Disclaimer: I do not own. Anything. Boo hoo : (
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Hermione was smiling.
She didn't smile often anymore, and when she did it generally meant she was either deliriously well sated or on the teetering edge of something vicious.
She lay on his bed on her stomach, her defiant jaw propped upon the heels of her hands. She tilted her head to rest on one hand and used the other to crook a finger at him. As he approached, she held up her hand to halt his progress.
And she did.
"You're so obedient, Theodore," she purred, "Is there anything you wouldn't do to please me?"
Her tone was sexy and coy but her eyes betrayed her venom. He pondered his answer for just a moment, knowing that every seconds delay would cost him. "I like to please you, kitten. There's very little I wouldn't do for you."
"Like … letting me go?" she hissed.
He frowned. "There's no place else for you to go."
"Says you," she snipped.
"Says The Dark Lord," he rejoined darkly.
"Pish," she dismissed with a wave of her hand.
His eyebrows rose at her daring. "You temp fate, Love."
"Fate has forgotten me. I temp only you these days." Her voice was bitterness with a hint of melancholy.
"You temp every man who lays eyes on you, and you know it." His voice lilted in accusation.
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to show my gratitude for your protection?" she simpered mockingly.
"Are you grateful?" he asked, "I've seen the way you look at Lestrange."
He sounded petulant.
Perhaps he was.
She snorted.
It was true about Lestrange. Sick, yes, but true.
And Lestrange was so obvious with his return interest, and she loved that he was so obvious.
It had long thrilled her to have Theodore so completely spun, but to coil her web about a man like Rodolphus Lestrange sent her soaring to new heights. She fucked Theodore hard and dirty on the nights those eyes had raked over her, and now she knew.
He knew.
He knew she wasn't just thinking of him.
And it hurt him.
And it thrilled her that it hurt him while at the very same time it felt like a knife twisting in her gut. Her own knife. A knife she wrought and honed and wielded with such devastating precision.
She could never just let it be, this twisted reality, this perversely pleasurable nightmare, this terrible, desperate, soul crushing love.
"Am I grateful?" She repeated his question. Dare she look, really look, for the answer? Was it true, once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor? Or could that be chipped and broken away, too? Like shards of glass from a tower window, flakes of dried blood on a flagstone floor, or splinters of a snapped length of Vinewood, 10 ¾ inches.
"What do you want to hear, Rabbit?" she asked in a warning tone.
"The truth," he answered, his mouth and throat suddenly dry.
"The truth?" she smiled mirthlessly. "The truth is that I both covet and loath your protection like I do everything else about you. The truth is that the longer you keep me here the more I lose of myself, my mind warped and my soul corrupted. The truth is that I want Lestrange to put his hands on me, not because he'll fuck me, but because he'll probably kill me. Because the truth is, Theodore, that the more I love you the more I want to die."
And there it was.
He nearly stumbled backward and crumpled under the ecstasy and agony of it. She covets and loathes him. She loves him and it makes her want to be brutalized and killed. Because loving him means she's lost. Warped. Corrupted.
Gone.
His hands shook with the strain of his desire to strike her, to beat and strangle and choke the fucking life out of her. So astute, his little know-it-all. She always knows just how, just when, and just where to hurt him to the greatest effect.
And didn't he know it was coming? For he was never less insightful than she. He'd seen the look before, felt her tongue slide through his formality and confidence like a machete though the coarsest, densest, and most prolific jungle defenses. Just four strokes and she had laid him bare before her and cut him to the quick.
He lunged forward, startling her out of her vitriol. His right hand snapping out and clamping around her pretty little throat and flipping her over while his left hand tore at her robes. She reflexively braced herself, grabbing his right forearm and left shoulder, her wide eyes displaying both her fear and her challenge for him to finish it.
A moment later he was on top and driving into her with a savage roughness and desperation he'd not shown before. His right hand still gripped her throat, constricting her airway with a squeeze each time he thrust into her. And she was wet, so wet, and the room began to reek of anger and sex, of desperation and fear. He paused for just a fraction at the completion of each down stroke to grind against her and hold off her air just a little longer. Her grip on his shoulder and forearm increased and he wasn't sure if she meant to yield or propel him. Her earlier words still rang in his ears, pierced his soul, and seared in his veins.
I love you.
I want to die.
"Say it again," he hissed, his hand sliding from her throat to the back of her head and tangling in her hair as he continued to drive into her. "Tell me. Tell me again," he nearly sobbed.
She gulped for air, tears stung her eyes, she gritted her teeth against the indignity of her own aching heart. She was so good at hurting him, so very good at hurting them both.
"I'm lost," she whimpered.
His punishing rhythm staggered and he pressed himself as deeply into her as possible and cradled her head. "You're not," he argued gently. "You're here. You, Hermione. You're here."
"I'm not --"
"You are. You're angry, and you have every right to be. The day you accept this without reservation --"
"Hasn't that day come and gone? I lay in your bed and play and laugh and cum and dream and …" she tilted her hips to allow him to sink in a bit further. "I kiss you and I hold you and …"
"And?" he asked, grinding against her.
She sighed a half moan, half sob in response.
He ground down again. "And?"
Again, she merely whimpered.
He untangled his fingers from her hair and reached down to grasp her hips, and grind harder. "And?" he asked as his rhythm increased.
"And …" She trembled.
"And?" He nuzzled her neck, finding and sucking that sweet spot while continuing to thrust and grind.
She spiraled up and up and up with each push of his hips and the nearness of his heart, pressed so close to hers that she could feel it beating inside her own chest.
"And?" he persisted.
"And love you." She shattered, gripping him so tightly it was hard to tell where she ended and he began.
Her words and her body tugged him along with her, and he came hard, filling him with ecstasy and her with his seed.
"Soon," he said between kisses. "Soon it will happen. Prophesies always come true. We just have to hold on a little longer. Stay angry a little longer."
"But not at each other," she lamented softly.
"You cannot afford to go around showing your anger to anyone else. And I can't afford to lose you. Without you …" he trailed off in thought.
"Without me?" she prodded.
"Without you, I'm lost."
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A/N: and now we're all on the same page, yes?
Honestly, did you see this one coming?
I had originally planned that the readers would know that she was living in his house, a prisoner of war, pretty much right from the start. But, then I had too much fun with all the ambiguity available in looking just at key moments of a relationship from one perspective or the other. This one, obviously, is from both of them.
Seeing a story get a lot of hits and few reviews is really discouraging. So, massive thanks to all who have supported me this endeavor. Your reviews have meant more to me than you know. I realize this is a different, strange, and at times confusing way to tell a story, and I love you all to death for following along this far and encouraging me to continue.
Do you still want more or have I lost you with the whole Hermione as a prisoner thing?
I know it's cliche, but I have always hated how she's portrayed in them, you know? Usually she's beaten, or raped, or tortured, and somehow still falls in love with her keeper. I wanted to turn that cliche on its ear and have a perpetually self empowered Hermione -- a more canon Hermione -- and a reluctant Death Eater who looks to her for strength and cherishes her beyond measure.
Are you feeling it? Should I bother adding the next vignettes? I'm feeling very discouraged right now :(