errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
Dark Mark
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Hermione/Barty
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
20
Views:
6,773
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Hermione/Barty
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
20
Views:
6,773
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
20
Morning broke earlier than usual. At least that was how it seemed to Hermione, the unwelcome light scorching her eyelids as she blinked against the brightness flooding in through the open window. Dammit Barty, I wish you'd stop leaving the shutters open...
She slowly, achingly dropped her feet off the edge of the bed and winced when they touched the cold floor. It couldn't be morning yet. There was no way. Hadn't she JUST gotten to sleep minutes ago?
Barty's arm slid off her hips as she turned away from him to stand. Her head ached, a pulsing throb starting somewhere in the back of her skull and threatening to burst messily through her forehead. Had she drank too much? She didn't drink, she reminded herself. Had she smoked too much? She didn't smoke either. Had she ingested too many illicit substances...?
She didn't do that, either. There wasn't much Hermione Granger Crouch Junior DID do, so why the HELL did her head feel like this?
A loud snort of the sort normally heard in barnyards startled her and she jumped, spinning her head round to see her husband still sleeping soundly. Barty had a snore that rattled rooftops on houses three blocks away. Hermione had grown accustomed to it and learned, with great difficulty, to sleep through it...somewhat. Many nights however found her jamming an elbow into her snoozing husband's ribcage and contemplating covering his face with a pillow. If murder weren't so ostensibly against the rules, she would have done it in their first week of marriage.
Marriage. Hermione looked down at her left hand, at the gold band resting on her ring finger. Was she really married? She was seventeen years old for gods sake, and here she was sitting on the edge of a bed she shared with a man she barely knew...quite possibly the last man on earth she would choose to know, given the choice.
She had once quite innocently assumed she would marry Ron Weasley, once they were both graduated and settled into their respective post-Hogwarts careers. She'd always been fond of Ron, maybe even loved him in more than a just-friends sort of way, but that was all behind her now...Ron wouldn't even come to visit her, and Harry never brought any messages from him. She was persona non grata to the boy she should have wound up with.
And now the man she did wind up with was rolling over in his sleep and reaching for her, his long arm snaking across the empty side of the bed in search of his wife's warm body.
Damn.
It wouldn't be so bad, if her head wasn't exploding with pain. Barty was a good, if sometimes overly enthusiastic, lover---Hermione had no complaints other than frequent bouts of soreness and a funny walk that never went unnoticed in the marketplace. She really wouldn't mind the usual grab-and-ravage morning routine that had become her lot in life, if it weren't for this damn headache...
Barty's roaming hand found her hip and slid into her lap, his long fingers probing into the warm crevasse her tightly pressed-together thighs created. He scooted across the bed and pressed his face into her back.
"GOOD morning, my love."
Hermione winced from the explosive shot of misery scalpeling through her brain at the sound of his loud, chirpy voice. Barty was always cheerful in the morning. Hermione hated him for it, especially today.
"Why why WHY does my head hurt so damn much??" she whined, clenching her eyes shut tight as Barty's hand wormed its way up under the hem of her nightgown. "I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs, so why does it feel like I've done copious amounts of all of the above?"
Barty snickered softly against her hip. "Because, my kitten, the headboard is made of Mahogany."
Hermione's life---or a small, one-night section of it---flashed before her eyes.
Barty fucking her like an animal, his grunts drowned out by her own moans and screams, the bed banging viciously against the wall, her own voice shouting for him to fuck her harder, make her scream, make her come, make her bleed...Barty vigorously obliging...
Her hand crept to her head, feeling the large, hard knot under the tangled masses of her hair. Her cheeks went crimson, a hot flush of embarassment rising from her neck and covering her entire face.
Oh my god...
Albus Dumbledore, you've made me a whore. I hope you're pleased with your handiwork. This is all you, old man.
The unrelenting sunshine continued pouring into the room, as unwelcome as it had first been, but quickly forgotten as Barty's body blocked it and Hermione could finally open her eyes without squinting painfully into its abnormally bright glare. Looking up into her husband's face, she realized with some trepidation that Barty and cheerful sunlight just didn't seem quite right in mixed doses. The bright light broke behind his head, not seeming to notice it was shining on a murderer and his ill-gained child bride settling in to do some dirty business; if it did notice, it didn't seem to care.
*******************************************
She slowly, achingly dropped her feet off the edge of the bed and winced when they touched the cold floor. It couldn't be morning yet. There was no way. Hadn't she JUST gotten to sleep minutes ago?
Barty's arm slid off her hips as she turned away from him to stand. Her head ached, a pulsing throb starting somewhere in the back of her skull and threatening to burst messily through her forehead. Had she drank too much? She didn't drink, she reminded herself. Had she smoked too much? She didn't smoke either. Had she ingested too many illicit substances...?
She didn't do that, either. There wasn't much Hermione Granger Crouch Junior DID do, so why the HELL did her head feel like this?
A loud snort of the sort normally heard in barnyards startled her and she jumped, spinning her head round to see her husband still sleeping soundly. Barty had a snore that rattled rooftops on houses three blocks away. Hermione had grown accustomed to it and learned, with great difficulty, to sleep through it...somewhat. Many nights however found her jamming an elbow into her snoozing husband's ribcage and contemplating covering his face with a pillow. If murder weren't so ostensibly against the rules, she would have done it in their first week of marriage.
Marriage. Hermione looked down at her left hand, at the gold band resting on her ring finger. Was she really married? She was seventeen years old for gods sake, and here she was sitting on the edge of a bed she shared with a man she barely knew...quite possibly the last man on earth she would choose to know, given the choice.
She had once quite innocently assumed she would marry Ron Weasley, once they were both graduated and settled into their respective post-Hogwarts careers. She'd always been fond of Ron, maybe even loved him in more than a just-friends sort of way, but that was all behind her now...Ron wouldn't even come to visit her, and Harry never brought any messages from him. She was persona non grata to the boy she should have wound up with.
And now the man she did wind up with was rolling over in his sleep and reaching for her, his long arm snaking across the empty side of the bed in search of his wife's warm body.
Damn.
It wouldn't be so bad, if her head wasn't exploding with pain. Barty was a good, if sometimes overly enthusiastic, lover---Hermione had no complaints other than frequent bouts of soreness and a funny walk that never went unnoticed in the marketplace. She really wouldn't mind the usual grab-and-ravage morning routine that had become her lot in life, if it weren't for this damn headache...
Barty's roaming hand found her hip and slid into her lap, his long fingers probing into the warm crevasse her tightly pressed-together thighs created. He scooted across the bed and pressed his face into her back.
"GOOD morning, my love."
Hermione winced from the explosive shot of misery scalpeling through her brain at the sound of his loud, chirpy voice. Barty was always cheerful in the morning. Hermione hated him for it, especially today.
"Why why WHY does my head hurt so damn much??" she whined, clenching her eyes shut tight as Barty's hand wormed its way up under the hem of her nightgown. "I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs, so why does it feel like I've done copious amounts of all of the above?"
Barty snickered softly against her hip. "Because, my kitten, the headboard is made of Mahogany."
Hermione's life---or a small, one-night section of it---flashed before her eyes.
Barty fucking her like an animal, his grunts drowned out by her own moans and screams, the bed banging viciously against the wall, her own voice shouting for him to fuck her harder, make her scream, make her come, make her bleed...Barty vigorously obliging...
Her hand crept to her head, feeling the large, hard knot under the tangled masses of her hair. Her cheeks went crimson, a hot flush of embarassment rising from her neck and covering her entire face.
Oh my god...
Albus Dumbledore, you've made me a whore. I hope you're pleased with your handiwork. This is all you, old man.
The unrelenting sunshine continued pouring into the room, as unwelcome as it had first been, but quickly forgotten as Barty's body blocked it and Hermione could finally open her eyes without squinting painfully into its abnormally bright glare. Looking up into her husband's face, she realized with some trepidation that Barty and cheerful sunlight just didn't seem quite right in mixed doses. The bright light broke behind his head, not seeming to notice it was shining on a murderer and his ill-gained child bride settling in to do some dirty business; if it did notice, it didn't seem to care.
*******************************************