This one's short, but hopefully poignant content makes up for it ; )
Severus visited the brothel nearly a dozen more times that month. H was quickly becoming an addiction he gladly fed. Her body was fantastic, her mind sharp, and her personality surprisingly agreeable to him. She was so different from what he'd been used to with Anne. She had been very physical, preferring to say little and focus on letting her body speak for her. H was no less talented carnally, but she was witty and acerbic in a way that pleased him immensely. She challenged him at every chance, yet let him have full reign over her body.
She didn't orgasm every time he visited, but she did more times than not. Hell, that was a better track record than most of the boyfriends she'd had in her old life. Severus found that he enjoyed taunting her with her pleasure, giving it and then holding it back just when she needed more. He, a man who'd never played in his life, discovered fun in sex. During their times together, he felt the brutal years in service to Dumbledore, the years redeeming himself, fall away. He felt like the man he might have been had fate been kinder to him.
It wasn't that he suddenly became tame and sweet, but rather that being around her augmented his personality. He let his guard down- something he hadn't done since meeting Lily all those years ago. She saw pieces of him that no one ever had. Bits of him that had been buried for so long that he'd thought they'd died.
That didn't mean that she was spared his snark. Quite the contrary. His openness with her let her see the dormant, playful side of him, but it also bared her to the full extent of his unabashed rages and condescension. Once, he'd gone into her room to find her anonymity charm making her appear to have red hair and bright green eyes. Wearing a scarlet silk robe, she'd gone to greet him with a kiss on the cheek only to have him shove her away from him so hard she'd bounced off the bed.
"Change your appearance," he'd snarled at her so loud the entire house heard. The other girls shivered in their beds, glad to be spared the wrath of an obviously displeased customer. Hermione had been confused and started to take off her robe, thinking he disliked the color. When she'd gone to untie the sash, he strode over to her and batted her hands away. Then he gripped her hair in an iron fist and jerked her head to the side. "This," he hissed. "And the eyes. Change them now!"
Keeping her eyes trained on him lest he lash out at her, Hermione released her wand from it's concealed spot inside her forearm. Without letting the old charm drop, she added a different one on top of it and then discarded the original. Only when she'd done that did his breathing slow and his fist unclench from her hair. "Never," he grated out, trying to control his raging emotions. "Never look like that again. Use anything else."
She nodded agreement, still wary of him. He'd snarled at her before, snapped and hissed too. But that was the first time she'd feared physical harm from him. She carefully snapped her wand back into it's spot, comforting herself with the knowledge that she could get to it at any moment if she needed it. It wouldn't be the first time a John had knocked her around a little (and paid double for the right to), but in a rage like that, a man his size could easily kill her. No amount of money was worth risking that kind of death.
Not knowing how to apologize and realizing he'd likely shattered whatever rapport they'd developed, Severus parted her robe and ushered her onto her back on the bed. Rather than take the time to remove his clothes carefully, he used a wordless spell to strip them instantly (and chose not to think about the wrinkles disrobing in that fashion would leave on his clothes) and followed her down onto the bed. He was gentler than he normally might have been when he thrust into her. Her legs fell open obligingly as they always did, but she kept her eyes studiously away from his face as he moved above her. He felt the loss of the connection they usually shared, the casual intimacy, keenly. He let his arms wrap under her shoulders and his fingers speared into her thick hair. She tensed, but his head dropped to rest in the crook of her shoulder and those long, nimble fingers began massaging her scalp. Against her will, Hermione felt her body relaxing around him. She'd always loved having her scalp rubbed. Having such long, thick hair was hard on her head. If it didn't puff out Pomeranian style when she had it any shorter than her shoulders, she would never keep her hair long.
She held out just long enough that she maintained her self-respect before melting beneath him and letting herself enjoy the evidence of his remorse. Much to her surprise, he freed one hand from the mass of her hair and let it trail down her body until he slipped it between them and pressed his thumb against her clit. She cried out and arched to him immediately. How long had it been since a man had pleasured her properly this way? She half expected him to take her lips and plunder her mouth the way he was plundering her body, but he kept his face pressed against her neck and continued to drive her closer and closer to orgasm.
In a matter of minutes, she was panting and thrashing beneath him. He didn't toy with her as he might have any other time. He quickened his thrusts and delivered her into a release that left her quaking with it's intensity. She barely noticed when he came along with her. Slowly, she returned to her senses and realized he was already rising and dressing. Though she was somewhat mollified at his obvious regret for his actions, she couldn't let the matter rest completely. An orgasm- even a particularly good one- didn't absolve him of his treatment of her.
"If you make arrangements with Madam Peony ahead of time and pay extra for it, I have to accept your right to raise a hand to me. But otherwise, I don't have to tolerate violence. Do something like that again and you'll find my wand at your throat."
Instead of walking out like she expected him to, he sank down onto the edge of the bed as if his legs just wouldn't support him any longer. He ran one hand through his hair and let his head rest against the heel of his palm. "Do they do that often?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.
Hermione shifted uneasily. There were men, more than she cared to recall, that liked their pleasure enhanced by giving pain. They paid well for the privilege, and felt no guilt for the harm they inflicted. No matter how much Hermione despised those men, they were still customers. So when they came, she braced herself against them and got through it by retreating inside her mind. Despite what had happened between them, Hermione knew that S wasn't one of those men. He was capable of terrible violence, that she could tell. But though he'd been rough with her before, he'd never taken pleasure in her pain.
The silence stretched between them and she finally shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Sometimes."
Severus swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach. He wasn't a man prone to shows of regret or repentance. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd said I'm sorry as an adult. But he found those words burning in his throat. He'd seen so much violence in his life. Far too much. And though Voldermort had taken pleasure in inflicting pain on men as well as women, he had always especially enjoyed the female scream. Muggle women were his favorite. He saw them as weak because of their sex and their lack of magic. Their helplessness both delighted and disgusted him.
Under other circumstances, Severus would never allow his anger to manifest in physical aggression... But walking in and seeing her like that, like Lily, was more than he could take. For years, that very image had been his most idolized fantasy. Until Voldermort had picked up on his preference. Then, he'd taken particular delight in sending imperioed women to Severus, spelled to look like Lily. He expected his faithful servant to take his fill of them, knowing they would be dead by morning. Voldermort wouldn't suffer a muggle to live through the night, even one that he thought was providing pleasure to his most trusted comrade.
Seeing H like that had brought out a rage in him that he'd thought had died with the Dark Lord. He knew that pieces of the darkness lived inside him and always would. His reaction to the innocent charm was evidence enough of that.
And as if his own guilt wasn't enough for him to have to shoulder, she had to remind him that others could pay for the right to hurt her. His belly tightened again. Disgust and anger warred within him. What a hypocrite he was, furious at the thought of a customer hitting her when only minutes ago he'd practically thrown her across the room. It was standard practice, of course. He knew that. Almost every brothel offered the right for their customers to take their aggression out on the whores. Nothing too serious, of course. No scaring, no maiming. Not at the main houses, anyways. But anything else was fair game for the right price.
How many times had she worn a glamour as well as her anonymity charm to hide bruises? How often had she bought a pain potion to ease her aches? Or worse, wanted one desperately but wouldn't spend the money on one? If the anguish simmering in his chest was any indication, what he felt for the woman beside him went further than customer and client. Much further. Perhaps it was good that she would only be working for another few months. It wouldn't do to start a foolish attachment to her.
He felt the light touch of fingertips against his back and fought the urge to lean into the contact. Her hand traveled up until it slipped over his shoulder and she pressed her chest against his back. Her other arm wrapped around his torso. Of it's own accord, his hand rose to cup the back of her neck and his thumb stroked the soft skin there. When her cheek rested against his shoulder, he realized this was the closest thing he'd had to a hug in many, many years.
What the hell was he doing? Letting himself get this twisted up over a whore? She'd chosen this profession. She did her job, even the unsavory parts of it. He was going soft, that was all. He didn't care if she'd chosen to become a whore willingly or if she'd had no other choice. He didn't care if she had to let men use her or even beat her to feed herself. He'd never once before felt ashamed of visiting brothels. They were a fact of life, a legitimate source of income for women and men both. Had he just never let himself think of the darker side of what these women did? Or had he never cared because he'd never really cared about one of them?
There was no good answer. He forced himself to simply put the matter from his mind. It was an art he'd perfected over many long years of use. He gently extricated himself from her hold and rose. Using his wand as a quill, he wrote a name quickly on a bit of parchment and handed it to her.
"Next time," he cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing the words out past his tight throat. "When you get another customer like...that. Put this in the transference box. It'll help." Then he turned and left her room. At first Hermione was so surprised that she only stared down at the paper in her hand. When her door clicked shut she sprang up and rushed to the hall.
"Thank you," she called softly after him. He turned at the sound of her voice. It was the first time he'd seen her outside her room since the first night. She almost looked like a different person outside that room. A thought pulled at his memory, but was gone in a flash. He inclined his head to her and then made his way to the first floor landing where he could appirate home.