Azael's Chains

Mercurial

The older man was contemplative, quiet, stern during their morning meal. His eyes became black ice at any mention skirting too closely to their true goals. While it galled her, she knew it was for the best; he had lived decades in this world of subterfuge, while she was a child in the arts.

She escorted Michael to the library then and they spent their afternoon amid the comforting scent of knowledge and hands that paged that tomes. Time melted away until it was measured only in the flip of thick vellum pages and murmured joy as they shared new knowledge. They declined tea in favor of keeping their noses buried, and they hurried dinner to return to their books.

Hermione had forgotten what it was like to live in study. Dolohov never ceased to hover on the periphery, too often interrupting her reading with his wicked hands and greedy mouth. He thrived on her attention even-- or especially-- when it was unwilling, disgruntled. But Michael was a companionable study partner. He was genuinely interested whenever she found something worth sharing, and would participate in the hushed conversations purely academically. He did not require her touch, did not manipulate her, did not desire anything but her friendship and knowledge. She was practically transported to Hogwarts in her mind.

"Ah, Hermione, look at this." The young man held aloft a thick leather volume. "It's a diagram of Azemoth's theorem."

She scurried toward the couch, laying her chin upon his shoulder to read the text as scholarly excitement trekked down her spine. "Do you think that would work? It seems one of those things sound enough in theory, but highly impractical." Her fingers traced the lines of the illustration.

"Well, isn't this cozy."

Her head snapped painfully quick to the door where icy fury emanated from her shadowy jailor.

Hermione jolted back from her friend, hands curling into tight balls. "Antonin. It wasn't-- I was only looking over his shoulder, I swear."

The fury of his ice-storm eyes shot daggers at the boy. "Out." Michael scurried away, spilling the book on the cushions in a tumble of bent pages which she hurried to soothe.

"He's only a friend," she reiterated as her fingers smoothed the thick pages. "And I was only trying to get a good look at the book."

The heavy beating of his boots against the floor mirrored her thumping heart. The iron shackle of his hand gripped her wrist, jerking her attention to him. She'd been leaning over the settee and was now halfway on top of it, her eyes widening to Galleons. "I do not like you touching other men, much less in such a familiar way."

Hermione's frown nearly overwhelmed the fear scrawled across her face. "Would I not be allowed to hug my friends then?"

"The girls, yes. But are you so eager for physical intimacy with other men? Have I mistaken you for a more virtuous woman than you truly are?"

"Please." She tugged away on instinct and his grip tightened to chafe at her soft skin. "You know I've never-- I don't want that with anyone. Michael has never crossed my mind in such a way."

Cruel fingers barreled her over the couch back and she tumbled onto the cushions in a heap of ruffled skirt and flying curls. His red face thrust into her vision as he held her delicate jaw. "You will not touch other men in so familiar a way regardless. I will not have it."

Boldness from the last two days flared hot. "I kissed a girl once. Perhaps I prefer the fairer sex."

Dolohov forced her to her back and mounted her hips. "Shall I tell that to Bellatrix? Have her fill that craving for you, love?" His voice was insidiously soft, at odds with the ferocity of his hands and the burning cold of his eyes. "Do not test me. If I thought for a moment you desired another I would not hesitate to lock you in my bedroom so only I may touch you. Would you like that, pet? Being my captive mudblood princess hidden away from the world?" He ground against her so she could feel the weight of his opinion on the thought.