Disclaimer: Still not my characters and whatnots. Thank you for letting me play with them, JKR :)
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It wasn't love.
It couldn't be. How perverse to even think it.
His voice was not beautiful. It was his words she liked. Cloying. Soothing. Empowering. She liked to hear him talk because of what he said, not how he said it.
His eyes were not deep, or pretty, or mesmerizing. They were dark, and hunted, and ever searching. Ever searching, because what he looked for he would never find. Not really.
She doesn't adore him, no matter how often she smothers him in kisses.
It's a trick. A mind game. Subterfuge.
This is a war, after all, and people have to do what they can to survive and win.
And Death Eaters don't deserve to be loved.
The first time she saw his mark, it piqued her curiosity, not her fear response as he had assumed it would. She grabbed his forearm, much to his surprise, and pulled him close for a thorough inspection.
She'd never seen one close up before. His skin was still raised and tender looking, and he had sucked in a shuddering breath when she gently traced the tip of her finger along the mouth of the skull, then down the snake protruding from it.
"It's a bit homoerotic, isn't it?" she had mused out loud.
Shocked by her whimsical irreverence, he had pulled his arm back and nearly began to retreat from her when he remembered what he came for.
"Aren't you afraid?" he had asked darkly.
"Afraid of what? You?" she had asked in that same musing tone. "You aren't going to hurt me, Rabbit. You're not the type and we both know it."
Her audacity to use that nickname, and to use it with such playful ease as opposed to the derisive scorn he was used to, was what set the tone for their entire relationship. Because he wasn't the type, as she had said, and it seemed clear to her then that he had ached for someone to finally recognize that.
But living in the dark, forced to do dark things, changes people.
She couldn't really be sure what he was capable of now, and she felt a faint stab of shame when she looked back on her own deeds.
Death Eaters held no exclusive claim on darkness. No one did.
And now he had been gone a long time, and she didn't know where, or for what, only that she missed him and worried that he may never return to her. That she may never again hear his voice, or gaze into his eyes.
It wasn't just sick, and wrong, it was traitorous to feel this way.
Allowing her mind to follow this line of thought was something she had become adept at blocking and denying. It wasn't real, but a part she played.
A trick. A mind game. Subterfuge.
She moved to the door at the tell-tale pop of his apparation, clear and crisp, yet so unassuming and reserved compared all the others. It is another wonder of magic that even the sound one makes while apparating can be so individual.
Harry's was impatient, if such a thing was possible to hear. Luna's has a slight ring to it, announcing her whimsy wherever she went. Fred and George moved about the world like a traveling game of exploding snap. Voldemort's sounded like a clap of thunder every time, and had a way of reverberating in the chests of those present in the most stirring way. It was a reminder of how powerful he was, she knew, and it was an excellent juxtaposition for how powerful Dumbledore was. Because Albus' apparation had, at times, been so quiet as to resemble the bursting of a soap bubble.
It took great power and skill for Voldemort to alert and effect so many with each exit and entry, but what did it take to restrain the sound so that only those closest to you knew you were coming and going?
Theodore's subdued entrances and departures reminded her of Dumbledore's, and she mused on telling him from time to time, but no need to give the boy a big head. He swelled so easily and charmingly that it was a danger to both of them to indulge him so.
She did not, could not, suppress her joy at seeing him now. But her smiles put him on guard as much as they delighted him. And this pleased her, too.
"You have news," she stated factually, taking in his incisive eyes and stiff posture as she took and hung his cloak.
"I have," he replied, his tone soft. Soft enough to be alarming. "Would you like to hear it?" he continued.
His quiet confidence bordered on arrogance. It was so unlike him. Her heart beat a bit faster and she closed the gap between them, twining her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. But his soft, submissive mouth was demanding, insistent, and domineering today.
She pulled away and looked at him, searching his eyes for the meaning behind his audacious kiss.
His eyes gave up nothing. His news must be big for him to stand before her so, and she was suddenly unsure if she wanted to hear his news.
"What do you want?" she asked coyly, plucking at his shirt buttons. "To talk or to fuck?"
"Both," he smirked, and pulled her closer, "but not all at once."
She allowed his assertive exploration and maneuvers to continue without protest, or at least not much at any rate. He practically tore her robes from her body while he lead her to the bed, eliciting surprised gasps and gushes of arousal. He wore his confidence well. She might even have acknowledged her own enjoyment of his dominant behaviour somewhere deep inside, but when it came to intercourse with him, she was in charge. She did not relent when he attempted to penetrate her without first paying the toll, it didn't matter how wet he had already made her. She used her knee against his chest to stop his progress and he pried it away.
She winced at his iron grip on her ankle and scowled deeply at him.
"Let go of me, you brute!" she hissed. "Let go and get out if you can't behave like a gentleman!"
"If you would behave like a lady …" he began, only to be met with a resounding slap.
His stunned eyes met her challenging smirk, his flare of anger just barely restrained.
"I've never behaved like a lady before," she said with a wry tone and a smile to match, "but if you like it so, I wouldn't mind slapping you for your indecency more often."
He felt a faint brush of relief and amusement at her words, but the sting of his face and pride were too much, and he continued to stare at her intensely.
Her increasingly reddened hand print on his stricken face flashed a warning, reminding her of a "do not walk" sign on a perilously busy muggle street. Even she could not ignore the damage done.
Neither of them had ever struck the other before.
She slowly reached out and brushed her fingers over his injured flesh and asked with repentant tenderness, "Did I hurt you, Rabbit? I didn't mean to. I was only playing."
His anger tensed muscles relaxed minutely, and she leaned forward to brush her lips over his.
"You weren't playing," he accused sullenly, avoiding her kiss. "You enjoy hurting me."
"I enjoy being in charge," she rejoined. "You've known that since we were eleven."
"You don't have to put me down to be in charge," he argued petulantly.
"Don't whinge, Theodore, I said I was sorry," she huffed.
"No, you didn't," he began accusingly.
"Well, I have now," she bit out, her teeth now on edge. "I'm sorry, I won't ever do it again."
"No," he agreed, "you won't."
He quickly pinned her beneath him, capturing her hands and binding them to the headboard.
Her panicked eyes searched his for his intention. It surprised her how much it appeared to pain him to see such wariness in her eyes. She should have known. He had never, would never, hurt her. Hadn't he proven that much time and time again?
"You're going to keep your hands to yourself until you learn to play nice," he informed her with a seductive tone and mischievous smile.
"Forever then?" she teased, "Won't you miss them?"
His grin turned wicked. "Not as much as you will, I think."
She soon writhed wretchedly beneath his ministrations. His mouth and hands everywhere but just where she wanted them. She sweated and trembled and ached. It was a testament to how badly he wanted to torment and control her, because he had never been one for this much foreplay.
"Theo, now," she cried, arching up to grind against him.
"I'm not taking orders tonight, Kitten," he growled huskily, nuzzling her breast. "If you want me, you'll have to ask nice."
Her face twisted to a half scowl, half pout. "You're going to make me beg," she accused.
He released her nipple with a soft pop and kissed his way down her body. "I didn't say that," he answered silkily. "Why do you always assume the worst of me?"
"Becausssse," she shuddered, "turn about … is fair play."
Her admission provoked another grin from him.
"Ask me," he whispered against her thigh.
"Theo," she whimpered pitifully.
"Ask me," he repeated, now breathing hot against her core.
"Will you?" she asked doubtfully.
"Will I what?" he returned softly.
"Kiss me?"
His mouth finally closed around its target, and she held as still as possible so as not to give him any cause to stop. His circling, flickering tongue manipulated her quickly and easily to the edge of orgasm. His eyes darted up to find her looking down on him, her hands twisting in the bindings, muscles taut and trembling. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and her mouth was rounded in the agony of suspense, her bliss held just out of her reach. Held by him, and he reveled in his power enough to push her farther still until she cried out in ecstasy, gasping, and quaking in his possession.
She spread her thighs to release her grip on him and her eyes begged him to slide up and finish this game. To her delight, he answered her silent call and kissed his way up her body, up her throat, along her jaw, stopping just short of her mouth where he paused and waited.
"Will you?" she asked again, her submissive gaze fluttering from his eyes to his lips.
He answered her with the tender passion she had grown to expect and delight in. His mouth so soft and pliant, matching her pace, meeting her move for move. She sighed, and lifted her legs to encircle his waist. He pulled away from their kiss to smirk at her.
"Now, now, Pet, you didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" he teased. "You're going to have to ask for that, too."
She sighed resignedly and tilted her hips so they could both feel how close they were to joining. "Pleeeeease?" she asked in a exaggerated whine.
"Please what?" he grinned, positioning himself at her entrance.
"Fuck me," she finished with lascivious enunciation. "Please, fuck me, Theodore."
But she needn't have asked a second time, nor did she need to ask for anything else. He read her every whimper and sigh, each tilt of her hips and twist of her legs. He released her hands and reveled in the way she immediately held him tighter to her.
He followed her lead and she eagerly returned the favor, responding in all the ways he liked best, gripping and grinding and grunting until they both broke apart.
Feeling ridiculously pleased with him, she cuddled up to him, holding him with an arm and leg possessively. He gave her a peck on her forehead, brushing away her sweat dampened curls.
"Your news now," she said softly. She didn't ask. She couldn't ask. Not for this.
He sighed, and said nonchalantly, "Lucius Malfoy is dead."
She leaned up and eyed him in shock.
"He killed himself, or so the story goes," he continued airily, suppressing a smile.
"Narcissa and Draco?" she asked, her heart hammering.
"Gone. No one knows where," he replied, his rebellious mouth twisting in a satisfied grin. This was not the news she expected, if she even expected good news at all.
"Gone, defected? Untraceable? Even for him?" she asked.
"That is what I hear," he answered, enjoying this too much for either of their good.
"But you don't know," she half asked, half stated.
"I know that he's dead," he replied, "because I was there when the body was discovered, Draught of Death smoking in his cauldron, and a note clutched to his chest."
"What did it read?" she asked eagerly.
"I don't know. It was addressed to him. No one else dared touch it."
She imagined Lucius arranging for his wife and son to flee, casting fidelius, and taking his own life to protect their secret forever, and felt a faint stab of pity for them all. He was a horrible man, she reminded herself, but there must have been some innate goodness in him to be capable of such devotion.
Love.
Such a beautiful, frightening, treacherous condition.
Theodore turned on his side to face her and she shifted the weight of her leg, still wrapped around him, to allow him to press against her and hold her tight. With arms and legs and lips she held him. She held him sick. She held him elated. She held him treacherously.
This was not love.
How outrageous.
It was a trick. A mind game. Subterfuge.
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A/N: So, no one seemed to like the last chapter, which I admit was very different in style and tone from the first. So, let me explain. The first story is told mostly from Hermione's perspective, brash and straightforward. The second vignette is from from Theo's, mired in subtext and double meanings, the way I like to imagine his Slytherin mind works.
This little snapshot is mostly from Hermione again, and if you guys let me know that you're actually interested in where this is going, the next one will likely be from Theo. I have about a dozen sketches for this series, and most of them are from Hermione. But Theo's pov is important, too.
I dunno. Is anyone interested in more?