PREFACE: The characterisation of Antonin Dolohov as a Russian wizard who developed an infatuation with Hermione after attacking her at the Ministry, in addition to the many Russian endearments coined by him throughout this story are the intellectual property of Canimal, author of "The Dark Mage's Captive". I characterise him this way with the full knowledge and permission of Canimal.

ANTI-LITIGATION CHARM: Any canon material belonging to the Harry Potter world belongs to J.K. Rowling. I make no profit for this work, beyond that of reviews.

A/N: Ooops! Another One Shot. October is proving to be a dangerous month for me with all these prompts in DEE. I'm falling for my own prompts here, people. Teehee. I hope you like this one.

xx-Kitten

Undisclosed Desires

By Kittenshift17

The faint light glowing from the windows of a tiny cabin in the woods drew her like a moth to flame. The young woman dashed in wedge heels she loathed toward the sight, hurrying and fighting the urge to scream with every step. The woods were dark and the trees hugged close, their branches reaching for her like gnarled hands, tearing at her costume and trying to snatch her candy bucket from her grip.

Skidding across the front yard thanks to the rain-slick grass, Hermione Granger didn't even bother to knock on the door as she converged on the tiny house. That it might belong to someone awful never occurred to her. She was too scared. Racing across the porch and almost twisting her ankle, she burst through the door and slammed it closed behind her.

"There's a bear out there!" she gasped, mostly to herself, but hoping that whomever she'd barged in on would understand her lack of manners, given the circumstances.

She frowned, breathing hard and leaning against the door, when she looked around the small single-roomed cabin and found that she was alone. Trying to calm her racing heart, Hermione felt logic surface from the depths of her fear and her frown deepened.

"A bear?" she asked herself, pushing away from the door and heading toward the fireplace that crackled merrily, hoping to warm her chilled frame and dry her damp clothes. "I'm in Britain. We don't have bears, anymore! Merlin, Hermione, could you have been any thicker?"

She was in the process of wringing out her hair when a thud on the porch caught her attention and Hermione fished in her pocket for her wand and cried out in alarm to find that she'd obviously dropped it whilst tearing through the words. Out of time, and without a weapon, Hermione spun toward the sound and narrowed her eyes.

"Not a bear," she muttered to herself. "An Animagus."

The door creaked open slowly and Hermione held her breath, poised and ready to defend herself should the animgus – the owner of the cabin, she suspected – take issue with her invasion. Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating the woods on that cold, Halloween night, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Her heart, having begun to slow, kicked back into high gear as fear coiled in her limbs and poisoned her sense.

Worse than a bear.

So much worse than a bear.

"Dolohov?" Hermione breathed, her body shaking in terror as she trailed her gaze over the dark haired Russian wizard.

Flicking damp brown hair out of his eyes, the elusive Death Eater stepped across the threshold, the light of the fire illuminating the droplets of water than ran down his bare chest. He raked mysterious, and wickedly amused dark eyes over her and Hermione had never felt more vulnerable. Not even when she'd been writhing on the floor of Malfoy Manor, or when she'd been struck by Dolohov's purple-fire curse in the Department of Mysteries had she felt so utterly at anyone's mercy.

"Aren't you a little old to be Trick or Treating, mishka?" he asked, his Russian accent thick and rolling off his tongue in such a way that Hermione shivered.

Glancing down at herself, Hermione frowned. This was all Ginny's fault. She'd insisted that Hermione's thick brown hair made her think of bear fur and so here she was, dressed in a cute bear costume equipped with claws, tufted little ears, and face paint. To him, she probably looked ridiculous and Hermione darted a glance past him toward the open door and the woods beyond even as the storm raged outside.

She had to get out. As soon as he figured out who was hiding behind the face paint, he was going to torture her, or finish what he'd started in the Department of Mysteries. The purple starburst scar upon her chest from his curse throbbed dully as she stared at him.

"Please, let me go," Hermione said quietly after licking her lips.

"You just got here," he smirked, very deliberately closing the door and cutting off her escape.

Hermione darted a glance toward the fireplace at her back, hoping she might spot a pot of Floo Powder somewhere so that she could make a break for it that way. She whimpered when he summoned the pot of powder with a lazy flick of his wand before she could spy it, nestled behind a picture frame on the mantle.

"Dolohov," she began weakly, taking a hesitant step back when he took a long, measured step forward.

"Granger," he sneered, mocking her, a wicked smirk curling his lips. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Just let me go," she commanded. "I won't tell anyone you live here, or that you're even still alive."

He laughed, a low, cold sound that made her tremble even more. Her knees knocked inside the loose-fitting bear-onsie she'd donned for the sake of her costume and making Harry laugh on his least favourite night of the year.

"And have you slip away when I've looked forward to our reunion?" he asked, taunting her.

"You…" Hermione frowned at him.

"You might've escaped me twice now, mishka," he went one. "But you know what they say. The first one was too hard. The second was too soft. But the third time will be just right."

Hermione closed her eyes in horror when she realized he'd turned her costume into a Goldilocks parody. He wasn't going to let her go. She couldn't apparate without her wand. She knew she'd never make it past him to bolt out the door, not when he still had his wand and he was an Animagus. And he'd cut off escape through the Floo. She was doomed. She would die in a silly bear costume in a cabin in the woods on Halloween and Harry's hatred of the holiday would grow even more abiding.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked fearfully, opening her eyes and cursing silently to find Dolohov had closed the distance between them amid her horrified distraction.

He loomed over her, his sharp cheekbones casting shadows on his face thanks to the firelight at her back. His eyes were fixed on her and they glittered with a number of emotions that terrified her. Hatred. Lust. Disgust. Intrigue. Amusement. Wickedness. He would take his time destroying her, she could tell. He would revel in it. He wasn't the type to offer her a quick end to whatever pain and humiliation he'd cooked up for her.

"I've been planning our reunion a long time, Mudblood," he murmured to her, bringing one large, calloused hand up to stroke the delicate column of her throat in a way that felt more threatening than affectionate.

"You knew I would end up lost in the woods?" she asked.

His lips twitched. "Did you imagine your arrival here was happenstance?" he asked, laughing softly.

"The whiskey bottle was a portkey?" she guessed, recalling that the last thing she'd done before finding herself in the woods and running for her life was reaching for the bottle of firewhiskey on her mantel. She'd wanted a bracer before heading to meet Ginny, Harry and Ron, needing something to calm her nerves at the thought of seeing Ron again after their recent and messy break-up.

Dolohov's grin was evil and Hermione felt sick to think he'd been in her flat. He knew where she lived. He'd invaded her home enough to transfigure a bottle into a portkey, and he knew her habits well enough to know she'd reach for a drink before heading out on Halloween.

"Where are we?" she asked quietly, desperately trying to think of ways to keep him distracted, trembling when she felt the way he traced the pads of his thumbs along her collarbones, his hands coming to rest lightly around her throat. The way he collared the slender column, and the way his fingers twitched, Hermione knew he was imagining slowly choking the life out of her.

"You think I will tell you?" he asked curiously. "I am not so foolish as to imagine that you might never escape me, mishka. You have before."

"Why did you wait?" Hermione tried again. "If you were able to plant a Portkey in my house, you could have grabbed me any time."

He slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and smoothed his thumbs up either side of her windpipe, forcing her to tilt her head up, making her meet his gaze.

"No one will think to look for you tonight until it is much too late," he said, lowering his head over hers in such a way that her vision was full of his eyes. His lips brushed against her when he spoke. "They will think you were too cowardly to face your ex-boyfriend and that you went out alone, if they look for you at your flat, or simply that you aren't coming. No one will think to look for you until morning, or perhaps even the day after tomorrow."

"And you plan to kill me before then," she said, the words almost catching in her throat.

"Kill you?" he frowned a little, his eyes boring into her. "Oh, mishka, I'm not going to kill you."

Hermione gulped, knowing from his tone alone that not dying was going to prove so much worse.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her hands lifting to circle his wrists, her subconscious screaming at her to at least try to defend herself.

Dolohov hummed softly, as if in approval.

"You are a fighter, no?" he murmured, purposely brushing his lower lip against hers.

"I am," Hermione agreed.

He chuckled softly, his breath fanning over her damp face and Hermione's knees almost gave out, her fear was so consuming. His nails scraped lightly against her scalp as he forced her to hold his gaze, her head tilted up, his mouth slanted over hers, so close it brushed hers when he spoke. She hated the way, despite her terror, the proximity of any man's lips so close to hers after so long made them tingle.

"Tell me something, lisichka," he said softly, almost tenderly. "What might it take to convince you not to fight? Just this once?"

Hermione frowned. She didn't have to be the brightest witch of her age to know what he was asking her. The hot, hard lump inside his damp jeans and pressing insistently against her stomach gave her a pretty big clue. Emphasis on big.

Why would he attempt to bargain with her to passively let him shag her when he could simply force her, as surely as he intended to torture her.

"You want me to…" she frowned.

"Without a fight," he nodded. "Name your price, pchelka."

Hermione gulped. She wanted to scream that she'd never willingly let him have her. She wanted to kick and snarl and spit hexes and venom at him. She wanted to drive him back and make him leave her alone.

But she wanted to live, too.

"I'll do it if you'll let me go free, afterward," Hermione bargained, doubting he would go for it. "Without hurting me. If you let me leave, I'll…." Her lip trembled. "I'll let you…"

"Say it, lisichka," he commanded. "We are negotiating terms. If you are not explicit, you might not like what you bargain for."

Hermione gulped, feeling very much like she was making a deal with the devil.

"If you allow me to leave here afterward, unharmed and unhindered, and without following me or trying to stop me, I will agree to having sex with you without trying to fight you off and without crying or calling for help."

"And without trying to steal my wand," he said. "You will participate. You will not just lay there like a limp kukolka. You will feel."

Hermione shivered, hating him for realizing she'd been entertaining thoughts of laying back and thinking of England whilst mentally reciting History of Magic facts.

"Only if you promise not to hurt me and not to come after me when I've left," she said after a slowly, steadying breath.

His lips twitched.

"I will make no promise that you will not seek me out after, lisichka," he goaded very softly. "And you will promise not to speak of any time spent in my presence. You will not seek to bring Aurors hunting for me. You will not report ever seeing me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"You will accept that when I've gone, I will never come back. You will never see me again," she countered.

He laughed huskily at her words. "Do not be so hasty to promise you will not see me again, mishka. It will make you look foolish when you return of your own volition. Crow is not a meal you will enjoy."

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked. "Why would I ever come back if I managed to get away? Is there something wrong with you that you would pass to me that might make me return."

Dolohov shook his head. "I am perfect. Do we have a deal, Granger? Or shall you fight and live out your days as my tortured little plaything? Be warned, it gets lonely out here in the woods. I would be driven to play with you, often."

Hermione shivered, not at all liking that option.

"You agree I will go free, unharmed, and that you will not follow?" she confirmed.

"I do," he nodded. "If you agree that you will not fight, you will not speak of our meeting once you are gone, and that you will wholeheartedly participate in fucking me as though I were the man of your dreams."

"You're the man of my nightmares," Hermione told him quietly.

He grinned evilly.

"Deal?" he asked, his lips brushing her again as he spoke.

Hermione's mind raced, searching for whatever loophole he thought he might exploit. She found none and she knew it was a gamble, but the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

"Deal," Hermione breathed.

He sealed it with a kiss, surging forward to claim her lips with his own. Hermione was taken off guard, gasping in surprise and he took advantage of the situation, pressing forward as his tongue swept out to tangle with hers. He kissed her hungrily, his fingers tight in her hair and his nails scratching delightfully against her sensitive scalp. Hermione's grip tightened on his wrists, her mind telling her to fight him off even though her body was all for surrender.

He pulled back before she could really get into the kiss and she frowned at him.

When he suddenly pulled his wand, Hemione tensed, about to call foul and tell him that she hadn't been fighting and that if he broke their deal she would tear him limb from limb. She startled when he muttered a cleaning charm, passing the tip of his wand over her face. Hermione blinked, realizing he was removing the face-paint of her costume, wanting to see her properly without the smudged paint marring her features.

His lips twitched on a satisfied little smile when it was all gone and Hermione wondered what his damage was that he obviously preferred the way she looked without any kind of make-up on. Before she could ask, or utter a single word, he leaned into her once more, his lips brushing feather-light against hers. Hermione hated him more than ever when she realized he was trying to get her to kiss him back. He wanted her to be the one to deepen the kiss. He wanted her to be the one reaching for him and taking charge.

Knowing it would violate the terms of their agreement if she didn't actively participate, Hermione parted her lips, darting her tongue out to trace the seam of his lips and hating him all the more when he resisted for a long moment. When his tongue touched hers, he tasted of whiskey and smoke. Hermione wondered if he'd been drinking or smoking before transforming and chasing her through the woods as a bear. Wretched, Russian bastard.

Loosening her grip on his wrists, Hermione trailed her fingers the length of his forearms, shuddering as she brushed over his Dark Mark – the terrible black ink gone, but the angry red scar remaining. His lips twitched against hers as he snogged her hungrily when Hermione gripped his hips, pulling herself closer to his strong body and pressing insistently against the bulge in his jeans. Shirtless as he was, she touched him skin on skin and Hermione noted that he was still damp from the rain, his skin cold to touch but heating rapidly.

Unbidden, her fingers danced over the ripples of muscles on his washboard abdomen and she hated him all the more for being so fit. Pressing hungrily against him, trying to make him believe she was as into it as he wanted her to be, Hermione rocked her hips, grinding into him and feeling a responding throb from the snake in his jeans. She almost bit him when he let go of her hair, his hands smoothing across her collarbones before sliding under her clothes. She shuddered at the tender touch and he peeled the onsie she wore from her shoulder, sending it skidding the length of her body to pool about her feel, loose enough that it fell unhindered into a messy pile. She trembled with cold and quivered with fury and hatred and the terrible, building heat inside of her as he smoothed his hands across her chest to firmly cup her pert breasts.

Breaking the kiss, unable to stand it, Hermione nuzzled into his neck, nipping him hard enough to sting and feel a vindictive little thrill when he hissed.

"Careful, lisichka," he murmured, tipping his head back to give her better access when she nipped him again before kissing a hot trail over his neck. "I like to play rough."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, loathing the delicious scrape of his stubble over her cheeks and her chin as she tormented him. He kneaded her breasts gently, pinching her nipples through her shirt and Hermione closed her eyes when they tightened to peaks, treacherous little spears of heat coursing through her to build between her legs.

Wanting it over with, Hermione trailed her fingers along the treasure trail of hair that led to the button of his jeans, popping it open and gritting her teeth at the rasp of his fly.

"So eager, Hermione?" he muttered into her ear, nibbling the lobe and making her crazy. Her ears had always been so sensitive, apparently hot-wired directly to her clit, and she'd just bet Dolohov knew it. She loathed that he'd used her first name, personalizing it in a way she'd tried to avoid.

"Eager for it to be over," Hermione retorted.

He nipped her sharply and Hermione gasped.

"Careful, Granger," he replied. "I'd hate to think you were violating our agreement by not wanting to fully participate."

Hermione growled under her breath, nipping him again in return and getting herself bitten for her trouble. He pinched her nipples sharply enough to sting and Hermione hated the way her body arched into the touch, her knickers dampening under his onslaught. He laughed as he snaked a hand around her back, unsnapping the clasp on her bra and peeling it down her arms, leaving her bare chested, like him.

Before she could delve her hands inside his jeans, Dolohov grabbed her arse and hiked her up his body, silently urging her to wrap her legs around him. Hermione obeyed, letting him kiss her and tangling her hands into his dark hair. He carried her with ease across the small expanse of floor that made up his lonely cabin and Hermione gripped him tighter when he lowered himself down to sit on the end of the bed in the corner of the room. She found herself straddling him in just her knickers and Hermione hated the naughty little thrill that rushed through her when she recalled that the last time she'd straddled a man had been years ago.

Her break up with Ron, borne of a loss of passion and a confliction over the notion of reproduction, had been preluded by some of the most boring sex she'd ever had and Hermione would bet that Dolohov knew that, too. He was torturing her in the most insidious way. By bargaining with her to enjoy it, he removed her ability not to feel and she realized with a jolt that that was his angle. He didn't want to hold her hostage and torture her physically. Knowing that she'd willing come upon his cock, or his fingers, or his tongue, would undoubtedly torment her psyche for the rest of her life.

Hermione pulled back from his lips with a gasp, accusatory eyes glaring at him. He chuckled huskily, angling her hips so the junction of her thighs bumped insistently against his hard cock. He didn't even meet her gaze, instead drinking in the sight of her creamy flesh, his hands tracing her pert breasts and then lowering, investigating the starburst of purple he'd left scarred upon her flesh when she'd been sixteen.

"Krasivaya," he murmured, drinking in the sight she made as she clung to his broad shoulders while he traced the shape of the scar. She could tell from the gleam in his eyes when he met her gaze that he was proud of the mark he'd left upon her.

Hermione hated it, and she hated him all the more for liking what he'd done to her.

"Such a strong mishka to have survived my curse," he murmured, taunting.

"Such a wretch to have attacked a child," she bit back, narrowing her eyes.

He laughed, uncaring over the insult.

"You aren't a child anymore, lisichka," he said and Hermione hated that her body responded to his hot gaze as it trailed over her.

Hermione whined when he ducked his head, capturing one of her nipples in his hot mouth and suckling eagerly. Her back arched, thrusting her chest toward him more fully and he took advantage, his finger pinching her free nipple while he tormented her with his tongue. She loathed him. Panting, Hermione thought of every terrible curse word she knew and wondered how he would react if she hurled all of them at him. Unbidden, her hands tangled into his hair, holding him to her breast and Hermione closed her eyes, letting her head drop back as the spirals of heat converged beneath her abdomen.

He tore a breathy moan from her lips when he switched to the other nipple, his mouth and fingers trading places and making her crazy. Overcome, Hermione rolled her hips, desperate for friction between her legs and she gasped when he rocked under her, giving her just the faintest taste of what she suddenly and so poignantly wanted.

"Gods," Hermione breathed, her heart hammering inside her chest, lust overtaking her fear and her hatred, leaving her raw and needy and so desperately hungry for him that she could barely stand it.

"More?" he offered, releasing her breast with an affectionate lick.

"More," Hermione agreed, hating that she sounded like she was begging and just knowing that he was probably laughing at her.

Before she could lift off him, intent on getting her hands inside his jeans, he flipped them, depositing her in the center of the bed and snagging his fingers into her knickers. He slid them down her legs torturously and Hermione wanted to kick him as he kissed his way over the scar he'd left upon her chest, tracing the shape of it with his tongue as he stripped her naked.

He worked his way south and Hermione was delirious with pleasure and selfish enough to willingly spread her legs and let him feast on her if that was what he wanted.

"So eager," he hummed approvingly.

She would swear she heard him mutter "you'll be back," but it was muffled as he leaned into the junction of her thighs, giving her a long, sensual lick that made her moan. He didn't ease her into it, apparently too eager, and his stubble rasped against her thighs as he peeled her open with his fingers and began to feast. The swirl of his tongue over her clit was balanced with deep, lingering licks that penetrated her. She got the feeling that he was the type of man who would eat pussy all day long, if permitted, and she hated how badly she wanted to let him.

Clutching at the sheets and his hair, Hermione was desperate for an anchor and he laughed against her skin, offering her his hand and letting her tangle their fingers together, apparently confident in his skill to bring her off with his tongue alone.

He was right to be. Hermione cried out when, a short time later, her whole body spasmed, the spirals of pleasure all exploding like fireworks within her and making her ache and throb in the best way. Antonin ate her all the way through it, greedily licking up her juices until she fell, limp, to the bed. She was breathing hard and heavy with contentment as he rose to his full height. She watched through half-lidded eyes as he shucked out of his jeans, revealing his throbbing desire and making her ache with just the sight.

Gods, that was going to feel good inside her.

When he caught her licking her lips as she stared, he smirked. Hermione was too breathless to care and she tugged him down on top of her when he leaned over her. She didn't let him speak as he situated himself between her thighs, not trusting the wretch not to say something that would infuriate her. Wrapping her legs around his narrow hips, she claimed his mouth hungrily, titillated at the taste of herself upon his tongue. He fumbled slightly, aligning himself at her entrance and Hermione spread her legs wider, making room for him, holding her breath as she waited for the plunge.

He didn't plunge.

He pulled back from kissing her and Hermione blinked her eyes open to meet his stare when he lifted off her enough. His dark eyes were wild, glittering with unbridled lust and the strangest gleam of tenderness that she almost told him to get off her.

"Don't make me wait," she commanded huskily, tightening her legs around him, trying to pull him inside of her. He resisted, narrowing his eyes on her.

"Do you still want to run?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes," Hermione answered truthfully. "But not until we're done."

He raised his eyebrows at her frank statement and Hermione squeezed with her legs again, feeling the tip of him breach her entrance.

"You want this?" he asked, and Hermione wondered if he was testing her.

"I want this," she told him, hating herself for the fact that it was true. No matter the blackmail or the bargain, or the minor kidnapping that had landed her in his bed, right then she desperately wanted to feel every inch of him filling her up until she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Good," he grunted, thrusting home and making her breath hitch.

Merlin, she loved that bit. Her favourite part of sex was always the initial penetration when she could feel her muscles stretching, trying to accommodate the intrusion. She loved the rush of heat that always engulfed her. She loved the faint sting. She loved the dull ache that came before her body grew accustomed to the invasion and she clamped down on him tightly, her legs snug around him and her hands reaching for him as she took him deep inside her for the first time.

He groaned, burying his face in her neck, and Hermione sighed softly, tangling her fingers in his hair once more. She rocked her hips against him when he took too long to move.

"Blyad!" he cursed softly and Hermione smirked to herself. "So tight, lisichka. So warm."

He nuzzled her neck affectionately, peppering her flesh with tiny kisses even as he slowly withdrew almost entirely from her before plunging in once more. Hermione huffed, her body spasming at the heat and the friction. He did it again, slow and controlled as he thrust in and pulled back and thrust in again. Hermione could tell he was trying to cling to his self-control, and she desperately wanted to watch him lose it. She wondered what other Russian curses she could draw from him before he broke and for just a few minutes, she let herself forget what a monster he was.

Rocking into each thrust, Hermione clenched around him, making him curse again and again. She could feel the heat building within her and Hermione narrowed her eyes, wanting to chase the feeling, unhindered. Gripping his shoulders tightly, Hermione rolled the pair of them, surprising him if his grunt was anything to go by. When she was straddling him once more, this time impaled gloriously on every thick inch of him, Hermione pressed her hands to his chest and lifted. He chuckled, tucking his hands behind his head and flexing into her every time she sunk down on him.

"I should've known you would like to be in control, solnyshko," he murmured, watching her as she rode him.

Hermione ignored his approving tone, chasing her orgasm, craving it now. She was using him for her pleasure, but she didn't care about that either. She rolled her hips, rocking and bouncing upon him. He cursed again when she sunk down with her back arched, her head tipped back, driving him against the fleshy patch inside her guaranteed to detonate her.

When he traced his fingertips over her stomach and then lower before circling her clit, Hermione moaned. She screamed when he suddenly pinched her clit, jolting her out of her rhythm and sending her careening into orgasm once more. He bucked under her, never letting up on her clit, and he groaned when he followed her into bliss, filling her up and making her tremble. Hermione collapsed against his chest, unable to stand the pleasure coursing through her and just wanting to sleep now. Boneless, she sprawled over him, breathing in the scent of his skin and noting idly that he smelled of pine needles and wood-smoke.

Silently he pressed at her knees, urging her to straighten her legs and sprawl across him fully. Hermione did as she was bid, unable to form coherent thought, let alone to recall who he was and the terrible things he'd done. He tucked her head under his chin, trying to catch his breath, his cock twitching inside her with every pulsing aftershock of her orgasm. When he curled an arm around her back, holding her to him gently, and began whispering things in Russian that she didn't understand, Hermione closed her eyes.

She needed to leave. She needed to find her wand out in the woods. She needed to run from him as fast as she could before the capricious monster could turn on her.

She didn't.

She didn't even move. For the longest time he laid there, whispering to her in Russian and lulling her toward sleep, and Hermione let him. He was still snugly nestled inside her when she slipped into the waiting arms of sleep. Her breathing even out and Antonin Dolohov trailed the tips of his fingers over the smooth expanse of her back, affectionately touching her skin just to feel the warmth and the power that lived inside her.

He ached with it. He'd never felt so satisfied after sex and he should've known that this sexy little mudblood would be his undoing. He should've known the minute she'd survived his curse when she'd been just sixteen that she was special. He should've run then. He should've been smart and let her get away, rather than continuing to pursue her. But like the bear he could become, he was curious by nature, and he'd wanted to know how she'd survived. He'd wanted to know how she'd lived when so many others had succumbed to his curse. He wanted to taste the fire in her blood and to see the starburst upon her skin.

After a while watching her, he'd wanted to taste her, too. Worst of all, he'd wanted her to want it. He'd wanted her to willingly spread her legs and let him ravish her. He'd wanted her to welcome him into all her heat and power and simmering hale-storm of emotion. He'd wanted to be welcomed into her embrace, fuck it all. He hated himself for wanting it, and he hated even more that he hadn't been able to think of a way to even get her alone with him like this without manipulating her and blackmailing her.

Most of all, he hated the fact that she made him want to be a better man. He hated it because he knew he would fail, and no matter how well he fucked her, she was never going to want him. Not beyond a good fuck, maybe. She'd never want him to be the father of her children. She'd never carry his name, or wear his ring. She would ultimately reject him, eager to be free of him, and disgusted by the sight of him when she knew only a hint of the terrible things he'd done. He hated knowing he wouldn't even stand a chance with her, because he was not a man who took rejection well.

He didn't want to have to break her, and he knew that if he couldn't have her, he would let anyone else enjoy her, either. He might be twisted and insane, but he was also spiteful and calculating and cold. He knew that he was behind her separation for the Weasley boy. He knew she'd never entertain thoughts of forgiving or tolerating a man like him.

He knew that when he let her go, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, he would go after her. He'd promised to let her go, and he'd promised not to follow, but he knew that if she didn't come back, eventually he would hunt her down. He couldn't resist anymore. He'd tried, for a time after the Dark Lord had fallen, he'd tried to put her out of his head and to set aside the burning ache in his groin to fuck her until she screamed his name.

Yet here he was, having lured her to his cabin in the woods and holding her in his arms. Here he was, his cock still buried inside her tight body. He knew he was all kinds of fucked up when he found himself hoping she would get pregnant. His mother would hex him stupid and curse him for a mudak if she could see him, hoping he'd impregnated a wretched mudblood.

He hoped it just the same.

Carding his fingers through the nest of curls that hung haphazardly about her shoulders, Antonin listened to the slow, deep breaths she took in sleep, amazed that she could sleep in his presence. Usually, she couldn't. He'd watched her sleep before, on nights when he snuck into her flat and spied on her. Usually, though she never spotted him, she seemed to sense his presence and grow restless. Perhaps he'd tired her out.

Smirking to himself, Antonin licked his lips, reveling in the taste of her where it lingered upon his tongue. He whispered to her some more, confessing his worst crimes in his mother-tongue and begging for her forgiveness though she couldn't hear him and didn't speak a lick of the language. Hermione slept on, even when his cock softened and eventually slid out of her.

Antonin sighed, carefully rolling her off him, intent on cleaning them both up. At the sink in the corner, he wrung out a cloth and cleaned himself before rinsing it out with warm water and returning to the tiny witch on the bed. Oblivious to his attentions, she slept on as he cleaned her up, unable to keep from pausing to kiss her skin multiple times. Gods, he'd watched for too long, and he didn't think he'd be able to just look anymore; not when he knew how good it felt to touch.

Once she was clean, Antonin arranged the covers on the bed, peeling them back and lifting her gently, slotting her between the blankets to ensure she wouldn't get cold. He smirked just a little as he climbed into bed beside her, pleased his bed was nestled in one corner where she would have to climb over him if she wanted to sneak out. He fished his wand and hers from the pocket of his jeans, laying them both side by side on the bedside table before he snuggled down in bed and pulled his little witch into his arms.

He fell asleep wondering if she would be gone by the time he woke, and hoping against hope that maybe – just maybe – he could convince her to stay.