Chapter 7
“Come.”
With that one word Dolohov turned on the heel of his dragonhide boots and stalked toward the sitting room. Hermione rose from where she’d knelt on the floor and tottered after him on half asleep limbs. She spent most of her hours kneeling on the floor now, often staring into space and trying to entertain her mind.
Dolohov stood before the fireplace and gestured her to him impatiently. “Hogwarts.” The fire hissed as the powder hit, transforming into emerald flames. Hermione was pushed inside, arms splaying outward to catch herself in the narrow brick chute. One hand shot as though to hold her brain in her head, and she was still spinning when the world settled into place before her. She stumbled out, spilling onto a throw rug.
“What in the Hell are you doing?” Soft steel jerked one of her arms above her head and she found herself staring into cold eyes. “Ah, here is your master.”
She crashed into Dolohov as he stepped out of the fireplace. He may as well have been a wall, the way she bounced off him and started to buckle. His familiar grip in her hair was the only prevention. “I thought you might be glad I brought the mudblood with me.” The smirk was evident in his voice.
“Why would I care what you do with your little pet?” Lucius was already walking around his desk back to his seat. He dropped into his seat, sneering at the pair. “Get out; I have work to do.”
Dolohov shrugged and dropped his hand from her curls, stalking toward the door. She stayed on his heels as they exited and began down the hall from the headmaster’s office. Her eyes darted toward every window, every doorway, every stairwell, calculating her odds of escape. They were never very high.
They stopped before the staircase up the Defense Tower, beside a suit of armor with a gilded sword. Dolohov muttered something in Russian she didn’t quite catch, and the suit of armor pivoted, raised his sword, and smoothly arced it back against its shoulder before pivoting back. The bricks rearranged to form an opening and Dolohov shoved her through, following behind.
It was a professor’s suite, the first room consisting of a sitting area and fireplace, a little kitchenette aside, and two additional doors that she assumed led to the toilet and a bedroom respectively. It was warm enough, and there was a lovely gold and blue tooled carpet covering much of the floor here.
“Hmm.” Her captor considered the room by sight before inspecting the books on the case opposite the fireplace, most of which were about dueling, the dark arts, and the defense against the dark arts. “Some of these look to be from former professors.” Dolohov plucked out one and flicked through it. “And some must have been placed here specifically for me.”
Hermione glanced over and discovered she could not decipher the words on the cover. It wasn’t even written in an alphabet she recognized, and it dawned on her that the letters must have been Cyrillic, the language, Russian.
The book snapping shut jogged her from staring, and Hermione immediately averted her gaze.
“Now where should I install you, hm, mudblood?” Warmth from his palm radiated when he turned her face back toward him. “This is a small space compared to my home. You will be good and stay out of my way when I am here, yes?”
She nodded and he seemed satisfied.
There was an especially plush throw on the floor in front of the fire, and that was where Hermione settled. Her fingers nearly sank into the material, and she hoped Dolohov wouldn’t decide it was too comfortable and order her off of it. When he moved the chair nearest her, settling on it so she was bracketed by his legs, she thought maybe he would allow it after all.
She was relaxing when pain tugged at her scalp, dragging her so that her head was against one thigh. Hermione hazarded a glance over her shoulder to find the man immersed in one of the books, and his fingers loosened in her hair to massage instead.
It felt… well, partially it was mortifying in how absolutely objectifying it was, but it also felt good, and so unlike most of her interactions with him. Little circles kneaded against her scalp, or his fingers would work through her curls with a gentleness that beguiled his appearance. Eventually she found herself melting into the touch, cheek pressed to his thigh.
She started drifting off, jolting when she realized she was napping nearly in his lap.
“Easy, koshka.” Dolohov’s voice was a low purr, pressure from his palm urging her back in place. “Just enjoy yourself. I will not punish you for sleeping here.”
It took some coaxing, but eventually Hermione laid against him again. After long moments, the tension between her shoulders eased, and her heart trailed back down her throat to her chest. Eventually, the crackling of the fire and the rhythm touch soothed her back to sleep.
Warmth trailed down her throat toward her collarbone, leaving cool wetness in its wake. When that heat enveloped half of one breast, velvet muscle stroking her nipple, Hermione gasped into the waking world.
A rough palm against her sternum held her in place as Dolohov’s shadowy form in the darkness rose over her.
“Back with me, koshka?” He chuckled, lowering back to nibble at her jaw. “You are so very tempting when you are asleep, docile as a lamb.” Several days’ worth of stubble tickled at her skin as he began to work back down her body. “Not that you haven’t been a tame little cat for me lately, hm?” Teeth scraped against her stomach, calloused fingers trailing down to hold her hips.
Her pulse sped and thickened until it felt like beads strung through her throat. Large hands squeezed when he nuzzled at the curls between her legs.
“Stay still, koshka. I am trying to prepare you.” Dolohov shouldered between her legs and set to lapping at her dry entrance. When this produced little result, he wrapped his lips around her clit and began to suck.
Immediately, her hips tried to thrust upward of their own accord. He chuckled against her cunt, holding her firm. When a long, quiet whine came from her throat, he replaced his hands with one forearm so he could run fingers at the wetness that had started dribbling, then pushed two inside.
“That’s it, mudblood.” His fingers pressed up to find a sweet spot. “Doesn’t it feel good? Hm? I can be such a kind master, if only you behave for me.” He pumped in and of her until her fluids dripped out. When he removed his fingers, he slid them into his mouth and lapped them clean.
When he finally entered her, she nearly choked at how stretched she felt as he impaled her on his cock, despite the kind prep he had engaged in.
While it hurt for her, Dolohov clearly enjoyed the tightness of being inside her. He started on a quick pace, and when Hermione acted on impulse to try pushing him away, he wrapped one large hand around her throat and squeezed until her vision fizzled at the edges.
“You don’t get to control this, mudblood. You control nothing.” A brutal thrust emphasized his statement, fingers digging into the meat of her neck until his nails started cutting her, but she could hardly notice with his hot breath against her ear and the pace he restarted once she had gone limp in his grasp.
Whether it was a punishment for momentary defiance or just his particular mood, Dolohov did not remove his hand from her throat even when he slackened it to let the blood flow return to her brain. Every few thrusts, it tightens again, sparking euphoria and terror in equal measures. The third time, a sudden and unwelcome orgasm rolled over her, tingling bursts lighting up her skin like a muggle fireworks show. It was almost painful, the fluttering of her core around his cock as he continued driving in and out of her, which was also terrifyingly delicious.
The world disappeared behind pinpoints in her oxygen-starved vision, and when she came to it was to Dolohov spitting curses in her ear as he came, his arms now curved beneath her, gripping her shoulders to pull her against him as though he wanted to thrust deeper inside her than anyone would ever reach.
He collapsed over her, panting into her hair until his heart finally slowed. Then he rolled onto his back and tucked Hermione against his side. “Good girl.” He stroked her waist almost affectionately in post-coital bliss. “Very good, koshka.”
She wondered if she should get up, but a twitch in that direction found her latched in place.
“Why such a rush? Do you not like cuddling, Hermione?” Amusement laced his voice, her eyes widening when her name fell from his lips. “Stay. I am comfortable, and I do not wish to shift.”
She nodded, curls likely brushing his skin.
“Good girl,” he repeated, planting a kiss on her crown.