A/N: This plunny just won't leave me alone, so here I am, back again to give you another hit of Death Eater deliciousness. I'm so grateful to all of you who've been taking the time to read and review. It's so sweet of you! Much love! xx-Kitten.
Firewhiskey Nights
By Kittenshift17
Chapter 3
Hermione Granger was in a wretched mood two weeks after the incident at Halloween. She had managed to avoid both Ginny and Ronald Weasley by being clever enough to not give them access to her flat. After the number of times Antonin Dolohov had broken in and scared the living hell out of her, Hermione was extremely private and careful about who she gave her address to and she didn't at all like to give it out. It was obviously also a very useful way to keep any unexpected guests from dropping by her house. Harry and her parents were the only ones who'd been given access to the place and he'd been wise enough not to ask her about what the Weasley siblings had walked in on at the Leaky Cauldron.
Unfortunately, however, the Ministry was not unplottable and not under Fidelius charm and therefore the sight of Ron Weasley standing in the doorway to her office – which he wasn't supposed to be able to access within the Department of Mysteries – was not one that put her in a good mood. Indeed, these days the sight of Ron Weasley in any capacity put her in a rather foul mood. Something that was only compounding upon her already wretched day taking this unexpected and unwanted turn.
"What do you want, Ron?" Hermione demanded of the red-head, glaring up at him from her place behind her desk.
"Who were you fucking?" Ron asked by way of greeting, not even bothering with niceties anymore.
"My sex life is no longer your business, Ronald," Hermione retorted. "If that will be all, I suggest you get out of my doorway and out of my department before you get caught down here. You know you're not allowed in this part of the Ministry."
"If that will be all?" he parroted, raising both eyebrows in a sneering expression of disbelief. "What? You think you can just dismiss me like one of the little boot-lickers who works under you in this wretched department?"
Hermione felt anger scald through her so hot it could burn someone, radiating from her middle and working through her limbs.
"Actually, I can have you thrown right the fuck out of my office, Ronald," Hermione retorted, shooting to her feet. "You do not have any right to question me about who I've been sleeping with or what else I may or may not have been doing with my time. You gave those rights up when you started screwing your secretary, Harry's secretary, and that ridiculous sandwich-cart girl. You gave up the right to know anything about me or my choices when you walked away from our relationship."
"What the fuck else were you expecting, Hermione?" Ron demanded. "It's been more than clear since I was fucking met you that family is important to me. That family is everything to me. And you were telling me you don't want to have that."
"I was telling you I can't have that!" Hermione hissed, her eyes narrowing to slits even as she tugged the hem of her shirt from inside her skirt, jerking it up to reveal the dancing purple flames marring the soft, pale flesh over her rids.
Ron flinched at the sight of the scar that had made him uncomfortable since she'd first been cursed by Dolohov.
"How many times have you seen it?" Hermione demanded of her ex fiancé in a harsh voice, "How many times have you watched it begin to dance when I get worked up or distracted? You think I was saying I simply didn't want to have kids with you?"
She scoffed out a choked laugh.
"I loved you, you daft idiot! I'd have done anything for you. Including going against the long-held ideals I had in place pertaining to the number of children I wanted. You told me that you wanted a big family and I'd have given it to you, if I were able!" Hermione snarled. "This makes it so that I physically can't! I had all the tests, Ronald. I discovered the hard way the reason that, despite never having used contraceptives since we finished school, you and I never managed to conceive life. And rather than making the effort to find any of that out – to even listen to me try to tell you why I was saying we couldn't have kids – you walked away. You walked away and crawled between some other woman's legs with no regard for my feelings."
Ron was eyeing her scar with the same look he always wore when he saw it. Fear, morbid curiosity and just a hint of disgust.
"And you dare to barge into my hotel room when I'm having sex with someone else? You dare to scoff about the idea that I must like being watched because Dolohov – the fucking bastard responsible for the problems in our relationship in the first place – happened to have broken into my bedchamber as he's done a number of times before when you've been present? You dare to storm into my office and demand to know who I was having sex with as though it's any of your business?" Hermione snapped.
"What the fuck else was I supposed to think? You certainly didn't seem to mind that Ginny was standing there gabbing in the doorway and Dolohov was watching from the couch while some other bastard licked your cunt," Ron retorted.
"It'd hardly my fault that I found someone much more sexually gifted than you, Ronald," Hermione hissed. "I was a little too preoccupied being foisted into orgasm to even realise Dolohov was in the room."
"Well, that just makes you a sloppy whore," Ron snarled, his ears turning red at her slur upon his sexual prowess.
"If I were you," a cold, steely, Russian-accented voice spoke from behind Ron, "I'd walk away, right now."
Dolohov.
Hermione narrowed her eyes even further when the dark-haired Russian wizard appeared behind Ron. She watched the way he slipped something, unnoticed by the fuming red-head, into Ron's pocket that Hermione doubted would be friendly. Part of her recognised that she should say something to prevent Ron leaving with an undoubtedly cursed object in his pocket that would likely cause him a good deal of grief when he found it. She was a little busy, however, realising that she was still baring her midriff and her scar to Dolohov's gaze. Attempting to pull her shirt down to cover it, Hermione hissed when Dolohov darted into the room, hitting her with a curse to immobilise her.
Frozen stiff in a position that still bared her midriff, Hermione watched Dolohov shove Ron unceremoniously from her office and into the corridor, despite his shouts of protest, before he closed and warded the door. Unable to move, Hermione could only watch as the creepy bastard came closer, invading her space as he was so prone to doing these days.
"If you promise not to scream or to try hexing me, I'll release the spell," he informed her amicably, even as he closed the distance between them.
Hermione felt the strangest tingle run through her as he caught the back of her neck before pushing her backwards. She didn't know what kind of immobilization spell it was, because when he touched her, he was able to manipulate her limbs as though she were a life-sized doll. Lowering her backwards even as he turned her body, Dolohov laid her back until she was lying on top of her desk.
She tried to make a sound of protest as he lifted both of her legs, placing her feet – bare thanks to the way she'd kicked her heels off – on her office chair before he pried her thighs apart and stood between them. The muffled sound of her scream drew his eyes from her midriff to his face.
"Would you relax?" he asked her. "In all the time I've been free, have I ever tried to hurt you, Zaichik?"
Hermione found as he stared at her that she could blink.
"No?" he asked. "I've broken into your flat while you slept, while you fucked, while you bathed, while you danced around with that wretched beast you call a cat when you thought no one was around to see you do it. Did I ever hurt you? Did I ever force myself on you?"
Hermione's cheeks flamed crimson at the idea of having had an audience in him any number of times without her realising it.
"No," he answered his own question when she was unable to. "I didn't. So relax. I guarantee that if you and I ever fuck, it'll be completely consensual. I just want to see your scar."
Hermione stared at him, trying to rationalise his words and his behaviour. If she was being honest, in the three years he'd been free of prison, Hermione had grown rather used to him. Always in the background somewhere, lurking across the alley when she went to lunch. Riding the elevator through the Ministry with her when she couldn't exit the wretched thing quickly enough whenever she found him inside one with her. Worse, waking to the sight of him, knife or wand in hand as he leaned over Ron in the bed she'd shared with her ex-fiancé.
She remembered, in the beginning, feeling certain that he would try to hurt her; try to finish what he'd started in this very department of the Ministry ten years ago. But he never had. Indeed, his target in the home invasions instances and the recipient of the cursed objects he sent had always been Ron. When it had become obvious that he wasn't trying to kill her – given the number of times he'd had the opportunity to do so without taking them – Hermione had begun to think he must have some sort of obsession with her. That he'd developed an interest in her, sexually or romantically. And yet the number of times she had sex with other men without him flying into a rage – even when he was in the room, as he'd been with Rowle and occasionally with Ron – made her wonder about that too.
"If you're willing to cooperate, I'll lift the spell," he informed her, his eyes on her midriff once more as he unbuttoned her blouse without permission until he'd peeled the two sides of fabric apart.
Hermione stared her hatred at him as she glanced at the lacy navy bra she'd donned that morning, noticing idly that he didn't seem surprised by the sight, or like he cared one way or the other if he saw her breasts. His attention was fixed on her scar and Hermione could feel the burn of it as it danced.
"Can I touch it?" he asked, lifting his gaze to hers and Hermione felt the spell holding her immobile melt away.
"How dare you?" Hermione hissed furiously, reaching for her shirt in an attempt to close it, only to have his hands encircle her wrists and lift them above her head, pinning them to the desk either side of her head.
"Zaichik, why must you make things between us so complicated?" he asked, looking amused and yet slightly frustrated with her too. "Just let me look. Finn tells me you can't conceive as a result of this thing? I've read your medical file, little mouse, and I'm betting they're wrong."
Hermione narrowed her eyes on him when he used a sticking charm to keep her hands on the desk while he released her wrists.
"What would you know about it? Blast it all, Dolohov, will you please get off me?" Hermione demanded.
"Manners?" he asked, his gaze jerking up to meet hers in shock as his eyebrows rose. "I think that's the first time you've ever been polite to me, witch. And all it took was peeling you out of your blouse."
He smirked at her wickedly, obviously enjoying the idea of tormenting her. Hermione thought seriously about spitting in his face, but she didn't think she'd be able to hit him, and would most likely end up just getting spittle all over herself.
"I'm going to touch you now," he warned her.
"As though you hadn't already?" Hermione rolled her eyes.
"That wasn't a protest," he informed her smugly before he touched her in a way she didn't at all expect.
Using only the very tips of his fingers, he traced the shape of the flames where they danced on her flesh and Hermione felt her back arch of its own accord, the magic in the scar and, indeed, her own core magic reacting to the touch as it never had before.
"Oooh," he murmured. "That was fun."
Hermione knew she let out a little whimper when he did it again, the pads of his fingers cold and light against her skin, which suddenly burned like Fiendfyre in a most pleasurable way.
"When other people touch them," he asked, his eyes widening slightly. "Does this happen?"
"No," Hermione panted. "What are you doing? Stop it. Gods, please don't do it again."
He did it again.
Hermione heard the soft whine that escaped her at the touch. There was nothing sexual about the touch or his rather clinical expression, but there was something about the feel of it that made her whole body tingle. Not entirely in a good way. This wasn't the type of feeling that led to wild sex, or even bad sex. This was the type of feeling like the tingle in one's feet and legs when standing high above the ground and preparing to jump. The tingle in one's hands before touching something new and wonderful for the first time. It was like a jolt of electricity racing through her at a very low frequency. Not enough to make her jerk away or make her hair stand on end, but enough to get her attention and make her jittery.
"Does it hurt?" Dolohov asked her, tracing his fingers over the flames which suddenly danced so high that Hermione could feel them climbing her breasts and spreading across her chest, making her heart race.
"No," Hermione shook her head, "It feels…. Like…."
"Magic," he supplied, smirking at her. "It feels like that tingle just before you unleash a spell, right?"
Hermione nodded her head, her gaze suddenly fixed upon his face. He was handsome in a sly sort of way, even with the facial hair lining his jaw and that wicked glitter in his eyes. At least ten or fifteen years older than her, he'd sacrificed some of what she expected had been extremely good looks to Azkaban. His dark hair had a slight wave to it and he wore a beard, neatly trimmed and short, but still thick. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and intrigue when he met her gaze for a moment.
"Why?" she asked him quietly.
"You said it doesn't feel that way when anyone else touches you?" he confirmed, tracing his fingers over the marks and leaning over her.
Under ordinary circumstances, Hermione would either have been very turned on or very afraid to find herself in such a position with a man. And yet, as she stared at him while he traced the flames upon her flesh, Hermione felt strangely safe in a way she was sure she hadn't since she'd been a girl.
"Not that I've noticed," Hermione admitted. "When I get worked up, they dance, but they don't usually tingle like that."
Dolohov stared at her for several long moments.
"Do something for me, would you?" he asked.
"You mean other than lie still while you partially strip me and touch me inappropriately?" Hermione snarked.
"Don't pretend you're upset when I can practically see your brain whirring behind your eyes, Zaichik," he told her, smirking just a little bit. "No, I want you to cast a spell while I'm touching the marks."
"You're giving me permission to hex you?" Hermione grinned cruelly at the very idea.
"That smart mouth will get you in trouble one day, witch," he replied. "Levitate a book off the shelf over there."
He nodded in the direction of her bookshelf, waving his hand over her wrist and letting her lift the limb so that it was no longer stuck to the desk. Narrowing her eyes on the wizard, Hermione did as he asked even if she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know why he wanted her to do it.
"Oooooh!" he hummed, shuddering suddenly as she called upon her magic with him still touching her scar and Hermione felt a responding shudder race through her as she levitated the book.
"What was that?" Hermione hissed, her spread legs snapping closed around the Russian's torso as he pressed closer to her.
Hermione narrowed her eyes on him when she felt an alarming hardness pressing against the junction of her thighs.
"That was the feel of your magic tugging on mine," he replied, smirking and looking rather amazed by it all. "I think that when my curse failed to affect you the way it was supposed to, the part of my magic contained in the curse latched onto your magical core somehow. The flames dance when you're distracted or angry, don't they?"
Hermione stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any hint that he was aware that he was currently holding her in a very compromising position, his fingers still caressing her skin while he pressed his erection to her lady-bits through their clothing. He didn't seem to have even noticed it. Indeed, his dark eyes were bright, glittering with curiosity and discovery.
"Generally yes, they only move when I'm furious about something, or if I'm completely distracted by something, usually sex."
"Thorfinn mentioned that they danced and grew very hot when he made you come," Antonin nodded his head, still looking clinical.
"What did he do? Rate me?" Hermione scoffed.
"I asked him about your scar," Dolohov rolled his eyes. "We don't bother rating witches anymore unless they rate on a score of one to ten as being potential mothers for our children."
Hermione blinked at his frank answer.
"You're a very odd wizard, Dolohov, do you know that?" Hermione asked him.
"I've accepted it, yes. You should too."
"Why? I have no intention of associating with you," Hermione retorted.
Dolohov had the audacity to roll his eyes.
"You associate with me every day," he corrected her. "Not only because I stalk you, either. This is literally my magic, inside of you."
"Take it back then," Hermione replied. "I'm sure you'll stop stalking me if you take it back."
He tipped his head to one side, regarding her as though she were an adorable child who'd just informed him the sky was blue.
"Why would I stop stalking you, Zaichik?" he asked, looking slightly baffled but mostly patronising. "I enjoy stalking you. You intrigue me."
"I knew you were creepy," Hermione muttered, her cheeks flushing pink.
"You believe it creepy than any man could be intrigued by a beautiful woman? A powerful witch?" he tipped his head to one side.
"I meant that I knew there was a creepy reason you were stalking me," Hermione sighed. "When you never tried to hurt me, I figured you must just be romantically invested in me."
"I'm not in love with you," he laughed. "No, you simply intrigue me because you are an excursion in contradictions."
"So you're not going to remove your magic from my person and leave me alone?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows at him.
"I'm not certain I could remove it without killing you," he admitted truthfully, looking back at her scar and tracing his fingers over it again.
Hermione's body arched under the touch of its own accord.
"You said that it dances when you come, yes?" he clarified.
Hermione nodded.
"Can I see?" he asked curiously.
"Now you want to make me orgasm? And yet you're denying that you're a psycho stalker intent on ravaging me?" Hermione asked, scoffing. "Do you actually think I'm going to consent to letting you touch me?"
"I'm already touching you," he pointed out. "But if you're not comfortable with me touching you, I'd be happy to watch while somebody else brings you to orgasm. I got a decent look when you shagged Thorfinn on Samhain, but then your pet weasels interrupted and you panicked."
"Do you imagine anyone would be interested in doing that unless they were planning to sell a story to the paper about how me?" Hermione asked him seriously. "Wouldn't that look good? Exhibitionist War Heroine demands that Death Eater who tried to murder her that time be allowed to watch her fuck."
"I wasn't suggesting you fuck just anyone," Dolohov frowned at her. "You've shagged Thorfinn before. I doubt he'd mind doing it again."
"He claimed not to enjoy an audience," Hermione reminded him.
"Shouldn't have been fucking on my kitchen counter then, should he?" Dolohov laughed. "If you'd had your shirt off, I'd have gotten a good look and everything would've been fine."
Hermione stared at the man where he still stood between her spread legs, his erection pressed against the junction of her thighs. She hated herself when curiosity got the better of her.
"Of course, the easiest option would be to let me make you orgasm, but you seem rather opposed to the idea," he frowned at her like she were a perplexing puzzle.
"Gee, I can't imagine why?" Hermione scoffed.
"You're never going to let it go that I cursed you, are you?" he sighed. "I had my orders, witch, and I followed them. You were caught in the crossfire, and I served my sentence."
"You were only released because the Ministry is afraid to let too many magical bloodlines die out," Hermione reminded him. "I wouldn't put it past them to throw the lot of you back into prison once you've conceived with a witch or two."
"Neither would I," he frowned. "Which actually brings me to an idea I wanted to discuss with you."
"Can we discuss it when I have my shirt on?" Hermione asked, hating her own curiosity.
"Why?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused.
"Dolohov, I'm lying on my desk, half-naked, with a known Death Eater standing between my spread legs. To make matters worse you came in here and attacked me in front of Ron. The Aurors will likely break down the door any second now and this will end up in the papers," Hermione told him.
"You're right," he nodded. "We should continue this elsewhere."
Hermione screamed when he scooped one arm under her to support her before Disapparting them both with a sharp crack.
