A/N Hi guys! Sorry it's taken a while to update - I wanted to give you this chapter last weekend by the site wouldn't let me upload anything!


The next time Hermione's skin started to burn, it wasn't quite as devastating, but it still left her feeling like she might throw up.

Ten days had passed since her last encounter with Dolohov and it was now the middle of July. The summer heat had yet to really grace the British Isles but the temperature Hermione was experiencing felt more like she was currently somewhere near the Med. The steady increase of her internal heat was indicative enough, but she'd also become aware of a prickling of her skin over the last couple of days whenever it made contact with someone else's. It was uncomfortable but bearable. Unfortunately, the prickling had developed into the familiar burning and it was agreed between herself, Tonks and Mr and Mrs Weasley that it was time for her to visit Dolohov again before things deteriorated further.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Hermione arrived at Azkaban with Tonks, and she scrutinised the building much more closely than she normally would have. According to the Prophet, large numbers of the Dementors had deserted the fortress to join Voldemort's side. The day the article came out, Tonks visited the Burrow to reassure Hermione that it was still safe for her to visit the prison: there were enough Dementors there to maintain control and they were being bolstered by a rotation of aurors.

Hermione saw a few of the creatures floating around the perimeter of the fortress, just like always, but when they entered through the familiar metal door, they were greeted by a scowling auror. Hermione reasoned that it couldn't be much fun to be stationed there, even if it was for only a few days at a time, and she was relieved when he didn't keep them waiting long before giving them permission to enter.

Tonks's patronus stalked ahead of them and Hermione kept her hood pulled low over her head, as usual, to avoid any attention from the people in the cells. She wondered if it was her imagination that the prisoners seemed quieter with less Dementors around, but they arrived at the door to Dolohov's cell before she could ask Tonks her opinion.

Hermione tried to mentally brace herself for the upcoming encounter, determined to present herself more confidently this time. This was a business transaction, nothing more. She didn't need to let her emotions get involved.

When the door was opened, Dolohov was stood waiting for her, probably alerted by the magic that was used to unlock his cell. His gaze was unreadable as he watched her pull the hood back from her head but it darkened when Tonks stepped in behind her.

Tonks quickly cast her eyes around the room to check that everything was in order, gave Dolohov a dismissive glance, nodded supportively to Hermione and then stepped back out again.

Despite her vow to be more confident, Hermione already felt herself faltering. What should she say? This wasn't exactly a friendly get-together between two acquaintances – she cared nothing for his welfare and neither did he for hers. There was plenty she could tell him about what had happened since her last visit (though the news about deserting Dementors would certainly not be shared) but did she just go straight into it? There was no point in playing along with pleasantries, was there?

"You think too much," he murmured, shaking his head so that the dark curls on his head bounced softly. "You want to take your cloak off? It'll make this easier."

Hermione nodded, an automatic word of thanks on the tip of her tongue before she stopped herself – she didn't owe that man an ounce of gratitude! She unclasped her cloak and laid it neatly on a nearby shabby cabinet, very aware of his gaze as he followed her movements. The rush of cold air over her skin, however, was little relief against the fire burning inside of her.

When she turned back, she was surprised at the way he was staring at her. She had begun to accept it as normal for his gaze to be focused on her during her visits, but this was something different. It took her a moment to realise that his dark eyes weren't piercing into her own like they usually did, but were fixated a little further south. Hermione glanced down at herself and understood how her denim shorts and thin-strapped, blue-chequered t-shirt might have caught his attention. Even if he hadn't spent the vast majority of the last decade and a half in prison, he wouldn't have seen such revealing clothes anywhere but the muggle world – somewhere she was sure he would never deign to go.

When she'd picked out clothes to wear that morning, she'd simply settled for something that would keep her cool, not having considered what would happen when she entered his cell – she'd been much more concerned with maintaining an unemotional front. His stare was somewhat embarrassing but she was relieved to see that he wasn't leering, just genuinely surprised. It was so unusual to see his mask slip that she actually let out a small laugh.

Startled from his gawking, his eyes briefly returned to hers before he frowned at the floor. "That's quite a choice of attire," he muttered.

"It's perfectly normal for the times," she defended, feeling a strange sense of surrealism at having a discussion about fashion with a Death Eater.

"Surely only in the muggle world," he sneered and she realised that her clothing was making him uncomfortable. Good.

"Yes," she agreed, "but your curse raises my temperature after a few days away from you and robes leave me far too hot. Now, shall we get this over with?" she proposed, head tilted up confidently and hands on her hips.

"By all means, zhar-ptitsa," he agreed with mock-politeness, even offering her a sarcastic inclination of his head, "but I hope you have something to tell me first."

Hermione acknowledged the uneasy feeling in her stomach. She didn't try to fight it but accepted the warning it gave her.

After her breakdown upon her return from her last visit to Azkaban, Hermione had confided in Ginny about Dolohov's stipulation that she provide him with details about life beyond the prison (something she had been unwilling to share with Tonks or the other Weasleys). Ginny had called the Death Eater a few choice words for making any sorts of demands of Hermione and then reassured her that she shouldn't feel so guilty about talking to him.

"As long as you're not sharing anything personal with him, it's not the worst thing in the world, is it?" Ginny pointed out, her arm still around Hermione's shoulder. "I'm sure the sick bastard could come up with something much more depraved if he wanted to, so a bit of news can't really hurt. He can't exactly do anything locked up in there, can he?"

"I know," Hermione agreed heavily. "But it just doesn't feel right. Giving him what he wants so that he'll touch me makes me feel like, like I'm dirty." A few more tears leaked out of her eyes.

"Well, you're not," Ginny argued vehemently. She removed her arm from Hermione's shoulder and rolled onto her knees so that she was directly facing her. "Don't you dare let that prick's manipulations have you doubting your self-worth; you're a loyal, brave, kind-hearted person, that's been dealt a shitty hand. You don't deserve this, Hermione. I know it's going to be hard but you're a strong, brilliant witch and you're going to get through this. And you're not alone – you've got me, Ron, Harry, Mum, Dad, Tonks and the whole bloody Order behind you if you need them. We're with you, Hermione – remember that the next time you start doubting yourself…"

We're with you, Hermione heard the passionate vow replay in her mind and took courage from it as she did what she had to in order to stop the curse from consuming her. "Fudge resigned a few days ago," she told him shortly. "The new Minister is Rufus Scrimgeour."

Dolohov seemed to mull over the news for a moment and then started to approach her. She felt a little thrill run along her spine at the impending prospect of his healing touch. She hated herself a little for it but had to remind herself that it was only natural for her body to react in such a way. "Not Bones, then?" he asked conversationally, running his knuckles down her right arm, the motion sending soothing and pleasurable ripples throughout her body.

His touch was so distracting that it took her a moment to recall his question. When she did, the answer made her stomach churn unpleasantly. "No, not Madam Bones," she replied, reaching out to grasp his wrist so that he'd stop his movements for a moment. "She's dead. Murdered."

His eyes widened ever so slightly at this revelation. "I see," he murmured.

"They think, because she was such a powerful witch, that it was done by Voldemort himself," she informed him but immediately gasped as he suddenly gripped her forearms painfully tight.

"Don't say his name," he snarled, his nose nearly touching hers as he leaned towards her malevolently.

Hermione wrenched her arms from his hold and pushed him back, equally angry. "It's just a name," she retorted.

"Glupaya devushka," he spat derisively and, though her knowledge of the Russian language wasn't advanced enough to know what he said, Hermione could easily tell it was some sort of insult. "Talking of things she doesn't understand," he sneered.

"I understand the psychology behind making people fear the name in order to make them fear the person even more," she replied haughtily.

"They should fear him," Dolohov responded darkly. "You should fear him, gryaznokrovka. Do you have any idea what he would do to you if he got his hands on you: Potter's own mudblood whore."

She slapped him across the face as hard as she could. All of the anger and pain she'd experienced because of him were channelled into the swing of her hand, and the resounding crack was satisfyingly loud, even if it left her fingers stinging terribly. However, that was the least of her concerns when Dolohov advanced on her, his face furious and eyes glittering with menace.

"What, you don't think you're a whore, Granger?" he snarled as she instinctively backed up quickly until the wall prevented her from going any further. She glared defiantly up at him and he laughed cruelly, placing one of his hands on the wall beside her head as the other slid into her hair, cupping her face. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat; her fear coupling with the unwanted pleasure his touch awakened in her. "There's more than one way to be a whore, sweetheart," he said with mock-tenderness, as his thumb rubbed lazily over her cheek. "It's not just about letting someone fuck you," he sneered, grabbing her chin sharply. "It's about selling a part of yourself for something you want; just like how you give me your knowledge of life outside these walls so that I'll touch your filthy body."

Hermione jerked her head to the side to free her lower face from his grasp and stared at him venomously. "Just like you give me your touch so that you don't have to go back to your old cell!"

He chuckled, eyes flashing. "Exactly, zhar-ptitsa," he agreed. "We're both whores. At least I can admit it to myself." He laughed again, seeming to enjoy her hateful gaze. His fingers brushed over the skin just above her knees and she jerked in surprise – not expecting his touch there nor the sensations that sparked through her. She lifted her hands to push him away but he ghosted his fingers along her forearms, up towards her shoulders, and the pleasure it created was utterly diverting. When he pressed the pads of his fingers to the tension in her shoulders, she bit back a moan and felt her knees weaken. If she was at all conscious of her actions, she would've been deeply embarrassed but, for the moment, all she could focus on was how wonderful she felt.

All of a sudden, her bliss was broken.

Dazedly, she opened her eyes (not even aware that she had closed them) and saw Dolohov leaning casually against the armchair, arms crossed. However, the danger that still burned in his eyes told her a different story and she watched him warily. "You seem to have forgotten that this is an exchange," he reminded her. "My touch for your words."

Hermione took a moment to get her breath back to a more regular rhythm, quickly becoming mentally exhausted by the changeable dynamic between them. When she remembered some of the news she was prepared to share with him, she frowned. "Your comrades on the outside have finally come out of the shadows. There was some sort of attack on muggles in Somerset and it's suspected a giant was involved."

As she'd started talking, Dolohov had pushed himself away from the armchair to close the distance between them again. He halted once he was in touching distance but kept his arms crossed. "That's not quite going to work this time."

Hermione's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

"You want my touch – " he began.

"I don't want it," she interrupted testily. "I need it."

"Fine, you need my touch," he clarified and an unpleasant smile twisted across his face, "but I'm not going to give it to you until you tell me."

Apprehension pooled in her stomach. Everything about his tone and posture told her he was playing a new game that she definitely wouldn't enjoy. "Tell you what?"

His hands languidly travelled up the wall next to her arms, though he was careful not to touch her, and they stopped in a dominant position either side of her head. Hermione tried not to shrink back from the intimidating figure that loomed over her and lifted her chin stubbornly. He smirked at her small show of defiance, the action only heightening the sparkling amusement in his eyes. Abruptly, he darted his head forwards so that his mouth was less than an inch from her ear but her alarm at his proximity didn't prevent her from hearing him whisper wickedly, "That you're a whore."

He pulled back just as quickly to watch the effect his words had on her, to see the shock and utter fury sweep through her. She wanted to lash out at him again, to curse and scream at him for being such a reprehensible bastard but she knew that to see her hurting, to see her lose control, was exactly what he wanted and she was damned if she was going to give it to him. So she tried to argue logically instead. "You don't get to change the rules when it suits you," she seethed through gritted teeth.

"Of course I do," he corrected, looking very satisfied with himself. "I'm the one with the power here, Granger, and don't you forget it." His low, warning tone was replaced with something much smugger as he said, "Now, admit you're a whore and I'll give you what you need."

He was punishing her, she realised, for slapping him earlier. He couldn't risk hurting her physically in case Tonks, or someone else, found out and made him pay, so he was attacking her pride and self-worth instead; sticking the knife into the person she viewed herself to be.

But what was the big deal?

It was only a word, wasn't it?

And so what if there was some truth to it? She'd already admitted that it made her feel dirty to give Dolohov information so that he would soothe the curse. Putting a name to what that might make her wouldn't cost her anything…

Except it would.

And the price would be far greater than a knock to her pride.

Hermione was right when she denied last time that the two of them were engaged in a game because it would be more accurate to state that they were fighting a war.

She was certainly up against it in their conflict because, as he'd pointed out, Dolohov held the trump card – his touch. However, that didn't mean that she would surrender to his demands and every whim that took his fancy. No, she needed to take a stand to let him know that she wasn't so easily controlled, that he couldn't break her or degrade her.

After all, if she didn't draw the line somewhere, she dreaded to think what he would try and make her do next…

Hermione could still see the red mark on his cheek caused by her hand. She didn't feel guilty for slapping him, even though it had more than likely led to his ultimatum, because he needed to damn well know that she wasn't going to let him treat her like that.

She lifted her gaze to meet his and wanted to spit at him for the amusement she saw there at her expense. "Go to hell," she hissed, punctuating her words with a swift jerking of her knee into his groin.

He staggered away from her with a string of furious Russian escaping from his lips, leaving her free to grab her cloak.

"The condition still stands, mudblood," he snarled at her, trying to look intimidating whilst half-crouched with his hands held protectively over his groin. "If you don't want to die then you'll say those fucking words."

"You won't let me die," she told him coldly. "Not if you don't want to be thrown back to your old cell. Or maybe they'll give you the Kiss?" she added sneeringly.

"Fucking bitch," he spat venomously. "I'm going to enjoy making you beg for my touch the next time you start to burn; I'm going to have you on your knees, like the true whore that you pretend you're not." He slowly advanced on her as she backed away to the door. He was limping slightly but that didn't make his demeanour any less frightening. "And, you know what, when I finally agree to touch you, you're going to be so desperate for it that you're going to thank me for it."

Hermione wrenched open the door without saying anything in reply because, as much as it sickened her, she knew that, with the all-encompassing power his touch had over her, he was probably right.

"And I'm just going to laugh!" he taunted her, mirth already clouding his tone as she slammed the door behind her.


A/N Thanks for reading! Quite a few of you called for Hermione to stand her ground so there you go! This chapter was shorter than what I'd normally post for this fic but this was such a key scene between them that it had to stand on its own.

Don't forget to review!

Love,

Red

PS For those interested, I've started a Theo/Hermione fic called 'Figure It Out' if you want something else to read!