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Captive at Number 12	By : CeliaEquus Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 32439 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I have no claim on the Harry Potter franchise, and am making no money from any of my fan fiction.

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Twinges of pain woke Hermione from a strange dream, one which she immediately forgot. She downed a vial of potion and then struggled to get out of bed. It had been awhile since she was in long pyjamas, and the sleeves and legs got a bit tangled in the covers, or at least it seemed that way. But she was soon standing, and noticed a piece of paper on a chair, on top of some actual, honest-to-goodness clothes. She looked out the window to see light peeking over the horizon. Was it sunrise or sunset? How long had she slept for?

Shaking her head, she turned to the note. There was no introduction, as though he still didn’t know what to call her.

To prevent you from destroying the entire building, I have begun to ascertain which books are dangerous and which are safe. I will continue tomorrow. Below is a list of the ones that I have deemed harmless so far. They are on the side of the library where I found you.

When you are feeling well again, you will have to see to the blood stains on the floor.

--Yaxley.

She grimaced, but inwardly acknowledged the gesture. It was possible that he actually wrote down the titles of books that could hurt her, but to what end? He would be rewarded if he took her to You-Know-Who, more so than if he killed her without making real use of her. For example, as a trap for Harry. Harry, who had had to leave her alone with a Death Eater, likely unaware of her actual circumstances. Harry, whose godfather had died after an image of him was used as bait.

To think that she had been so protective of house elves, only for it to turn out that Kreacher had betrayed Sirius.

“Kreacher,” she whispered, her eyes growing wide. “Or… or any house elf!”

Was it possible that a house elf could get through? Yaxley wouldn’t necessarily think of warding against them, being a Pureblood.

There was a clatter downstairs, and she hurried out, hoping that Kreacher might have actually heard her. Not that he would ever talk to her. But if he was here, then it meant that elves could get through, and…

It was Yaxley, swearing as he searched the cupboards, moving things around. He saw her out of the corner of his eye.

“Good. You’re up. I almost brought my house elf to make breakfast for us, but I decided to ensure that none of them could get in.”

“What…”

“An elf named Dobby turned up yesterday, sent by your friends,” he said as she walked over to him. She stopped in her tracks.

“Dobby was here?” she asked, disbelieving.

“Yes.” He smirked. “I told him to tell your friends that you’re alive and acting as my whore. I’m sure they will be pleased to hear that.”

Hermione felt choked up. “So… he left?”

“He did, and I made sure that that sort of thing cannot happen again.”

She blinked back tears and walked past him to open the cupboard connected to his kitchen. The food was, again, too far back. She hated having to reach for it.

“Damn thing,” she muttered, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying not to think of Harry’s and Ron’s reactions to whatever Dobby told them. She jumped when Yaxley pressed up against her and nuzzled her ear.

“I even told him that you love this,” he said, his breath sending shivers down her spine. He grabbed onto her hips and then spun her around to face him. She whimpered as he untied her pyjama pants and pushed them down, along with the knickers that he’d felt compelled to put on her. Then he shoved his robes aside, unbuckled his trousers and lifted her onto the counter. It was at a most convenient level.

Despite her reactions, Hermione was barely damp, no doubt due to his words. Well, he knew one thing that would fix it.

He bent over as he trailed one finger up her slit. She gasped and held onto his arms. The look in his dark eyes and his twisted smile were adding to her discomfort, making her squirm even as he lowered his face.

“Oh my gods!” she yelped as his tongue made contact with her flesh. She tried to picture her friends, tried to imagine what they would think if they saw this…

But then one of his fingers found something to play with, and a thumb joined in. He squeezed her nub gently, causing her to buck against his face. She continued to cry out as he dipped his tongue inside, hands stroking her folds and batting her clit, and his mouth suckling her. She was nearly blind with pleasure. All it took was a gentle bite and she climaxed. Lost in the sensation, she missed the moment that he pulled her off the bench-top and onto him. She very soon realised, however, that she was clenching around something much bigger and harder than a tongue.

“You do enjoy this,” he hissed, thrusting into her against the kitchen cabinets. She began to paw at his chest, her head dropping back and her pelvis arching up to meet his, their bodies moving to a natural rhythm, a drum that beat only for them.

Slowly, she built up to a second fall, one which struck her moments after his own orgasm hit, causing their arousal to spill out onto the kitchen floor when he finally withdrew. They were breathing heavily, staring at each other. Finally, sick of her gaze being fixated on him, Yaxley cast a few cleaning spells and then tucked himself into his trousers. He moved forward, though, and pressed against her.

“Here,” he said, taking the food from the high cupboard and placing it on the counter behind her. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Numb, she watched him leave the room, and then set about making breakfast.

When Yaxley returned that evening, he checked the library. The floor was free from blood, and he noticed at least two books missing from the shelves, possibly more. He nodded and went to the bedroom. She was sitting by the window, reading one of the books with deep fascination. Clearly she hadn’t noticed that he was later than usual, due to a work dinner that he had had to attend. Had she eaten at all since he left her that morning?

“Satisfied now?” he asked. She nearly dropped the book.

“Oh! Um, yes, I am. Thank you.”

“It’s the weekend,” he said, moving forward. She took the hint and closed the book, sliding his note between the pages to act as a bookmark. “Barring interruptions, we have the whole weekend to make up for the last fortnight of inactivity.” He removed his robes as he spoke. “Are you looking forward to it?”

She bit her lower lip, unsure how to answer. He cocked his head.

“Whatever you do, you must never lie to me, Miss Granger,” he said. “I can tell.”

“Are you an Occlumens?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Wow. I’ll… bear that in mind.”

“The thoughts of Mudbloods do not interest me,” he said, kicking his shoes to the side as she moved to the bed, leaving the books behind. “I will only ever use my skills if I deem it necessary to my interests.”

“Let me guess; you were in Slytherin,” she said, lying down as soon as she was unclothed.

His eyes trailed down her body, enjoying the way that it made her squirm. Instead of speaking, he rolled on top of her body. She parted her legs reluctantly. His words from that morning haunted her. Had he really told Dobby all that? And, more to the point, had Dobby repeated his words? Did her friends now know that she was prostituting herself to stay alive, or would they refuse to believe such a thing?

As Yaxley began to stroke her folds, however, she found herself caring less and less about her rather morbid thoughts. Once she was wet enough, he slid home, so smooth and so fulfilling that it sent her mind into meltdown. Each thrust caused her to shift against the bed; and his body was something to take notice of, when she was in a less fevered state of mind. For a man in his forties (she guessed) he was in remarkably good shape. The only real flaw that she could find was that tattoo on his left arm, and she was getting better at ignoring it.

“Oh, hell,” she said weakly as he continued to pump in and out. His chest was pressed to hers, and the heat and the friction against her nipples was making her tremble with approaching climax. Then he touched her clit again. In a dizzying flash of light she came, howling and arching, and then blacking out.

What was probably less than a minute later, she came to, and flushed extra hard when she saw the Death Eater’s amused expression.

“I’m really quite flattered,” he said, rocking in and out of her, her muscles still fluttering around him. He raised an eyebrow. “But I’d prefer that we keeping going, hmm?”

She nodded, wishing that she’d had something to eat. The book had just been so interesting, that she…

And then he kissed her.

All other movement stopped as they savoured the feeling. Slowly, their lips began to move together, parting, making way for their tongues to meet. Between harsh breaths, they continued to devour each other as his hips moved faster. One of his arms wound around her lower back, pulling her closer to him as he drove in repeatedly; the other arm went around her back and neck, forcing her to keep kissing him, not that she wanted to stop. She never wanted to stop. She wanted this feeling of magic to keep going forever.

He swore into her mouth as he tumbled over the edge. Their entanglement grew more frantic as she followed him into ecstasy’s clutches.

This time, she barely managed to stay awake, even as he finally pulled out and fell onto the mattress beside her. Neither could speak for several minutes.

There wasn’t much to be said after that, truth be told. At least, not about that incident.

Kisses, however, began to steal into their activities, even outside of the intimate atmosphere of the bedroom. That first day had seemed like some exception to the rule; now it was a regular occurrence.

Not just that, but Hermione was able to discuss with him the things that she read. By the Monday morning he had worked out which books were not cursed, opening up a whole new world for the insatiable bookworm. Over meals they would talk about certain spells or potions, even though he tried to put a stop to her questions at first. But she was persistent, and eventually he had caved just to shut her up. That, unfortunately for him, simply made her feel free to chatter.

Talk would sometimes turn to family life. He was slightly impressed when he thought that dentistry was some kind of approved Muggle torture; but when she explained that it was to improve dental health, he lost interest. It didn’t stop her from explaining some of the intricacies, so much so that he threatened to give her a real reason to see a dentist.

After that, she restricted herself to describing other Muggle professions, inventions and the like. To avoid headaches, he allowed her to waffle on, before taking her especially hard in the bedroom – or wherever he chose.

And for one week out of the month, talking to her was the closest he got to any action, and indulging her in this was usually the best way to stop her from getting angry or emotional. Even these times were admittedly more interesting than being at home, where the only other living being was a house elf.

It almost made him wish that he was married, so that he could have avoided this whole mess in the first place.

Two months passed in this way. Things took a turn when there was an incident of a Muggle accidentally harming themselves with a wand that they had found. The Muggle, and all witnesses to the incident, had been dealt with.

“I know someone who can identify this,” he said, studying the wand. He tapped it against his palm and looked up at Runcorn. “You’ll know where to find me if anything comes up, won’t you, Albert?”

“I will,” he said, still sore over the incident in September. “Sir.”

Yaxley Apparated to Malfoy Manor from his office. When he got there, Narcissa showed him to the cellar, with Pettigrew covering him from the foot of the stairs.

“Ollivander,” Yaxley said, approaching him. He held out the wand. “To whom did this belong?”

He heard a gasp from the corner. Ollivander studied the piece of wood.

“It’s one of mine,” he said, stroking it. “Vine, dragon heartstring core, ten and three-quarter inches.” He looked up, sadness in his eyes. “It belongs to Hermione Granger.”

“I knew it,” the dark boy whispered. “I recognised it.”

“Correction,” Yaxley said, smirking to hide his surprise. “It belonged to Hermione Granger.”

The human inhabitants of the cellar looked at each other in horror, and then back to the blond Death Eater. He chuckled as he walked to the doorway.

“Is Hermione dead?” the boy asked.

“I believe she wishes that this was the case,” Yaxley said, turning his head slightly. “But her body is very much alive, I can assure you.”

With that, he left them, fingering Hermione’s wand as he joined Narcissa and Lucius, Pettigrew scurrying behind them noisily.

How interesting that it should be brought to him…

“The Dark Lord will be pleased to hear that the Mudblood is wandless,” Lucius said. He was looking worse for wear, but the news had obviously cheered him up.

“You can tell him if you like,” Yaxley said, twirling the bit of wood. “I must take this with me while I make out a report, as it is evidence. But the wand-maker will confirm it, and it was also identified by her classmate down there.”

Just then, Pettigrew swore and began to pat his pockets. Yaxley rolled his eyes and bid his adieu, flooing back to the Ministry.

He missed the grand escape by a matter of seconds. Amongst the new flurry of activity, Hermione’s wand was forgotten by everyone… except him.

Christmas fast approached. The paperwork about Hermione’s wand had been lost amid the excitement over Ollivander, Dean Thomas and Griphook’s escape. The prospect of the brains of the Golden Trio having no wand did little to enliven the Dark Lord. There were signs of his confidence increasing, but they were being stunted by the loss of the three prisoners. Five days before Christmas there was a mild coup in the kidnapping of Luna Lovegood. Hermione knew nothing of any of this, naturally, and Yaxley certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

Christmas morning he appeared at Grimmauld Place. Hermione was muttering to herself as she tried to reach something in the cupboard. He sighed and reached past her, fetching the last things for their Christmas lunch. Most of it was pre-cooked by his house elf, and only needed to be reheated. Fortunately, the elf knew better than to ask questions.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, lowering the last item – a flask of Firewhiskey – to the bench-top.

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbled, and she shut the cupboard door loudly. “I’ll let you know when I’m done in here.” He backed up to give her room.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, knowing perfectly well what she would say.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? This is a time for family and friends, not for… whatever we are.” Her hands shook as she opened the cutlery drawer and began to take things out. “I’m a prisoner, you’re my jailer, and I don’t even know how my friends are. I don’t know where they are! My parents don’t know me, so I suppose they won’t be upset at all.” She rested her hands briefly, her head falling forward. “It just won’t be Christmas without my parents, or my friends, or anyone who isn’t trying to get rid of people like me.” She sighed and blindly reached for a carving knife in the drawer. “Aargh!”

He leapt forward and grabbed her wrist. Blood was pouring from a deep cut on her left palm.

“Sit down,” he said, pulling her over to a table and chair. Once she was seated he Summoned Dittany from the cupboard upstairs. He still kept some in the house just in case there was another accident. As soon as it arrived he began to apply it to the cut until it was healed. Then it was just a matter of cleaning the wound.

“Not even a scar,” she said, stroking it. She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. You healed it well.”

“Nothing to it. The pain will go eventually. There isn’t much to do aside from setting the table and pouring the drinks, as the cooking is done.”

“I noticed that. Did you do it?”

He gave her a look that said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous’. Wisely, she shut up and got on with the preparation… after the drawer and its contents were Scourgified.

After lunch they went into the living room, where Hermione had already set up the tree and some of the decorations they used when Sirius was alive. She tried to cheer herself up by thinking about all the lonely Christmases that he would have suffered in Azkaban, but it only distressed her.

“The Yule season holds far more significance for wizards and witches than it does for most Muggles,” Yaxley said, reclining in an armchair. Hermione sat by the fire, staring into the flames. “It is often used to mark certain passages, similar to a wizard’s coming-of-age – which, of course, is valued more highly than a witch’s coming-of-age.”

Hermione snorted. “Of course.”

“So, despite your unfortunate heritage, I brought you something.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” she asked. He frowned. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Do not expect an acknowledgement of your birthday,” he said, handing over a long, thin package.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to calm down. It couldn’t really be a wand, could it? She ripped the paper open anyway, and found…

“Oh my god,” she whispered, stroking the wood reverently. Tears began to form. “Is it really…”

“You cannot perform magic with it,” he said, “and in the eyes of Dolores Umbridge you stole it.”

“I never…”

“I know,” he said, and he rolled his eyes. “Believe me, Ollivander kept thorough records of all transactions. We have found very few stolen wands. She forgets that a wand is not a person’s magic, merely a way of channelling it.”

“Except that I can’t,” she said, unable to tear her eyes away from her wand. “But it’s back in my hands.” She finally looked up at him. “Where was it?”

“Somewhere in London. It was brought to me after a Muggle nearly killed himself playing with it.”

“How did he manage that?”

“I was not given the details,” he said. “Ollivander identified this, which is why I had to fill out paperwork.”

“Is he all right? Where is he? And what about Ron and Harry?” she asked, kneeling closer to him, still clutching her wand.

“So many questions, Miss Granger,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you really suppose that I would tell you anything?”

She slumped. “No.” He studied her for several moments.

“As I have been spending so much time here, I thought that I would keep my radio in this room, for the times when I’m relaxing while you cook or clean. You may listen to it while I am out, if you wish. Perhaps that will curb your questions?”

“That would be wonderful!” she said, eyes lighting up. “I… I suppose that it’s too much to ask for a copy of The Daily Prophet?”

“Yes, it is,” he said. She blushed.

“But I haven’t got anything for you,” she said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. His gaze burned a trail down her body. “Lie down.”

“Here?” she asked. He raised his wand and Vanished both of their clothes. “You do mean here.”

“Yes, Miss Granger,” he said, forcing her to lie down beside the fireplace as he crawled over her body. “And I mean now.”

She couldn’t help it; she was already wet. It was the heat, it was his gaze, it was the way his hands skimmed over her skin so lightly, barely touching it, before shoving her legs open with contrasting roughness. He loomed over her, observing the way that her hair seemed to have golden highlights by the light of the flickering fire, and the way her skin glowed. He lowered his head and took her right nipple into his mouth.

Hermione hissed as her body arched. His right hand began to fondle her other breast, gently squeezing the flesh. That familiar tingle started between her legs, and her hips gravitated upwards to brush against his erection. He moaned briefly, and then switched breasts. Soon she was just about dripping onto the carpet.

“You lucky little Mudblood,” he said, lining himself up. “Two wands in one day.” She cried out as he thrust in, not even registering the insult. It was all about the hardness now lodged deep in her centre.

“More,” she whimpered, pressing against him. He placed his hands on either side of her body, braced himself, and then began to thrust. Her arms immediately went around his back, just as her legs wound around his waist. All thoughts of friends and family and Christmastime flew out of her mind.

Just as they were approaching the end, Yaxley rolled over so that Hermione was on top. She looked down at him, confused, even when he pushed her into a sitting position.

“Isn’t this your gift to me?” he asked. She nodded slowly. “Then ride me.”

She managed to lift herself up and drop back down, but nothing really happened. So she leaned over him; but, instead of touching the floor, she held onto his upper arms, using them as support and unwittingly assuming a dominant position. He scowled, but before he could comment she raised her hips and lowered them again. At this angle, the sensations nearly made her eyes pop out of her head, and her insides clenched. He groaned and just let his head fall back to the floor.

Up and down, up and down. It lasted forever, but forever just wasn’t enough. Eventually, she gasped out his name – “Yaxley!” – and drenched him in her arousal as she came. It triggered his own climax, and he swore as she milked him of every drop of seed.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

A/N: You’re lucky to get this chapter. I ended up in hospital today after I had my first epileptic seizure in seven years. Fortunately I was sent home a bit after three.

Now, I was going to have them getting a bit tipsy on the Firewhiskey, which they probably would towards nightfall, but it just didn’t seem to fit into the story, so you can let your imaginations run away with them, m’kay?

Now some very interesting stuff will be happening next chapter, so I’ll see you there. (I hope.)
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Captive at Number 12