him to finally shag her. Before she even realizes it, he's by her ear again. His hot breath tickling her neck, making her feel things a man panting next to her ear never had done before.

Hermione arches her back, pushing her arse against him as the cursed word slips out. "Please…"

His tongue traces the shell of her ear before he whispers, "Please who?"

She blinks at his question, request, demand; frowning into the sheets. "Sir…?" Hermione offers meekly, her eyes straining to look at him through her peripheral vision. The Death Eater's purr of approval resonates through her body. "Please, sir, fuck me."

Dolohov shifts, repositioning himself. Hermione gives a shaky breath as he drags the swollen tip of his cock through her folds. "I'll make you mine," he whispers before pushing inside of her.

Hermione lets out a small cry as her fingers close around the silky sheets at the sudden sting of the stretch. She finds herself taken aback by the feeling of him settled deep inside of her, it's a magic multiple times stronger than just his hands on her bare skin. It sets off another kind of fireworks inside of her. It spreads through her veins like a wildfire, but it's not leaving complete ruin behind. She feels stronger for it.

Stronger as a witch. Stronger as a person. Stronger as a soulmate, lover… and mate.

The odd shiver runs down her spine. But this time it's not because of Dolohov's lips scattering kisses across her shoulder. He wants her to give him an heir. His magic is fully entangled with her mind now—she doesn't oppose the idea. It almost excites her. The idea of a life they created together growing and moving inside of her does not feel too strange.

He remains still for a moment, giving her time to adjust. "Be a good girl."

Dolohov's fingers dig into her waist, pinning her down as he pulls back before rolling his hips into her. Again and again.

Finding his rhythm—unrelenting and punishing; Hermione turns into a broken moaning mess under him. Each snap of his hips is driving her close to the brink of insanity. Her little cries and moans are spurting him on. She blindly reaches behind her, dying to touch him, feel him with her own fingertips. The now-familiar zap of magic runs through her as she digs her fingers into his thigh, which is flush against her hiked up leg.

He presses himself against her back, wrapping his arm around her waist, holding her close against him. Hermione whimpers as he catches her lobe between his teeth, tugging on it. She buries her face in the sheets as his hand slowly travels down her stomach to in between her legs, blindly finding her clit. Hypersensitive to his touch, she rolls her hips into him and away from his hand. She cannot stand the combination of his cock thrusting deep into her and his fingers on the engorged bundle of nerves. It's too much. Too much pleasure, too much magic rushing through her veins.

"Please…" Her moans are muffled by the bedding, but she knows he hears her way too well. Hermione can feel his smirk against her skin, his lips are attached to the side of her neck.

She squirms under his weight as he flicks and strums at her clit. The perfect storm of their combined magic in her veins is slowly replaced by growing tension and budding fire in her lower abdomen as he continues driving into her, doubling the efforts of his fingers. "Stay still, little one," he instructs her, trying to keep her running away from him. "I will make you feel good, but you have to stay still."

"I—please—I can't," she cries into the silk sheets, arching her back to grind against him further. Hermione can feel the pull of the pit that is her orgasm but tries to fight it. Dolohov groans into the crook of her neck as her cunt clenches around his cock.

"Don't hold back," he purrs into her ear, pounding into her faster and faster, her moans fueling him. "Come. Come all over my cock."

His words resonate through her body, pouring more gasoline in the fire picking up deep within her. It doesn't take long before she comes crashing down around him with a cry as her body convulses beneath his weight. A string of curse words drops from his lips as she hits her climax with him deep inside of her, trapping him there.

"Fuck…" Dolohov groans, his head falling onto her shoulder as he spills himself inside her, unable to hold back. The warmth spreads within her, making her orgasm that much stronger.

Her vision goes black for a moment, all the mental power she has zeroed in on the rapture. Her body feels weightless for the moment, floating in space. As her death grip on the sheets loosens, Hermione takes a deep breath, trying to find her footing again as she recovers from the strongest orgasm of her life. She hisses when Dolohov removes his hand from her highly sensitive flesh and pulls out.

"Don't move," he instructs her, his voice quiet and raspier than she was used to. He leans over her, grabbing one of the pillows, arranging it for her to roll over onto. "We don't want a single drop to go to waste, do we now?" he winks at her as she lies on her back, her hips elevated.

Hermione stares back at him, her chest heaving as her hand mindlessly travels to her lower abdomen and then lower in between her legs. Without him touching her or fucking her senseless, her mind has a brief moment of clarity as she glances at her fingers with a small amount of milky white liquid on them.

"I've promised to make you mine," he says, his hand sliding across her stomach. "And you've deserved it for being so good," Dolohov continues, moving back closer to her.

Hermione blinks at him as he settles between her legs. "Why?" He frowns at her lightly before planting soft kisses from her mount up the middle of her stomach. "I—I'm too young… Barely twenty-two—I—can't," she stutters, getting distracted by the familiar buzz of swirling magic in her veins as Dolohov kisses his way up her torso, his large hand running up and down her leg.

"What did you say, little one?" he asks before his lips close around the delicate skin of her neck. He knows way too well what he's doing, fogging her mind with want and thirst to make her forget all her complaints. And fortunately for him, it's working. By the time he reaches her jaw, Hermione is back on board. He traps her lips in a bruising kiss, slipping his tongue in without hesitation.

"Mmh, nothing important," she shakes her head lightly, looking him dead in the eyes. He's toxic in the true meaning of the word—his touch, his lips, his body on hers cloud her thinking, making her forget that the outside world exists. When in his arms her world ends at the door. There's no war, all her worries and fears are long forgotten—she lives and breathes just for him.

"With me, you'll never have to worry about a single thing," he murmurs into her ear, hand slipping between her legs. "I'll take care of you. I promise you that—we are soul mates after all… Now let me tuck it right back in."

Hermione gasps as he slides two fingers in, pushing his cum deeper into her. She digs her nails into his shoulder, leaving half-moon marks on his flesh, as her arousal grows with the deliberate movement of his fingers.

She feels like a self-fulfilling prophecy, but her lust on this day feels unquenchable. "I need you again," her voice is barely over a whisper. She can feel him smile against her skin. "I want your cock. Please…" Hermione whimpers as his fingers curl inside of her.

"All in good time, little one," he chuckles. Her hips buck into his hand as his fingers keep brushing against the soft spongy spot that makes her see stars and her toes curl.

It doesn't take long for the coil of pleasure to grow and tighten in the pit of her stomach. She's extremely sensitive from before. The soft, small, calculated movements of his fingers within her and his thumb gently brushing against her clit is all it takes to make her come undone under him once again. Hermione wraps her arms around his neck, holding onto him for dear life. The orgasm crept up on her, hitting her weak and spent body like a pile of bricks.

She's still shaking lightly when he plunges back into her. As deep as her achy, tender body allows him.

Hermione sits on two opposite sides of the spectrum at the same time - exhausted and not wanting to be touched, but incredibly turned on and insatiable all at once. As he bottoms out, the tip of his cock meeting the surface of her, at this point, bruised cervix, a few stray tears roll down the side of her face, airing her frustration with the juxtaposition of her body and mind. Get railed or not to get railed, that's the question. Dolohov's lips crash into hers, devouring her like she is the air he needed to survive, fingers entangled in her hair.

The sound of slapping flesh fills the room, her soft grunts turn into whimpers and moans as his hips pick up the pace, thrusting into her. Hermione nearly sobs as his fingers find her clit again, circling it impatiently as he misses the feeling of her cunt clenching around him.

"You are so good, little one," Dolohov grunts, nuzzled into the side of her neck. "As if you were made just for me," he staccato-es, punctuating each word with a roll of his hips, relishing in the small sounds she makes whenever his pelvis meets hers. Wrapping her legs around his waist, Hermione pulls him closer. She is running her hands all over his back, up and down his arms, enjoying feeling his muscles, tracing over the countless scars—catching up on all the touching she missed out on earlier.

The strength of his magic in her system does not feel so overpowering anymore; their respective powers stopped battling for dominance within her veins and finally run through her as one. She stopped fighting it, finally making peace with the fact she belongs here with him. Giving up control and trusting the ancient magic to guide her to where she needs to be is all it took. Hermione can feel the change and judging by his loud exhale, he can too.

His thrusts become erratic as Hermione clenches around him, her back arching from the mattress as her vision blurs.

"I am yours," she whispers into his ear. The words slip out before Hermione manages to stop herself. It felt right in the moment.

Dolohov growls, his head rising from the crook of her neck. Her words make him shudder, looking into her eyes he knows she meant them. "I know. I can feel it," he murmurs against her lips before capturing them in a bruising kiss.

Hermione wakes to an empty bed. The spot next to her is still warm, he must have left only moments ago. She lazily peels her eyes open, looking around the room. For the first time in ages being greeted by a rising sun, sneaking through the heavy curtains. The bed is in disarray, they slept on the diagonal, pulling all the sheets with them.

She shivers as the memories of the past day and night flood her mind, but cannot help herself but smile. Hermione wraps herself in the sheets further, enjoying the leftover musk on the parts that were his. Her heart irrationally flutters at the thought of the bright-eyed man with a cleft chin and nearly perfect quiffed hair at all times.

Meanwhile the Gaunt Manor

"Ah, Antonin, there you are! We were getting worried," Voldemort exclaims with an audible level of glee as Dolohov walks through the door of the dark dining room, still fixing his shirt.

"My sincere apologies, my Lord," he responds smoothly, circling the table, finding his spot. "I got delayed." His eyes quickly scan the rest of the guests. Avery avoids looking at him, while Fenrir sports a rather shit-eating grin. At that very moment, he knows. He was betrayed.

"You arrived in just the best time," the Dark Lord muses, petting the head of the massive snake with his bony hand. "I heard something rather curious. And I hope you can bring some clarity into this issue."

Dolohov tilts his head, running his tongue over the front of his upper teeth. "Anything my Lord asks." His eyes dart towards Fenrir whose smirk grows with every passing second. The filthy wolf thinks he did something, Dolohov scoffs to himself.

"I am being told you captured Potter's Mudblood. Is that true?"

The table falls into shocked silence, everyone's eyes darting between the Dark Lord and Dolohov.

"Yes, I did," he admits without hesitation. All eyes are on him right that second. He sits there proudly with his head high. There is nothing he should be ashamed of. He is not guilty.

"Very well. And I am being told she escaped?"

Dolohov chuckles, shooting a glare at Fenrir. "No, my Lord, she didn't. The Mudblood is exactly where I want her to be."

"And that is?"

Antonin's tongue slips past his lips, wetting them briefly before turning to the Dark Lord. "My bed, my Lord. Just as you asked." Fenrir pales upon hearing the words and Voldemort's satisfying clap. "I broke her. She won't be aiding Potter no more."

"Avada Kedavra!"