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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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Hermione valued her life too highly to ‘play’ with any of the books in the library that Yaxley had deemed harmful. She doubted that any of them could have helped her escape anyway, not matter how much she wished for a way out. Of course, it would then be a matter of finding her friends, but it couldn’t be that hard for the smartest witch of her age.

There was a bittersweet feeling when it came to having her wand back: yes, it was back, but she couldn’t perform magic with it. She didn’t even get a spark of feeling. Nothing close to what she felt in his arms, her inner walls clenching and unclenching around his…

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, she placed her wand back under her pillow and got up for the day. She had become accustomed to rising early enough to have breakfast waiting by the time Yaxley arrived, if he bothered to visit. He was doing more so lately, she had to admit. It was nice to have the company, even though he was a constant reminder of what she had lost, and might never regain.

She had found a rickety old stool in the attic when she was putting away the Christmas decorations after the new year began. It may have been a bit unsteady, but it was otherwise perfect to stand on when she wanted to access the cupboard. She would then hide it before her captor could see. And that was that!

Within moments of shoving it underneath the lowest shelf in the pantry, she heard him Apparate into the hall.

“Imbeciles,” he muttered, sitting down as Hermione brought out a bowl of steaming hot porridge with honey. It was perfect for such a cold, foul morning. He slammed his newspaper down on the table. “Absolute, bloody imbeciles.”

“Who?” she asked, taking her seat opposite him and plucking a piece of toast from the rack. He grunted.

“Everyone in my department and the workers at The Daily Prophet. There is supposed to be a level of confidentiality… What are you doing, girl?”

“It sounds like you’ll need your strength today, so eat up,” she said, examining the front page of the paper. “I can find out what’s bothering you more easily if I read this.”

“You just want an excuse to read the bloody newspaper,” he said, clenching his spoon.

“Yaxley, would you just eat? You look half-frozen. I noticed it as soon as you walked in the room, and I doubt that simply looking at your porridge will make you feel warmer.”

“Hmph.”

By the time he had finished his bowl and had two large slices of buttered toast, he was starting to feel more human. She was halfway through the Prophet.

“I’ll need that back now,” he said, tugging it out of her hands. “You haven’t eaten much.”

“I’d rather be reading,” she said, slowly turning back to her food. “Preferably studying.”

“Hmm.” He dusted off his robe and turned to leave, newspaper under his arm. “I might be late, if this… chaos continues.”

“Would you prefer paperwork?”

“For once, yes. I would.”

She got a big surprise when he arrived sometime after she had finished lunch.

“Are things worse?” she asked. He didn’t say anything as he pulled her upstairs and into the bedroom. “They must be bad, then…”

He captured her lips before she could finish and pressed her against the bedpost. She moaned and parted her lips, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

Instead of using magic or haste, Yaxley gradually peeled off her layers of clothing, from the scarf around her neck to the fluffy slippers and bed socks that she wore, landing in a pile with her winter woollies and the leggings that she wore under her skirt. He wanted to feel agitated by the number of items that she wore, but having the opportunity to touch her, make her shiver with the cold and arousal, draw this out, was much better than he had imagined during the meeting that he had quickly dismissed.

“So dangerous,” he murmured, moving his mouth to her neck and nipping at the tender skin while his hands caressed her thighs, prompting another moan. Her hands reached up and unclasped his robes, letting the material slide down his back until it pooled at his feet. Though he wore fewer clothes, she had to force away her own feelings of impatience.

Finally, they both collapsed onto the bed. He non-verbally Summoned his wand and magically tied her hands to the head board. Her eyes widened comically as she tugged at her bindings, and he smiled.

“Let’s play, my pet,” he said, and he lowered his lips to the hot flesh of her stomach. A white-hot trail of kisses eventually led to the juncture between her thighs, and she rose off the bed as he laved her quivering skin, letting his tongue dip into her every so often. All she could do was press her hips closer to his face, but then he would back off.

“Please!” she cried. “Oh, please…”

“‘Please’ what?” he asked, moving up until he was nestled between her legs. “‘Please’… this?”

He thrust in with force, nearly splitting her open as he sheathed himself fully. She squirmed, her toes curling into the sheets.

“Yes,” she said, breathing heavily. “That’s it. More. Oh, gods, more! Please!”

His usually unpleasant smile widened as he pulled out slowly, and pushed back in at the same pace. Hermione was wriggling around, trying to force herself closer. She tried to pull him into her using her feet, but he magically bound them to the bedposts. She dry-sobbed as he refused to move faster.

“Beg for it, Mudblood,” he hissed. A hurt look crossed her face, but his harder thrust distracted her. “Beg for more.”

“Please,” she said. “Please, Yaxley. I need more. I’m… so close.”

He could feel it, too. She was tightening around him; but he wanted to make this last longer, and he wanted her to plead with him some more. So he pulled out, only allowing his tip to stay nestled in her folds. She shivered when he accidentally brushed her clit.

“More, more, more,” she entreated. He chuckled and shook his head.

“Not good enough, Miss Granger,” he said, still teasing her. “What do you really want me to do?”

“T-touch me,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Take me.”

“Better, but not much.”

“Take me… m-master.”

“Mmm…” He rocked against her, but still refused himself entry. She grew desperate.

“Please! Please, make me yours…”

He thrust in at once. She howled with each surge after that, until – at last – their lips met again. She screamed, the sound muffled, and spasm after spasm rocked her. He pulled out before he could follow, and wandlessly removed the bonds. While she still shook in post-orgasmic ecstasy, he pulled her forward by the hair and forced her mouth down. Grabbing his hips, she used the last of her strength to suck him off, not even noticing when she swallowed it all down. She fell backwards, legs spread wantonly, hair in disarray, and body flushed and covered in sweat.

Yaxley felt great satisfaction as he stood up and began to pull his clothes back on. He cast a few Refreshing Spells until he was presentable.

“I knew that you’d prove useful,” he said, still eyeing her body. Her head turned at his voice, and she looked at him blearily. “Well done. You’ve put me in a much better mood, probably sparing at least one useless life by the end of the day.”

“Is that… my contribution to… the war effort?” she asked, still panting a bit. He paused in buckling his trousers, noting the sad look in her eyes.

“You’ve done more than you know,” he murmured. She looked confused. Little wonder; she probably hadn’t heard him. He shrugged, trying to shake off the melancholy that threatened to ruin his good mood. Out loud, he bid her good-bye, and then left.

Determined to forget the strange moment following their encounter that afternoon, Hermione fiddled about with the radio, trying to find a news station. Most of the channels were littered with Pureblood propaganda, so she kept re-tuning. At this rate, even a music station would be better…

“If only I hadn’t missed with that jinx,” she said. “Alastor Moody would have been appalled at my lack of constant…”

“And today on Potterwatch…”

“…vigilance… what?”

Hermione quickly turned up the volume, her heart pounding as she heard the voices of Fred Weasley and Lee Jordan. She was certain that it was her former housemates she was hearing. Unless, of course, her confinement was causing her to go mental. But why would she imagine them?

“…the Weasley Twins’ Victory Dance, for the day when the Chief Death Eater is beaten by Lightning – and you know who we mean, don’t we, River?”

“Lead `em through the steps, Rapier.”

“Ha! I knew you’d catch onto the name…”

When Yaxley returned to Grimmauld Place it was to the sight of Hermione jumping around along to some grand music that was clearly coming from the radio. He hadn’t seen her so happy since Christmas. In fact, he had never seen her so happy before. Her expression was one of extreme joy and freedom, her head and arms jerking from side to side as she bounced. Her skirt – short, but of warm material – danced up around her hips, and he could see that she had left her leggings off. Then she began twisting in place, laughing as her hair swung around, sometimes hitting her in the face.

He pulled off his cloak and hung it over an armchair as he moved forward. He could tell the moment she noticed him: she froze in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

She swallowed. Oh gods, would he yell at her? Would he take away the radio? What was her punishment going to be? And he was walking up to her…

Yaxley nudged her body into a proper standing position and stroked her hair back behind her shoulders. He looked into her eyes, slid one arm around her waist and grasped one of her hands with his free one. He vaguely registered the new instrumental piece begin, and allowed his body to lead them in a traditional waltz. Hermione laid her free hand on his shoulder, struggling to remember to breathe as they moved around the living room.

“Have you danced much before?” he asked, holding her close.

“Only at the Yule Ball three years ago,” she said. “That was during the Triwizard Tournament, and…”

“Who did you dance with?”

“Um, I danced with Viktor Krum most of the time. He was my date.”

“A bit of an age difference for a fourteen-year-old.”

“I was fifteen,” she corrected, “and I’ve never been bothered by age difference. My father is quite a bit older than my mother, though he doesn’t really look it.” She hoped it didn’t bother him to talk about her Muggle parents. “They met at a dental conference when he was lecturing, and she was only a first-year dentistry student.”

“Really?”

“Was there much of a difference between your parents?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Most marriages in the wizarding world exist between those who have barely a year difference in their ages.”

“What about those who are in love?”

“That… is different.”

“I… I see,” she whispered. The music was gaining in intensity, and yet they slowed to a halt.

A moment later he was sitting in the middle of the couch and she was straddling his lap, running her hands over his chest as they kissed with a ferocity that matched the music. Her skirt was pushed up and her knickers removed wandlessly. There was no fumbling to undo his trousers; just a gentle brush as their fingers moved beside each other.

Hermione whimpered as she was lowered onto him. Their eyes never left each other, even as she sank all the way down.

No words were spoken as they began to move. Their faces were so close that another kiss was inevitable. However, instead of being fierce, this one was soft, tender, and so sweet. While his hands grasped her hips and helped her move up and down, her fingers were tangled up in his long hair, keeping his mouth pressed to hers just as their bodies moulded together.

The music swelled, seeming to move with them, a haunting melody in a minor key with rolling waves that matched the rhythm of the couple. As it crashed over them once more, they gasped into each other’s mouths, still kissing, and reached completion together. He kept her pelvis pressed to his, buried deeply inside her, filling her womb with warmth, and pulled her flush against his torso. They continued to rock, prolonging the pleasure, until the music grew softer.

Hermione pulled back first, surprised to find that they had kissed the entire way through. She watched Yaxley’s eyes drift open and touched her swollen lips. Still silent, she stood up, already missing the connection and the heat of his body, and looked away, her heart pounding. She heard him adjust his clothes and she smoothed down her skirt, making a mental note to go and get fresh underwear.

“If you’re joining us now, then the last two pieces of music were Finlandia by Sibelius and Moldau by Smetana, both pieces of musical nationalism by Muggle composers. They are brought to you by River…”

“And Rapier…”

“On Potterwatch!” the presenters said. Hermione’s blood ran cold as she listened, hardly daring to look at Yaxley. When she did steal a glance, she saw his expression harden.

“Next on our program is Pines Near a Catacomb by Respighi, another Muggle…”

She jumped as he threw the radio against the far wall, shattering it into a thousand bits. Tensing as he walked towards her, she was faintly relieved when he merely brushed past, grabbed his cloak, and then Disapparated from the hallway.

For a full half-hour she stared at the broken radio, feeling as though more had broken than just that. She had forgotten the war, forgotten who he was, as soon as he took her in his arms to dance. And when she was riding him in his lap to the strains of classical music… there was nothing else in the world.

It was hard to be sad over the loss of the radio – it wasn’t hers, after all – but it had been wonderful to hear familiar voices, even though she’d never been close to either of the young men. And if they really were giving hope to those loyal to the Light, then that was wonderful, too. Were Ron and Harry listening? She hoped so. If only she’d been able to listen to more of the show. Well, she certainly couldn’t now.

There was a strange feeling between her legs, and she remembered that she had to put on some new underpants, since Yaxley… since he Vanished them.

Like a robot, she trudged upstairs. It wasn’t until night-time, when he hadn’t returned, that she began to cry.

Yaxley had gone through several quills, two bottles of ink and almost an entire ream of parchment within the month following the… incident in the living room. It wasn’t from using them, though. Oh no. It was from destroying them, either accidentally or through fits of anger.

He had allowed himself to get too close to her, make her think that it was all right to manipulate him so, distract him from his important work. Creatures like her were the reason he had become a Death Eater, and demonstrated why it was essential that her kind be destroyed. Never mind the feeling of nausea that he got every time he imagined her under the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, or the light leaving her eyes as she was hit by the Killing Curse. He could ignore the stabbing feeling in his chest.

The only reason that he had lost his mind and danced with her was because of the way her body moved, the bits of skin revealed when her skirt twirled around her and whenever her blouse rode up, and the knowledge of what was beneath those clothes. That was all. It was nothing to do with her smiles, the candlelight, the music or the warmth of the fire, let alone his desire to see her after such a stressful day.

Now he was more stressed than ever. He’d managed to go without regular female company for most of his life. Who was this Muggleborn to come and change that? No. Mudblood, not Muggleborn.

Still, if things continued in this way – and many people had noticed his dramatic change in demeanour – then he would need some relief.

And it was only appropriate that she provide that relief.

It had been exactly thirty-three days and two minutes since Yaxley had left. Hermione had drifted around the house all those days, ignoring the usual taunts from the portraits and wishing that she could just die. She wasn’t in pain or anything. Not physical pain. Not unless the pain in her chest could be counted, and she hardly thought that there was a cure for that. There was certainly nothing in any of the books that she had read, and by now she had read them all. There had been nothing else to do each day, except have a couple of meals, a shower, and a fitful sleep.

She jumped, her most animated movement since doing the Weasley Twins’ Victory Dance on… on that day.

For she had just heard the unmistakable crack of Apparation.

She put away the stool quietly, grateful that at least he still sent some food through, even though she couldn’t eat much. Then she left the kitchen, walked through the dining room and crept down the hallway.

He was there. He was at the door of the living room, looking in, still as a statue. As she stepped towards him a floorboard creaked beneath her foot, and she froze in place. He turned his head, and seemed almost surprised to see her there.

“Hello,” she said, breaking the silence. He turned around properly to face her.

“Hello,” he replied. Neither moved.

For about two seconds.

In the next instant they were in each other’s arms, hands and lips going everywhere. He hoisted her up and she hooked her legs around his waist, stroking the back of his neck and his shoulders, whispering words of nothingness into his ear.

It was a stilted climb up the stairs, hampered by the sensations of being together, and both silently swearing never to be apart for so long again.

Someone, perhaps both, had summoned the energy to pull the quilt up. Their hands rested next to each other, barely touching. Neither mentioned what happened thirty-three days before. They were currently coming to terms with what was happening, something which couldn’t be voiced. Finally, Yaxley spoke.

“Sorry I forgot to send through some Pain Relief Potion,” he said. She looked at him, frowning in confusion.

“For what?”

“Your… monthly,” he said. “Usually you have some, but I didn’t put any in the cupboard, and I wasn’t sure whether there was any in the bathroom cabinet…”

While he talked, Hermione panicked. Her period. It was supposed to come a couple of weeks ago. It had never been this late before, even when she’d been sick. Oh gods. What if…

“…so have you been in pain?” he asked, just as she tuned back in. She shook herself.

“Um… no,” she said. Not physically. “No. I haven’t been in pain.”

“Good,” he said. Then he closed his eyes, as he always did when he rested after sex. At least, whenever they were in bed. This gave her more time to worry.

She couldn’t be pregnant. If she was pregnant, that meant that she was in love with him, and she couldn’t be in love with him. He was a Death Eater, and he hated anyone who wasn’t a Pureblood. He would never accept their child, assuming that he didn’t insist upon an abortion. Would he do that?

No. She couldn’t be in love with the enemy, especially when there was no chance of him loving her back. It was the stress. And she hadn’t been eating enough. That was why she was late…

Oh dear. His kiss was making it impossible to think. Lips, tongue, warmth, smoothness… ooh…

Suddenly, Yaxley hissed and grabbed his arm, rolling away. She could see the Dark Mark undulating on his skin. She looked away, feeling sick, even as she reminded herself that she really couldn’t be in love with him. Wasn’t. She wasn’t. She was smarter than that. And that kiss hadn’t affected her at all.

“I must go,” he said, though he hesitated before pushing away his half of the covers. Hermione stared at the canopy, taking steady breaths. “It had better be important.”

Little did they know that Harry and Ron had been caught.

A/N: Thank you for all your kind well-wishes, m’dears! Now, unless you want to read all about my favourite pieces of instrumental music – and how they fit into the story – that’s it for this author note.

‘Finlandia’, by Jean Sibelius, is one of the most nationalistic compositions ever written. It’s got a very dark beginning (to symbolise oppression), but later on has a theme that is used as a hymn. Funnily enough, the hymn is called ‘Finlandia’. The piece was used in the film score of the second ‘Die Hard’ movie. Obscure Alan Rickman reference! Yay! (And watch out for Professor Snape in future chapters.)

‘Moldau’ is part of the ‘My Country (Ma Vlast)’ suite by Bed�ich Smetana. There are six parts to the suite, and ‘Moldau (Vltava)’ is the most famous of them. It’s got this lovely theme running through, that – quite frankly – is enough to bring tears to the eyes. It’s that beautiful. (And it’s familiar to people who fly with Czech Airlines, according to Wikipedia.) The obscure reference – which I only realised the day after finishing this chapter – is that the Moldau is a river. ‘River’, as in Lee Jordan on Potterwatch?

Finally, ‘Pines Near a Catacomb’ is part of a suite by Ottorino Respighi, called ‘The Pines of Rome (Pini di Roma)’. Hey! There’s an obscure Remus Lupin reference! (Very obscure.) Anyway, ‘Pines Near a Catacomb (Pini presso una catacomba)’ is, again, the second part of the suite, and it’s got some very exciting bits in it.

You know what? If you haven’t heard of any of these, you should go and look them up. I’d say that ‘Moldau’ is my favourite out of these three, but there are plenty of nationalistic composers who wrote excellent symphonic poems. I figured that if Potterwatch ever played classical music written by Muggles, this is the kind of stuff they’d play.

(By the way, the lemon took place during ‘Moldau’. I hope that my little descriptions did it some small justice.)

May I recommend Grieg? Especially ‘Wedding Day at Troldhaugen’, which I can play on the piano for memory, and most of his ‘Peer Gynt’ incidental music. PM me for specifics. *Cue smiles*
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Captive at Number 12