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Time passes for Hermione in a blur of mind-blowing sex and mediocre research, until her only concept of it comes in the form of meals delivered to her by the nameless, faceless Death Eaters in charge of keeping her well fed. She’d learned early in her confinement that the wizards behind the masks are under strict orders to maintain absolute silence while in her presence, and she aches for Tom’s companionship when he’s away from her for too long.
Porridge and fruit come to indicate the start of her day, though the hour of its arrival is inconsistent. At times it feels like she’s drowning in a river of days and weeks flowing faster than she can fathom. Then there are days where each minute is an odyssey, lasting longer than she can endure. On those days, she passes the time by sleeping, hopeful that she’ll be woken by Tom and saved from her loneliness.
When she’d first been captured, she’d tried to keep track of the days on a piece of parchment. Hermione had spent months tallying the days by the number of breakfasts she’d eaten or ignored, until one day the parchment was removed and replaced by a fresh stack. She’d given up the task without looking back.
Now, whenever these troubling thoughts enter her mostly quiet mind, Hermione struggles to hold onto them. She sometimes feels a glimmer of the fire that had once burned in her heart and mind, but after her evening tea it always seems to fade away into obscurity and she’s forced to ponder the only source of entertainment left to her when Tom is gone.
Hermione sits at her desk, reading and taking notes on a herbology book she’s unfamiliar with. The pages are filled with beautiful pencil drawings coloured in with chalk, each depicting various ways to differentiate poisonous plants from their useful counterparts. It’s moderately interesting, and once again she is thankful for the stimulating selection of books that had been brought to her recently.
The arrival of the newest collection had almost perfectly coincided with her finishing the annotations in the last batch. The thought triggers another and Hermione thinks back to the anonymous man who had delivered them. He’d been tall and broad beneath his coal coloured robes and he’d hesitated for a moment longer than usual when setting them down on her desk. Hermione had felt a flare of expectation rise up within her, and she’d hoped for the barest moment that he might actually acknowledge her in some way– he didn’t.
She is startled from her traitorous thoughts by the stirring sound of the door as it scrapes the stone floor and she lifts her gaze slowly to find Tom smiling at her. A familiar warmth floods her veins and she’s desperate to close the distance between them, but she doesn’t wish to appear too eager. He hasn’t stepped into the room, and she’s unable to gauge his mood from across the space between them. Hermione longs to have his body pressed close to hers. But more importantly, she wants to have him with her for as long as possible and she won’t risk spooking him with her clinginess.
Instead, Hermione pushes her chair back from the desk leisurely, waiting to stand until she can fully stretch her body without bumping into the desk. She pushes her hands up, bending back just enough to send a shiver down her spine, before bringing her hands to cradle the underside of her small baby bump. Tom remains silent, but his eyes follow the movement with obvious interest and he steps far enough into the room to close the door solidly. The thud of wood connecting with the frame snaps Hermione’s patience and she nearly throws herself against Tom’s chest, flinging her arms up and around his neck in a bid to be as close to him as his clothes allow.
The laugh that escapes him is low and dark and it sends a current of energy down her spine that exhilarates her. Chilled fingers dig into her hips and Hermione shimmies closer to Tom’s chest, balancing on the tips of her toes. She lifts her face toward him, soaking up his presence like a flower following the light of the sun. “I’ve missed you.” The admission bubbles out of her despite her intentions to keep her neediness to herself.
The world collapses around them, shrinking, until Hermione can only think about the man lifting her and carrying her to the bed. Wordlessly, Tom spreads her out on the mattress and strips off his clothes in a tantalising display. Finally he speaks. “And I, you. I’ve been so busy elsewhere that I’ve neglected my favourite pet and it shows.” Hermione coos in response. His words and the fingers tracing up her calf muscle captivate her attention, and she yearns for more.
Hermione is a starving woman, suddenly faced with all of her favourite foods, and no utensils. Tom stays just out of her reach, touching only her lower legs from his position beside the bed, and it forces her heart into a thundering rhythm. She knows that this too is a part of the game he sometimes likes to play with her. Staying away from her for days until she craves him more than she can bear. Only to visit with the specific intention of driving her even more insane with his teasing touches.
His fingers drag over her skin, until their path is unexpectedly eased by cool cream scented with lavender and cocoa butter. It’s been a while since he’s lotioned her, and the feeling is indulgent. His fingers smooth the thick cream onto her legs methodically, and occasionally she is treated to softly murmured praise.
Hermione’s thoughts narrow to the points of contact between them, and she closes her eyes in appreciation. Lately she has begun to feel as though she is only truly alive in these moments, when his body ignites gratitude and passion within hers. When he is gone, she simply exists, waiting for him to breathe life into her body with his presence.
Soon his hands gravitate to her growing belly, and she opens her eyes to watch with wonder as he eagerly cups and cradles her midsection. “You’re doing so well, my pet.” His words ghost over her skin, and she shivers at the sensation of warm breath tickling the newly developed peach fuzz on her tummy. Tom’s lips close over her navel, and he works sucking kisses into the skin until awe shifts to desire, and Hermione gasps out loud.
Things escalate, blurring and morphing until she finds herself spread open before his hungry gaze. His tongue dances over her clit, sending her soaring, before diving between her folds to suck her arousal into his waiting mouth. Hermione moans her pleasure into the air, and she reaches her hands out to touch him. Strong hands capture hers and pin them to the bed, causing her heart to ache at the lost opportunity to guide him. She writhes against his mouth, lifting her hips and pressing her core closer to him, moaning enthusiastically with every fresh rush of satisfaction he grants her. Finally, she bucks violently in an effort to free herself from the prison of oral pleasure she is trapped in, but to no avail.
Tom pays no mind to her vain struggles, and continues licking and sucking her to one earth shattering orgasm after another, as she cries out helplessly. His tongue is talented, and she falls into delirium. She needs him more than oxygen or the climax cresting over her. “I need you. Please. Fill me. Stretch me. Please.” She pleads with the only thing left to her in the absence of the ability to pull him close to her body. Her voice is wrecked and broken from overuse, but he takes pity on her.
He bites tenderly on her over-wrung clit and hood, pressing his tongue flat and weighing it down in a way that seems to lay a blanket on the fire raging through every nerve ending. Her body is already sending more blood to the area, and making it more responsive to his attentions, but he always takes the time to ground her before continuing to the next part.
Tom finally pulls away and she is no less frenzied in her need for him, though she is quenched enough to allow his body space to shift into position.
When he slides into her, it feels like home.
The warmth of the sun on a crisp fall day.
The scent of a well loved research book on an obscure topic.
The pot of ink she dips her quills into.
His cock stretches her, dragging against her swollen and sensitive flesh, and with every agonisingly perfect thrust he fits himself inside her. When Tom’s body is pressed flush against Hermione she exhales in relief. Relief turns to need, and need fades into begging. Her words slip free from her without any conscious thought, and she is unaware of the depth of her pleading.
His thrusts pick up speed like a train pulling away from the station and every deep pounding of his body into hers rocks her in a soothing motion. At the same time Hermione clings to his arms in an effort to pull his body down to hers. His eyes take on a wicked gleam and he folds her body easily in half, mindful of the life growing between them, while he continues to piston his hips at an ever-increasing pace.
Words fail Hermione, but some instinct kicks in and she begins a chant, soft at first “please, please, please.” She grows louder, and more demanding. “Fill me, please.”
Tom’s breathing is the only thing that betrays the effect she is having on him, until his formal mantra begins, his hips stuttering a few times just as he calls her name. “Hermione. Hermione.” His voice is husky and low, and she pours every ounce of imagined affection that she can read into the way he says her name, but the illusion slips just slightly as it devolves into the expected. “Mine. Mine.” Possessive, and hateful. A flash of indignation rises in her, but it’s flooded away by her orgasm, a painful climax ripped from her oversensitive cunt.
He lingers for longer than usual afterwards, and she tries her best to soak up every moment of the skin to skin contact, desperate to replenish her stores of energy and affection to tide herself over until his next visit.
She watches him dress and leave in silence, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. Hermione tries to tell herself that what she feels couldn’t possibly be love, but her heart won’t hear of it, and her hands spread protectively over her stomach.