Azael's Chains

Tender Mercies

Autumn bloomed around her, the earthly tang of freshly turned leaves, the hint of pine everpresent, and instead of the usual spice, the tart lightness of expensive champagne. It was crisp on the tongue, as Antonin had downed a crystal flute before he enveloped her completely. His tongue roved languidly over her teeth, front and back as though taking inventory. He stroked the roof of her mouth, tickling over the sensitive ridges and coaxed her own tongue with strong, sure caresses until the alcohol thrumming through her own veins mixed into a dangerous cocktail of thorny fear and bubbling lust with an adrenaline chaser.

He pulled back, lips red and swollen from eating at her mouth and licked his lips as though to savor her taste. "You are such a perfect little Gryffindor doll tonight, just wild enough to inspire thoughts of how you might look with all that pretty makeup smeared across your tear-stained face." The blazing vermillion of her lipstick across his mouth was obscenely fascinating and she faintly wondered what that meant about her.

"Well, you seem to be enjoying yourself." The party had become near-revel once Lord Voldemort finished his speech. There were couples brazenly interlocked against the walls, laughing twos and threes and more darting out the Great Hall to hide their tangling in hidden alcoves and darkened classrooms. Some guests still milled about the floor, others danced in champagne-fueled whimsy.

But the man staring them down was sober as Hell, his steely eyes reflected in the carelessly perfect control of himself from every silver hair to the sole of his dragonhide boots.

"Lucius," Dolohov drawled. "Do you have nothing better to do than watch me ravish my pet?"

Brow and lips both twitched upward, as good as a smile from the icy man. "It is quite the show. But no, I was merely curious about how you tamed the little shrew."

Shakespeare again, how curious . And from the great Lucius Malfoy.

Her eyes flashed amber in the warm light, nostrils flared and fists drawing tight.

"As I told the Dark Lord, Lucius. Hermione is a very clever girl." Dolohov was still holding her, fingers trailing her body to map out his territory. "She understands actions have consequences, and she has seen how much better it is to comply than to fight. Haven't you, kitten?"

Blood rushed to heat her cheeks at this too-intimate confession, but she nodded stiffly.

"I am afraid I did not hear that, Miss Granger." Oh, how she loathed that condescending voice.

"Yes," she snapped. "I have learned."

While Antonin stroked her cheek, the elder Malfoy's sickle-silver eyes narrowed in consideration. "There's a fire in you yet. How nice to see it hasn't been extinguished." The Death Eater still wrapped around her favored him with suspicion. "I will leave you to it then. I look forward to seeing how Miss Granger endures your more... tender mercies. "

"Insufferable man," Dolohov grunted as the pale man faded into the crowd. "Perhaps I should take you somewhere more private. As much as I enjoy flaunting you, I am unwilling to share our more intimate moments. Come. The Dark Lord is allowing a select few to Floo home."

She had no choice but to scurry alongside him, his grip firm and his strides long. When they reached the familiar office, she did not want to look, did not want to see the changes to this place that had once housed greatness.

He cast the powder into the fire and called out for his home, folding himself around her as they passed through the network, her eyes locked on the shadows across his chest.

Hermione was trembling when he finally guided her out of the hearth. Her feet walked the familiar path to her room, but they passed by her lonely door to enter his domain.