Augury & Ardor

A/N: I'd like to make a particular warning here about the graphic depictions of non-consensual sex in this story. While, in the past, the non-con would be considered erotica by some, this chapter contains a scene of non-consensual sex that could hardly be considered erotic by anyone. If you feel this would distrub you, I suggest you not read on.

Thank you to all who continue to read and review - I enjoy the feedback VERY much! :)

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Severus woke as soon as Hermione rolled into the curve of his arm. These mornings were the most difficult for him; the ones that had him Disapparating before he’d had a proper breakfast. He’d promised himself he’d take her twice a day to fulfill his obligation to get her pregnant but he hadn’t realized how difficult it was to stick to that promise. There were mornings he lay with her to find his thirst only partially slaked – mornings like this when he felt he could keep her in bed the whole day and never be completely satisfied.


His body tightened in quick response as her arm snaked across his chest and her leg curved over his. She found a comfortable spot on his shoulder for her head, the warm sigh of her breath feathering across his neck, and he was rock hard. On the mornings she turned to him before waking and tangled herself in his limbs, he was insatiable. For the rest of the day he would chase that elusive quality to their lovemaking yet never find it. It drove him mad and, inevitably, made their time together tense.


Despite knowing how it would turn out, he couldn’t deny himself the pleasure. He stroked her awake and slid into her heat, nipping her sleep-warmed skin between his lips and savoring her soft gasps and moans. He came, groaning into her neck and reveling in the feel of her hands pulling him closer.


The crones came on schedule and threw their customary pall on the morning with their snide comments and smug announcement that his ‘ministrations’ had produced no heir. He watched as Hermione lost her drowsy complacency and remembered her surroundings, her circumstance. His mouth tightened as he watched her withdraw by measures, her eyes becoming watchful and her manner hesitant. Breakfast became the silent, torturous affair to which he’d become accustomed.


Rather than stay and torment them both, he pushed his tea away and stood.


“You’re leaving again?”


He raised an eyebrow at her sharp question. “Can’t bear to be parted?”


“I’m bored,” she groused, throwing the piece of toast she’d been nibbling onto her plate.


“I’ve brought you your course books. Read them.”


“I’ve read them.”


He opened his mouth to question the veracity of her statement but then realized she probably had. She had a voracious thirst for knowledge much like he’d had at her age.


Her age. At the reminder of the disparity in their ages, his mouth thinned. It was no wonder she was bored. Unlike him, she had the benefit - the company - of friends at school. Of course she would be missing them and her normal routine.


“And without my wand,” she hurried to continue, “I can only study theory. I can’t practice my transfigurations or charms. I can’t even practice my non-verbal spells here you’ve got it so warded. How am I supposed to learn anything?” She threw up her hands. “How am I supposed to learn to brew a potion in theory?”


“Studying with your wand or practicing spells, under the circumstances, is impossible,” he answered slowly, considering her words. “However, I could, perhaps, supervise your potion-making.”

Over the following two weeks, his resolve was sorely tested. As promised, he supervised her as she brewed from her Advanced Potions textbook. Although she did well, as she always had done in his class, he had to push her to disregard the textbook, think for herself and follow instinct. It was during one such incident that their disagreement had turned into an argument. She’d called him a ‘supercilious ass’ and he’d sneered, in return, that she was an ‘walking encyclopedia with too much information and too little imagination’. The argument had concluded with them in bed, covered in sweat and panting as if they’d run a marathon, weak from the force of their coupling.


Instead of appeasing his appetite for her body, the more he took her the more he wanted her.


It almost came as a relief when she announced one morning, with a blush, that her menstrual cycle had begun. He was able, then, to not only instruct her where she hit troubled spots in her schoolwork but even produced a chess board and entertained her some afternoons. He could admit to himself that he disliked the clothing necessary to her condition; he missed the pleasure of gazing at her walking about in his black robe, her long, smooth limbs flashing into view. However, knowing he couldn’t take her made it easier to spend time in her company.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You’re just stalling, now. Admit you’re cornered and surrender.”


Hermione jerked back to the present, guiltily. She’d been sitting at the table, worrying her lip through her teeth as she gazed at the chess pieces. She'd been looking at them, but hadn’t really been seeing them. Her period had finished the night before but she hadn’t said anything yet to let him know. He wasn’t stupid, though; he would soon ask and then she’d have to start sleeping with him again.


Not that they weren’t still sleeping in the same bed. Every night she tossed and turned, becoming tangled in the confines of her nightgown, feeling his presence inches from hers. A few mornings she’d awakened to find herself lying half across him, her leg draped over his hips and her head on his chest. The rigid length of his erection pressing against her leg reminded her of what she could expect when she stopped menstruating.


On those mornings she would relieve him of her weight, all the while blushing furiously. She couldn’t meet his eye until after she’d had time, in the shower, to quash her embarrassment. While he was a sensual man, he wasn’t affectionate. He didn’t hold her after they had sex.


Not that I’d want him to, she thought in consternation. Which was why she was so embarrassed to find herself clinging to him like a vine on those mornings. She wondered what he must think when he awoke to find her cuddled up to him like that.


What he thought was a mystery but what he wanted was evident. What had her worrying her lip was the fact she was anticipating his attention with as much desire as dread. She wanted his hands and his mouth on her. She wanted his body on hers, filling and stretching her - driving her wild.


When her period had first come she’d been ecstatic but, as the week progressed, she’d found herself yearning for his touch. Being next to him, at the fire, having his smooth bass voice lap over her as he explained the properties of a potion component was torturous. There had been numerous times she’d wanted to turn into that low vibration and rub against him like a cat. Times when she’d found herself staring at his pale, long-fingered hands and imagined them on her.


What’s wrong with me? she frantically thought, How can I want this man? He’s everything I should scorn.


“Hermione?”


“I – I can’t concentrate,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m desperate for some fresh air. Can’t we please go outside?”


It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. She was so used to his flat denials that she stared in surprise when he nodded and stood.


“We – we can?”


“I think you’re right; you do need some fresh air. You’ve looked peaky these last few days; I was going to suggest it after we finished the game.”


She blinked, still finding it hard to believe she would leave the confines of the room. The prospect, however, had her hurrying to the door.


“Not on the grounds,” he clarified. When she turned back in question, he gestured for her to join him. “Take my arm. There’s a place that will suit our needs but we’ll have to Apparate there.” No sooner had she wound her arm through his, they Disapparated from the bedroom.


Hermione swayed into him as they came to an abrupt halt, not outside but in a heavily furnished room. She looked up at him in confusion to see his expression turn cold and followed his gaze. Lucius and Draco Malfoy stood side by side, their faces mirroring the same smug smile.


“My Lord,” Severus said, his eyes cutting to the left. “You wished to see me?”


Hermione turned her head, her fingers involuntarily convulsing on Severus’ arm at the sight of Voldemort standing there.


“I wished to see both you and your bride.” A smile so cold split the Dark Lord’s serpentine features that Hermione’s blood froze in her veins. “It seems Draco learned from your house-elves that the girl stopped menstruating last night. The midwives, I am to understand, had no reason to visit your room this morning, however.”


Hermione looked up at Severus only to wince at the accusation in his icy gaze.


“Perhaps he doesn’t have the enthusiasm required for this task,” Lucius suggested, throwing Severus’ own words back at him. “Draco is still willing to fulfill the prophecy, my Lord.”


“The prophecy,” Severus interjected, his tone scathing, “has already begun to unfold. Or have you forgotten the ceremony that bound the girl to me, Lucius?”


“A union easily dissolved. She’s not pregnant, yet,” Lucius returned quickly, before addressing Voldemort. “Draco is at his prime. I’m sure he can sire the boy who will raise you to power.”


“Whether or not he could sire a child on her is moot,” Severus replied with cool derision, “He was not the one who took her maidenhead. Your son had a bad habit, when I taught him, of disregarding important information if it opposed his desires; I see it’s a habit he learned from you. I’d suggest you both reread the prophecy.”


A look of cold fury passed Lucius face before Severus turned back to Voldemort. “You may rest assured I’ll deal with this firmly and immediately, my Lord.”


Voldemort waved his hand in curt dismissal and without another word, they Disapparated from the room.


He released her as soon as they Apparated. She stumbled backward a few steps then continued backing away from him as he advanced on her, eyes furious. “Do you realize what might have happened back there?”


“I- I’m sorry,” she stammered.


His hand shot out to grasp her chin. “He may have as easily sent you writhing to the floor with a Cruciatus Curse than dismissed us.”


“I didn’t mean –”


“Do you want to be shared by Lucius and Draco Malfoy?” His voice was like a whip snap. “To be passed between father and son?”


“N-no!” She let out a small sob and winced as he jerked his hand away from her face. Instead of the blow she’d expected, he spun away and flexed the hand with which he’d been holding her.


“Your life depends on submitting to this prophecy,” he ground out, his back still to her. “And like it or not, I’m your only protection from the likes of the Malfoys who will continue to argue their suit to the Dark Lord. If kept waiting long enough, don’t think he won’t consider it.”


When he turned back to her, his expression was once again unreadable. “Come.”


His long strides ate the distance between where they’d Apparated and a small stand of trees in the distance.


“Where are we?” she asked, hesitantly, when he finally stopped under a weeping willow. Its boughs bent over a stream and in its shade lay a blanket with a basket resting on it.


“An enchantment of sorts. Purl and Bitsy certainly discharged this task with enthusiasm,” he noted with a small, humorless smile. “They have trouble understanding the nature of our relationship, I’m afraid.” He studied her a moment, his dark eyes hooded. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d finished your cycle?”


“I’m not used to discussing it with others,” she returned, stubbornly.


After another short silence in which he studied her, he said slowly, “I know you’re not dissatisfied with our physical relationship, so why would you deny yourself that pleasure?”


“Because I don’t want to be satisfied!” she snapped, all the pent up fear from their meeting with Voldemort spilling out as anger. “I don’t want to enjoy your touch!”


He was silent for much longer before he spoke again. “That’s easily remedied.” His words were soft but his mouth and eyes were hard. “Come here.”


“What are you going to do?” she asked, realizing she’d foolishly angered him again. Each time she challenged him, she ended up spiting herself yet she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue or her temper.


“I’m going to fuck you, Hermione, just as I’ve been ordered,” he replied, curtly, “If we’re lucky, you’ll get pregnant and we can be done with this travesty.”


She could tell he was restraining a great deal of anger and went to him without further argument, hoping it would appease it.


“Turn around.” When she obeyed, he grasped her shoulder in one hand and used the other to reach under her skirt. Hooking her knickers in his fingers, he rent them from her and tossed them aside. “Stay still,” he snarled when she took a nervous step away.


A gasp escaped her lips when he shoved her skirt up around her hips and, without preamble, pushed into her. Without his usual attention to her needs, his thrusts were far from the pleasurable friction to which she was accustomed.


“Do you think I’d choose to lie with an inexperienced, unwilling partner every day?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You delude yourself if you think I wanted this any more than you. I will, however, take what enjoyment I can from it because to do otherwise would be foolish.”


With one hand holding her shoulder and the other holding her hip, he plunged into her for what seemed an eternity until he finally shuddered, stilled, and then withdrew. Stepping back, he refastened his trousers. “Pleased with our little outing so far?” His voice was soft but as ruthless as their coupling.


Rather than answer, Hermione pushed her skirt back down over her hips with trembling hands and wrapped her arms around herself. She had thought, up until that moment, nothing could be worse than responding to him – nothing more degrading than calling out his name when he took her – but she’d been wrong.


At least, before that moment, she’d felt human. Involved. Substantial. Now, she felt broken and empty, as if a strong breeze could lift her up and tumble her, end over end, like an empty husk. Her legs buckled and she sank to the grass, hot tears blurring her vision. She shook as they rolled, silently, down her face.


“Hermione.” His voice was sharp but not with anger. It was a tone she didn’t recognize but one she had no energy to ponder, either. “Damn it,” he swore without heat, pulling her to her feet. “Why must you constantly fight me?”


The linen of his shirt scratched her cheek as he pulled her against him but she hardly noticed that small discomfort. She felt hollowed out and never more alone than at that moment. All the fear, all the indignity and helplessness she’d endured welled up and filled her with despair.


For a long time, Severus merely held her as she sobbed out her sorrow. Then, as the tears abated, his hands stroked over her back and arms. His mouth brushed the damp contour of her jaw.


“Let me take it back.” His voice was barely audible against her neck as he, molded her up against the length of his body. “Let me make it good.” His hands stroked under her shirt, over her ribs, along her spine. They smoothed over her thighs and hips like a balm and she took the comfort he was offering.


Much later, Hermione sat up on the blanket and pushed her hair from her face. Severus lay beside her, eyes closed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest for a few minutes before pushing to her feet. A bit of investigation found her shirt beside the basket, her skirt a few feet away and her shoes at the base of the tree. Glancing back at him, she pulled her clothes on and then hurried across the open field of tall grass toward a small wood, beyond.


Hitting the invisible barrier was like hitting a huge balloon full of warm air. She felt a small give before she was bounced backward onto her bum, unhurt. On her feet again, she approached the wooded area, arms outstretched. This time, with her hands out, she touched the barrier and felt a mild tingle in her palms. While it wasn’t painful, neither was it comfortable. Trying to push through it was thoroughly disagreeable and made her feel slightly nauseated when she persisted beyond a few seconds.


Walking in a slow, deliberate arc, she reached out and occasionally tested its boundaries. A half hour later, she walked back to the blanket in defeat. Although the area was large, they were, in essence, sitting in a huge cage with invisible bars. And, although he had Apparated them there, she was unable to Disapparate out. In fact, no nonverbal spells she tried worked, not even the most remedial and innocuous. While she wasn’t surprised he’d made provisions for their visit, she was mildly disgruntled that she had wasted time and energy on trying to escape while he peacefully dozed.


Hermione removed a pumpkin juice from the basket and sipped it, rubbing the cool outside of the glass along her forehead. Her trek had left her tired and hot. For a moment, she flirted with the idea of removing her clothes again. Severus looked perfectly cool and comfortable, lying there clothed in nothing but sunlight.


It struck her, as her eyes traveled up to his face, how rare it was for her to witness him sleeping. The few times she’d awakened in the middle of the night, she’d seen his eyes glittering back at her in the dark. Most mornings, he woke her with the gentle but insistent exploration of his mouth and hands.


In sleep, his features were relaxed although between his eyebrows a permanent furrow was etched in his skin. The stern set of his mouth was softened, however, and without his penetrating black stare intimidating her, he looked almost approachable.


He wasn’t a handsome man; his features were too severe. He was compelling, however. Imposing. His arresting features coupled with his controlled self-possession made him an intriguing figure to say the least.


She froze when his eyes opened and met hers. “Y-you’re beginning to burn,” she stammered for lack of something better to say. This would be the second time she’d been caught staring at him, she realized in embarrassment.


He didn’t seem to hear her. Instead of answering, he lifted his hand to cup her jaw and outline her lips with his thumb. “Like petals,” he murmured, his eyes following the tracking of his thumb, “What must it be like to taste their perfume?”


Her breath stuttered to a stop in her throat until his eyes closed, again, and his hand dropped back to his side. Then, drawing a trembling breath as her heart resumed its rhythm, she realized he’d never truly been awake.