"They'll never need to know."
His voice brushes over her skin, low, heavy, and warm.
Her parents house is so cold, always has been. The fireplaces on the lower floor do nothing for the upper bedrooms this time of year, and when he touches her neck, she leans into it. It's hard not to chase the heat.
"I can't."
It feels so good though, and he brings his other hand to the other side of her neck, large hands splaying over her skin, thumbs caressing over the hairline at the nape of her neck.
It feels incredible.
"I don't expect much of you," he says, his chin resting by the top of her head.
He's so warm.
"I only ask that you go back to school, go about your days, socialise and learn and rest as you usually would, but when I call... you come."
Hermione closes her eyes, basking in his touch. He's not asking much. When he puts it like that, it sounds easy, reasonable. But she loves her friends, loves Harry, doesn't she, so she can't help but wonder, what's...
"What's in it for me?" she asks.
He turns her head, turning her to face him.
Her breath catches; his presence is the sort one doesn't become accustomed to, regardless of how much time is spent with him, and— they're compelling, those eyes. The vivid red of them contrasts beautifully with the dreary light of winter. They promise warmth, fire, excitement, danger.
"Everything," he says simply, and she sees it, dancing in the red of his eyes. They radiate magic, and to learn from him, to see what goes on behind them, it's... like his warmth, it's an offer she can't possibly...
"All right," she breathes, "yes. I'll do it."
His snakelike mask breaks, a slow, awful smile.
"You will come when I call you."
"Yes."
"You will never keep me waiting."
"No," she agrees, "never."
His long fingers, darkened nails trail over her cheek, scratching so delicately that it gives her goosebumps.
Incredible.
"Good girl," he hisses, smooth and sinuous. "Now give me your arm."