A/N: I know. It's been forever! But this story is still going, I promise. :) Have faith in me!
Thank you to my loyal readers, reviewers, and followers. I appreciate you!
There's a love scene up ahead. Be gentle, my readers. I'm still learning to navigate the choppy waters that are limes and lemons.
Enjoy. R&R!
Chapter 37: Bloodless
Pleven, Bulgaria
Late January 2011
Shallow, uneven breaths greet her ears when entering the room. It won't be long now. Hermione takes out the wand Soo-jin gave her, whispering a Lumos and igniting the tip. Delores Umbridge barely even flinches at the change, not sensing Hermione's presence. Her greenish skin glows sickly when Hermione lights the candles on the the woman's bedside table.
The landlady appears at the door, a tea-tray in hand. "She isn't getting better," she says in Bulgarian.
Hermione takes the tea-tray from her and brings it to the bedside table before sitting down in the nearby chair. "She won't live through the night."
The landlady's nod is curt, her expression blank. Hermione's been around Mrs. Kolev enough to get a proper read on her. Barely a Half-Blood in a dangerously prejudice country where witches and wizards alike must have their 'lineage papers' on them at all times. Ana Kolev loathes Delores Umbridge. The woman was a Voldemort-sympathizer among other heinous attributes, and Kolev can't wait until her ugly, fat, toady body is gone from her establishment, paying patron or not.
Hermione is Radka Raykov, Half-Blood and has been the for the last several evenings. Radka is a seasoned mediwitch, unlike Hermione and has been assigned the evening shift for Delores Umbridge's case.
"There's nothing more that can be done for her," Hermione says to Mrs. Kolev. "I suggest you go upstairs and rest. I'll give her something for the pain. I'll let you know when to fetch the coroner."
"Yes, ma'am," she says, leaving the threshold.
Hermione sits on the bedside of the woman and jostles her. The woman's eyes flutter open, and she asks in dry, raspy voice, "Water, I beg."
"I've given you plenty of drinks." She doesn't bother with the Bulgarian accent anymore. She takes the teapot and a cup from the tray and pours herself a drink. Her lips form into a smirk, sipping from the cup. "And you downed them like an obedient little bitch, didn't you?"
Umbridge gasps, albeit weakly. She tries to move away from Hermione, but her ill and obese girth fails her. "Wha… Who are you? What have you been doing to me?"
"Nothing you haven't deserved." Hermione sets down the cup and saucer before crawling closer to the woman. "It isn't fair that it's me who gets to kill you."
Hermione slams her hand against Umbridge's damp forehead and cannonballs into her memories and picks them apart. Searching for faces. People. Hermione retracts, almost empty handed. She's got names and faces, but ages have gone by since Delores Umbridge was relevant. She's been cast out and ostracized. Pissed too many people off and burned too many bridges which is why she's holed up and alone, dying in a three-star inn in Nowhere, Bulgaria ran by a daughter of a Squib and a Half-Blood. Even Umbridge's Pureblood status couldn't get her any ritzier in this country.
Umbridge's mouth agape, open in a silent scream where her last breath soon escapes her. Hermione climbs off her, smoothing the wrinkles she made on the comforter. She sits down again on the chair.
Bringing her teacup to her lips, she considers her own guilt. Maybe it's progress she even has any. What disturbs her more is that this was exactly what she didn't want. To kill for someone else's ideology. It's no comfort at all playing double agent, and she got the go ahead from Ron Weasley and Severus Snape in killing Delores Umbridge. The woman was small potatoes and loathed by many. This won't always be the case. There will have to come a time when Weasley will drag his feet.
The coroner is sent, Hermione leaves him and landlady a fraudulent report and arrives back at Nott's in time to receive a message from Winifred via owl. Hermione had just been ready to lay down—it's almost two in the morning. But it's an emergency, and it's at Ron's house.
Summoning Bubble for an extra strength Pepper-Up Potion and a roast turkey sandwich, the elf practically feeds Hermione while the woman yanks on her real mediwitch uniform.
"How's Tonks?" asks Hermione.
"Master's prisoner caught a chill" Bubble reveals. "A rattle in the chest and won't drink all the potion given to get better."
Wonderful. Hermione suppresses a yawn. The all-day days are catching up to her.
Hermione and then Winifred enter Ronald Weasley residence via Floo. Said owner of the house leaps to his feet, and his mother is there holding and feeding baby Panju from a bottle.
"She hasn't been quite right," reveals Ron, looking uncomfortable and sheepish because of the squalor around him. He scratches the back of his neck. "In the head, you know. Since he was born. She just lays there or sits in the nursery not looking at him or touching—"
"You were right to contact me," interjects Winifred. "And how is baby? Is she nursing him?"
"Sometimes. I think her breasts…" Ron flushes, embarrassed, not finishing the sentence and looks to his mother for help.
"A touch of mastitis," reveals Molly.
Hermione follows Winifred into the nursery. Padma rocks back and forth in the rocking chair clutching a stuffed unicorn. It's dark inside the nursery and none of the lamps are lit. The only light coming in is through the open windows, and it's not very much. It's two o' clock in the morning, and they're here now instead of at a godly hour because Ron couldn't take a second more of his wife's 'baby blues'. Over a month since she's delivered, and she hasn't shaken her depression.
"I love him. I do," she tells them, her tone eerily vacant. She's looking out the window. "And I wanted him so badly before, but…the world. Why? How could I bring a baby into this world? Evil is everywhere. It lurks in the shadows. My sister…" Her voice trails off, and she clutches the side of her head. "I need her."
Winifred stares pointedly at Hermione, telling her it's her turn. Hermione walks over to the woman, crouching beside her, gently putting a hand on her arm. "We can get her."
There's a small table beside Padma. Hermione glances at what looks to be the Daily Prophet's horoscope section. Oh, dear. It's worse than imagined, Hermione sarcastically muses.
Padma shakes her head, her eyes distant. Unfocused. "They'll find her. They'll kill her like they killed Ginny."
"Pavarti is away," says Ron from the threshold of the nursery, "and unable to be here."
He catches Hermione's stare, dipping his chin. Which Hermione reads that the woman is either dead and no can know, missing and no one can know, or in hiding and no one can know.
"Oh, darling girl." Winifred comes opposite of Hermione, patting Padma's hand. "I'm sure your sister is fine. We're going to get you a spot of tea and get you to bed. A potent cup of Dreamless Sleep Potion is exactly what you need. Grandmummy and Daddy will care for the baby. Now if you'll part your robe for me."
Padma unties her robe enough to reveal her swollen, inflamed breasts. Her dark nipples appeared to be clotted, and Winifred clucks her tongue. She glances at Hermione, saying, "The potion and tea. Hit the latter with the fenugreek seed, raspberry leaves, and rosemary."
She doesn't return to Nott's until dawn. Over black coffee, a maple sausage roll, and idly pouring over Soo-jin's latest book recommendation The Irredeemable Pureblood, she accepts this will be her life for a long time.
February 2011
Hermione takes her breakfast of honeyed porridge and tea privately with Soo-jin. They're in the east-wing's tearoom. Seldomly used and not a single portrait on the walls. Nott is at work, and her lesson with Lupin isn't for another hour.
Pouring Hermione another cuppa of English Breakfast, Soo-jin says, "The Mentor already has your next assignment sorted out." Soo-jin puts down the teapot. "I think you'll like this one."
Hermione acknowledges her with a 'mmm' sound and a nod and reflects on The Mentor. She hasn't met him and finds his title fascinating. It's not captain, lord, master, or president. He presents himself humbly. As if he's educating as well as gently coaxing and encouraging his followers into structured genocide.
"And since you've proven yourself trustworthy, it's time you know the name of our cause." Soo-jin extends her hand over the modest spread food, and Hermione takes it. Squeezing.
Whitish gray, wispy swirls encircle their hands. Hermione feels a rush of vibrating magic pulse through her. Below her brand, a white mark appears consisting of what looks to be three stacked ovals and a crescent moon. The marking is bright white and thick as road paint. It glows for several seconds, burning white-hot before seeping into her skin. The magic spreads throughout her arm, igniting her veins. Soo-jin lets go of her hand, and Hermione clenches and unclenches her fingers.
"You're one of us now," says Soo-jin, proud. She repeats, this time with emphasis, "We are Bloodless."
"When do I meet The Mentor?"
"Soon enough." Soo-jin appears troubled for a moment. She scooches closer. "He knows how close you are to Harry. And Harry, well, he doesn't understand our cause. For a short while, he was an Undesirable. I'm sure it humbled him for a time, but he's forgotten what it's like to be looked down upon. He's wasted as an Auror and being one has made him too arrogant."
"But he's a great Auror."
"He should be in the Wizengamot. He would've made a better difference in society. If he would've just applied himself at Hogwarts…"
Hermione stares down at her porridge, appearing lost in thought. Eventually, she asks, "How can I gain our mentor's trust? Harry's a friend, but friend's come and go. People have differences and move on."
"Patience. We think Parkinson is in Seville. Her mother is from there. She's slippery and cleverer than we imagined. I'll put your name on the list to take care of her. He won't give it to you. Showing your eagerness will help. In the meantime, Sofia Devant is your next assignment."
"He wants her killed?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. There's also the obvious assignment that is Draco Malfoy." Soo-jin's face morphs into one of utter contempt. Her hand threateningly curls around a butter knife.
"What about Malfoy?" Hermione's genuinely curious. He's still wooing her hardcore and offering his face as chair. She'd rather not sit on that face if he's dead if she did oblige him.
And…she's become…sort of…fond of him.
In a way.
Not a crush.
Attraction, sure. But more like she's coming to respect him. He's an excellent healer and what Winifred's senile brain forgets, there's Draco Malfoy teaching Hermione that giving a two extra figure-eight stirs to the murlap essence, sprinkling a thimble full of newly sprouted knotgrass, and letting it simmer for a day longer will give that potion an extra kick.
"You've done good in gathering intel. We've been able to loosely track Parkinson because of your ganders in his office. We've even located the last few sprigs of the Rosier family. We thought they went extinct during the last war. Senegal and Haiti are where they're hiding.
"There's been talk amongst the uppers in Bloodless you may need to get closer to Malfoy. We need more detailed information and more locations if we can get them. I think you understand what Bloodless would be asking of you."
Setting down her butter knife with a sharp clink, Hermione eyes narrowed. "Does The Mentor really know is the better question."
"Preferably, Malfoy talking to you about who he's writing and where they are. We plan he would be comfortable enough for you to wander in and out of his study at will."
"Even if I was his girlfriend, I couldn't do that. I barely get away with it as a mediwitch snooping for dittany."
Soo-jin scratches her neck lazily. "A wife could."
"Soo-jin." Hermione's voice is quiet. Apprehensive. She can't be serious.
"Draco Malfoy's schedule is torn between being a healer and keeping friendly with other Purebloods. Especially since he's widowed and casually on the prowl for another wife. He's constantly travelling to his parents in France and distant relatives in other countries. Many of whom are in hiding because they are starting to catch on."
"Soo-jin," Hermione repeats.
The woman sighs. "Look, it hasn't been set in stone yet, but think of the possibilities. You are faithful to Bloodless, aren't you?"
"Draco Malfoy sickens me. Good healer or not, he'd mend a papercut on a Pureblood woman before aiding a splinched Muggle-born if given the choice. Him and people like him are poisonous to our progress."
"You're beautiful and clever, and I know they weren't teaching you just ballet and weapon-work in the Red Room. You will do this, 17, if The Mentor asks it of you."
"Don't encourage him."
"I doubt it'd get so far as to marrying him. If you can at least finagle an engagement ring from him."
Hermione frowns at her porridge. "HYDRA asked things like this of me. Asked me to whore myself for their cause. It wasn't right then, and it wouldn't be now."
Soo-jin's eyes narrow. "Is that what you think of me, 17, and my relationship with Theodore?"
"You're at least genuine in your feelings. You care for him and would've married him-"
"Mind yourself!"
What's left of Hermione's brand burns, and she paints a perfect expression of shame on her face despite wanting to grab a butter knife and drive it through one of Soo-jin's eye.
"Send another woman then," suggests Hermione quietly. "Please."
"They aren't trained like you. You spent your teenage years training to lay down, spread your legs, and think of Russia and HYDRA. At best, I could get Iliana Cattermole to get a dinner date with him. She's too angry and emotionally immature. She'd try to kill him. She might even succeed"
Hermione stores the name Iliana Cattermole for later use.
"I could train her to be stable—"
"God knows how long that would take. Bloodless needs someone on the inside as soon as possible. You know it has to be you."
Yes, Hermione did know that.
Damn.
Hermione collapses on Snape's chair in his personal study after a few vigorous hours of maze training and discussing Malfoy. With a flick of his wand, he levitates a cup of tea to her.
"What do you suggest before I take this to Weasley?" she asks.
Snape takes a seat across from her, fingers steepled. "You're certain she'll suggest this to...?" He lips curl. "The Mentor."
"Yes."
"I had hoped you working as a mediwitch and giving Umbridge to their cause would satiate them for a while longer." Without looking over his shoulder, he jerkily waves his wand at the door. It opens widely revealing Pansy Parkinson donned in fuzzy socks, black leggings, and a very loose blouse.
Hermione hasn't caught Parkinson full-on since December. There's something different about her. Her hair's longer, now passed her shoulder blades. And not ever being a particularly polite woman and having been instructed—beaten—to remain thin and strong much of her adolescent life, Hermione has to internally say being cooped up inside Snape's house must be getting to Parkinson. She's easily put on ten, maybe fifteen pounds.
And her ankles are looking thick. Swollen, even. She doesn't appear healthy. Her unfocused blue eyes reach Snape.
"Please don't let her hurt Draco. Don't let any of them hurt him or Scorpius."
Snape raises a finger. "No one is going to harm Draco or Scorpius if we can help it. Allowing this assignment will ensure Draco and his family for the time being. However, I see no reason why she must start immediately when we can dangle another morsel in front of them. You've been hopscotching across the world, haven't you? Letting them chase you. It's high time you let them catch up to in...Seville, is it? Hermione?"
"Hm."
"Do you still have the hair strand of Miss Parkinson?"
"I do."
"The potions you've been hiding in your bathroom cupboard. How many vials now?"
"Forty-three."
"Polyjuice potion," says Parkinson, eyes blinking owlishly. "That's what she's been brewing, isn't she? That's why you told me to leave a strand of hair for her."
Polyjuice? Hermione had never been given a name, just a directions and a list of ingredients—some she had to scavenge on her own. What the potion does exactly, Hermione has no idea. Snape just said it was absolutely vital to have during times of war. She thought it was some fancy healing potion, but now she's not sure.
"The hair I gave her has to be used," says Parkinson, her voice quiet. "I won't give anymore. I…I can't now."
"I'm aware of your situation, Pansy." Snape stands up and faces her. "I'm aware of all matters going on in my house. That's why I asked for the hair a couple of months ago. If you would've been honest with me from the beginning, we could have prevented this very thing."
"I was afraid you would make me leave, and I wouldn't be safe anymore."
"If anything, I would've given you a firm talking-to. You do realize how dangerous it was for you to contact him. Inviting him here where you are most safe. If someone caught the faintest idea..."
"I was lonely. I needed a friend here with me, and I made the mistake of betting on the wrong horse the last war and humiliating myself. Any bit of respect I might've had before was gone in moments. I wasn't going to do it again, and if I can't trust him of all people, I can't trust anybody. Not even you." Parkinson pinches her eyes shut, rubbing her temple. "I'd like to do this another time. I've a migraine."
"Pansy, wait." Hermione stands. "You haven't been examined, and now that I see what's going on, you're well into your second trimester. Twenty-two weeks, maybe."
"I'm not letting you touch me." Pansy palms her stomach protectively.
"How long have you been having headaches? Your ankles. How long have they been like that?"
"It's not uncommon to gain weight—"
"I think she could possibly have pre-eclampsia," Hermione says to Snape. "It's when a pregnant—"
He rushes to Pansy, cupping her shoulders. "Get a vial, relieve yourself in it, and then go lay down."
A deep blush colors Pansy's cheeks. "I beg your pardon?"
"You could be fatally ill. I know I'm right in my studies when I say there isn't a quick, easy potion she can knock back at make this all go away."
"Not without terminating the pregnancy," replies Snape.
Pansy wrenches herself out his grip. "They may do that barbaric practice ever so freely in the Muggle world, but I didn't even know I could get pregnant. Marcus and I tried for so long, and when I couldn't…"
"For Christ's sake, go pee in a vial," Hermione orders. "Let me treat you. We can't trust anyone else to come and do it without risking the word getting out you're here and embarrassingly vulnerable. If you don't and do have pre-eclampsia, your baby will die and so will you."
Pansy's blue eyes narrow, and like that, she's composed herself. She pushes back her squared shoulders and sticks up her nose. "If you're going to really try to make it as a mediwitch, you're going to have work on your bedside manner. You. Suck. Arse."
With a flourish of long, raven-black hair, she whirls around and stomps off. The sound of a cupboard opening and then slamming shut echoes from down the hallway.
"Who's the father?" asks Hermione.
Snape shoots her a nasty look. "Like you don't know."
Hermione's two fingers deep in Pansy and still doesn't know who did the deed to her. With the supervision of Snape, Hermione was able to brew a potion that would lower her blood pressure. It's still currently a little higher than Hermione would prefer, but Pansy's headache has somewhat lessened. A diagnostic charm on the fetus's heartbeat proved it was fine. A little weak, yet nothing to be concerned about just yet.
Removing her fingers from Pansy's vagina, Hermione discards the gloves. "Placenta intact. No indication of bleeding."
Still staring up at the ceiling, cheeks flushed, she primly closes her legs and pushes down the hem of her nightdress.
"I can tell you the sex if you'd like," offers Hermione. "I saw it when I cast the diagnostic charm when seeing the baby's heartbeat."
"Okay," she replies after a delay
"You're having a girl."
Pansy cups her ribs, tearing her eyes from the ceiling to look at it. "I was foolish to not be careful. The world is becoming so dangerous again."
"The dad is the one who got his business up in yours. Blame him."
The woman almost smiles. "I'm sure you know how helpless men are."
Hermione snorts. "Understatement." She gets up to leave her bedside. "Take another small sip of potion after you've eaten in the morning. Lots of water. Cut back to one cup of tea a day. Porridge, leafy greens, and fruit for at least a week. I'll be checking in when I'm here to work with Snape. Elevating your legs will encourage the reduction of swelling."
Pansy sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "How's Theo?"
Hermione shrugs, hiding her surprise at Pansy's direct question and eliminates the possibility of Theo being the father. "I hardly see him, I'm so busy. Fine, if I had to guess. It's...hard to know with him for sure. He keeps things close to the chest."
This time just does smile, though it's bitter. "He's always been good at lying and keeping secrets and feelings away from those who could and would exploit them." She tosses her hair over one shoulder and combs her finger through it. They are swollen and uncooperative, and she winces. Frustrated. "He tends to blow after a while, though. You can only bottle up so much for so long before exploding."
Dabbing a few drops of Sanitizing Potion on her hands, Hermione rubs them together. "Do you want me to braid your hair?"
Her brows arch. Her pug nose wrinkles in distaste, yanking her fingers from her hair with a grunt of frustration. "While we exchange secrets and talk about our crushes and first times?"
"I'll take that as a rain check."
Hermione leaves Snape's and arrives via Floo to Nott's patio. Inside, Isabella runs towards her before deciding to finish her journey by attempting piqué turns. Her first one isn't bad, but the four following are atrocious.
Crouching down, Hermione takes Isabella's face in her hands. "You need to learn how to spot, young lady. Go back and do it again. Four clean turns and then maybe ice cream sundaes."
Isabella knows better than to poke out her bottom lip in an indignant, pouty huff. Twenty minutes later, Hermione's satisfied with Isabella's attempts, and they go to the kitchen and ask Bubble for banana splits doused in extra hot fudge. Later, Isabella falls asleep in her near empty bowl, melted ice cream and chocolate plastered against her face.
Once Hermione's finishes with her own dish and polishes off a basket of Bubble's special fish and chips, she picks up Isabella and holds her while climbing the stairs to their bedrooms. She lays her down on her girly pink, princess-y canopy bed and summons Ripper to get her washed up and dressed for bed. When she leaves the girl's bedroom, Nott is there waiting for Hermione.
"Good. You're here," says Hermione. "I'm going to start taking Isabella to her ballet lessons and her upcoming rehearsals."
Nott takes a puff of his lit cigarette. "When the hell are you going to find the time to do that? Lessons in the morning with Lupin. Checking in with Tonks at noon. Lessons in the afternoon with Severus. Sometimes you don't even come home until…" He checks his watch, ticking his head. "Ten o' clock. An improvement. You're actually home before tomorrow."
"I have to take her to those lesson."
"Wouldn't do it out of the kindness of your heart? Which master is pulling your chain now?"
Interesting. Pretending to know what's happening. A great approach…for someone who hadn't grown up with the Black Widow.
"I'm doing this because I care about her. It will also lighten the load on Ripper since he's always tending to the grounds and horses and caring for Isabella."
Nott carelessly flicks his cigarette. In a blink, he's got her pressed against a wall between two portraits. His hand is around her neck, mouth close to her cheek. Her hand does come up and wrap around his wrist. He expects this and grabs that limb, using it to twirl her, so her front is pressed into the wall. Her arm is bent and stretched awkwardly to the point he could dislocate her shoulder. Lucky for Hermione, she's flexible enough and has two more clicks of her joint before that will happen.
Theo's front is flush against her back and small mercies, he's not erect. If he tries to force himself on her, she'll kill him, but she has yet to peg him as a rapist. Borderline sociopath, sure.
Click, goes her joint.
"You're not going to involve Isabella in your games," he hisses in her ear.
"Take her out of dance for all I care. Either way, I have to be there."
"Why?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
Click.
That…does hurt a little. "If you break my arm, Nott, I'll break both of yours. You do realize I'm humoring you right now."
She feels him apply more pressure, and her head flings back. His head jerks to the side, and she uses her strength to push her weight backwards and plant both feet on the wall. Springing from there, she turns towards her twisted arm and wraps her thighs around shoulders. With a full body twist and a somersault onto the floor, she's back on her feet.
"What is Snape having you really do?" he asks, gingerly getting to his feet.
"Suck him off."
He lunges at her, bringing southpaw kickboxing Hermione isn't quite prepared for. He lands a punch to her to jaw. She takes his other incoming fist and uses it, to throw him over her shoulder in one classic and smooth move. His back hits the floor with a sold, satisfying thud.
The onlooking portraits rattle in their frames. A group of teenage girls excitedly tuck into a golden bowl of grapes.
"You can't beat me," she tells him, circling him. "You can hit me. You can bruise me. You may even make me bleed. But you can't beat me, Theodore."
Even from his position, he hasn't given up. "Why are learning to be a fucking mediwitch? Why are you going to all these poor fucker's houses and dipping into their business? What does that bitch have planned for the rest of my friends?"
"I need to learn a trade. I'm starting to feel I'm overstaying my welcome. I may need to earn an honest living, so I can get a place of my own or something."
His goes for her legs, and she manages to catch herself before hitting the floor. Theo's on her, engulfing her in his arms and rolling her onto her front. Both her arms are trapped behind her back now, and he's laying his full weight down on her. His wand digs into the side of her neck.
This position…isn't ideal. Even for her, it's tricky to get out of but not impossible. Using strength alone, she'll have to lift using her core, back, and thigh strength. Before she can do just that, she feels an intrusion much like how Snape invades her mind. She falls on her training and leads Nott down a pathway he has no use for, but he's more talented than Soo-jin. He finds a weak wall alongside her maze and knocks it down. Her reaction is quick yet panic-stricken.
When Dr Lawrence throws her seven-year-old self in the boot of his car, she keeps Theo there. Locked inside with her. He can't go forward. The sounds of her weeping for her parents and screaming to be let out grates on him. He has no other choice but to retract and once he does, it's as satisfying as removing an eyelash stuck in her eye.
"How much longer do I have to fucking keep doing this?" he asks her after a few minutes. He's still laying on her. "I don't know how much longer I can go on pretending."
"Kill her then. I won't stop you."
"I sure as hell want to kill both of you."
"You know the spell. Do it. Put us both out of our miseries."
"Thought you had unfinished business out there."
"There's no way I'm getting out alive of what's coming." Hermione looks over her shoulder. "Either you kill me now, or Snape will if not Soo-jin. Or one of my masters as you so lovingly called them."
Nott lays on her for a few moments longer before moving off her. She rolls onto her back. He's still crouched over her. His glasses are low on the bridge of his nose. One of the lenses is cracked.
The tension, still thick, shifts between them...
Hermione is distinctly aware at this very second that she hasn't had sex since fucking July.
And it wasn't even that good.
Her lips reach for Nott's, and he meets her halfway. She combs her fingers through his ruffled brown locks. There's a floppiness to them. His own fingers emerge themselves into her hair, too, using them to guide her to sit on his lap. She grinds her pelvis against his, her mouth opening to invite him inside. His tongue touches hers, and she's starts in on his sweater vest. She removes that and touches him underneath his soft white oxford. His skin is warm, and his torso smooth. There mouths separate for a moment, but only to fling off the oxford which is followed by her sweater.
Nott's hand's fall to cover her breasts, kneading her through her plain black bra. She lowers a hand to cup him through his trousers while the other undoes his belt, button, and zipper. Her exploring palm finds him through the flap in his boxers. He groans into her mouth before resting his chin on her shoulder. His stuttering breath hits her skin, and she nips at his earlobe.
His fingers slip underneath her bra, his pointer and middle fingers circling her nipples. Her hand continues its ministrations, his hips erratically jerking towards her. He must be getting close because he grabs her wrist, stopping her. He kisses her again, biting her bottom lip before coaxing her to lay on the floor. Polished wooden planks pressing into her back as she kicks off her ankle boots and socks. He unbuttons and unzips her jeans. While he slides them off her legs, his thumbs brush the imprint of the seam left on her outer thighs.
Stroking that temporary imperfection must've made him curious. His fingers travel over her scars. The bullet scars. The knife slices. Her apple scar. He traces the curves, from the sternum down and outward, back down her thighs. He finds the faded marking the Winter Soldier gave her in that altercation by the border of Iraq. He goes upward, purposefully skimming over the crotch of her underwear.
He moves to her ved'ma scar, and by this point, she knows he's trying to make her flinch. So that she'll shy away, call him an asshole, and tell him to fuck off. Two can play that game, she lifts up enough to touch his Dark Mark. Not gently. No tracing. Her pointer and middle finger press into the skull's head. She pushes her fingers into the meat of his forearm, smearing them down to the snake's head and passed that. She takes his hand and slides his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear.
He mutters profanities to himself, eyes not on her center but the inside of her spread legs. When her thighs clench, his free hand comes to her left adductor. He hungrily massages the pronounced muscle. "Bet you could crush a bloke's head with these."
"Or a woman's."
"Bloody hell, witch." He rips off her underwear and brings his lips to her lower stomach, and she leans back on her elbows and reflects how she kind of likes being called witch in such a setting.
The moment he swipes at her with his tongue, her head falls back, and she moans for the first time. Sure, it was all good before, but now it's really, really good.
So good.
More than a little rough, just the way she likes it.
At the cusp of her climax, her eyes open, and she's very aware of ten or so silenced portraits staring down at them. Some are horrified, disgusted, etc. Others are, honest to God, silently cheering on Nott as he feast on her like a famished beast. Laughter bubbles out of her when she comes.
"Something funny?" he asks, nipping at her labia.
She sits up fully, pushing on his shoulders, not even considering returning the favor. She wants another orgasm or several. "Take off your pants."
He scooches out of them, and a sick thrill pulses through her that she's taking Nott from Soo-jin. Even if it's just ten minutes.
Hermione sinks down on him, gathers her hair in a fist, and rides him. Her eyes close, and she tries to think of another man who she'd rather have underneath her. Brock, maybe. But he feels so different than Nott, it's impossible to pretend. She opens her eyes and accepts that it's him, he'll do for now, and hate sex is always fun. He even impresses her by taking control after she comes the first time. He flips her onto her back and puts one of her legs over his shoulder and makes her come again. He tries to coax another one out of her in that position but ends up flipping her onto her elbows and knees, hands on her hips as she comes for the last time right when he finishes deep inside her.
After that, Hermione would've unabashedly picked up her clothes and walk off to her room without a word. But Nott couldn't just let her be. He had to relax against the wall, light a cigarette, compliment her on how 'bloody fucking fantastic that shag had been' and ask her if she takes potions or does spells.
"What are you talking about?"
He gestures at her with his cigarette. "Birth control. Are you on a potion? Do you need a potion? Do you need me to cast a spell? I can't imagine Lupin or Severus teaching it to you—"
"I was sterilized when I was eighteen."
To avoid an argument, she decides to be up front with him. She's not ashamed of what the KGB forced on her, but it's not something she flamboyantly parades in front of everyone. Especially here. Fertility is such a sensitive topic among these people's culture and why wouldn't it be? There was a war. Young, childless people died.
Nott's cigarette tilts to the side, and he nods vaguely. "Sure, sure," he muffles. He looks elsewhere. Anywhere. It's as close as he'll let her see how the mood has changed to uncomfortable territory.
His reaction is unlike Harry's, who felt like she was cheated out of a choice—and perhaps she was—and bombarded her with all the magical ways she could become whole. He didn't use that term, but out of curiosity, she did a little research on the matter of uterus regrowth, and the word was tossed around rather generously and misogynistically. A young woman is only a fraction unless she has a functioning oven, apparently.
What of the men shooting blanks, huh?
The research gave Hermione the dire impression of how Europe's magical population continues to dwindle. Apparently, there was even talk of a Marriage Law after the Second Wizarding War where the government planned to set up betrothals for those of age and coming of age. Once word got out, a lot of unready kids ran off and eloped—Harry being one of them—with the love of their teenage lives. Some of them worked out. Others, no. The proposition was overturned at the Wizengamot for obvious ethical reasons.
Once Hermione's done with her thoughts and has her clothes in her arms, Nott's almost done with his cigarette. "Want to go for a swim?" he asks.
To be Continued...
