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Antonin Dolohov gripped the sides of the pedestal sink, wet hair dripping water, droplets of the handfuls he’d splashed on his face making a break for the drain below. He met his own eyes in the mirror, replaying the tense conversation he’d just finished with his boss.
“You’re quitting? Without notice?”
“Yes, immediately,” he insisted. “Please inform my clients by owl.”
“This is incredibly abrupt. My clientele—“
“You have others who can take the contracts, if they insist,” he replied. He turned to leave, heaving a deep sigh. He turned back to his employer, whose aggravation with him was plain on her stern, birdlike features.
“You’ll clear your rooms,” she demanded. “And be out by noon tomorrow.”
“I will.” He crossed his arms. “And I’ll inform tonight’s client personally.”
She scoffed. “Thank Merlin for small favors. A cancellation mere hours before—“
He’d cut her off with her office door, ignoring her indignant crescendo as he walked away from her quarters and went directly to his rooms to shower and prepare. He wiped his face dry with a towel, waved his wand at his dark hair to dry and style it, and then stared at himself again.
He put on the mask, pointed his wand at his throat, and silenced himself for the last time.
One more time he would give everything he had to his muse.
One more time as a goodbye to the woman that had unwittingly stolen his godforsaken heart.
***
Lamplight scattered across the uneven cobblestones of Knockturn Alley, the sharp tick-tick-tick of Hermione’s sensible heels bouncing off the buildings that crowded the narrow path. At this hour, there weren’t a lot of open establishments. She held her cloak in her fingers, making sure that wind and movement did not reveal her identity.
Without hesitation, she slipped into a narrower alley that wended between two tall, dark buildings that seemed to lean inward. It was only slightly wider than she was. A tall, broad man stood in the shadows there, blocking the entirety of the way with his body.
“The charm,” he growled.
She raised her hand, palm inward; on a delicate chain between her wrist and middle finger was a golden ouroboros, its scales charmed to look as though it was constantly slithering in circles. He scanned the back of her hand with disinterest. Without another word, the behemoth blocking the way turned into an unseen alcove behind him, clearing the way for her. Her footsteps did not slow even once through the interaction.
A stone’s throw further, she turned to the left and faced a blank wall. There was a crack running across the face, starting at the ground and disappearing into the dark above her. Here she raised her hand again, and the ouroboros gleamed against seemingly sourceless light.
The crack opened, slid apart at the seam until she could step through, and immediately closed behind her.
She inhaled deeply of the scent that surrounded her: spicy incense, candle smoke, and rich leather. The smell alone sent warmth to her core in anticipation of what was to come.
Having been here enough times to know her way around without aid, she presented her charm a third time, shaking her head no when asked if she needed anything. The person at the table was different every time, no doubt meant to keep anyone from becoming known as “the receptionist” when they were all far from a mere office aide.
A rich mahogany staircase led up, and her fingers skimmed the railing as she approached her goal. Footsteps muffled by the plush burgundy carpeting below her feet, Hermione moved quietly into the labyrinthine establishment. Occasional sounds of debauchery met her as she passed: moans of pleasure from one direction, a crack of a whip in the distance, a pleading mewl from somewhere along the corridor.
Finally, she came to her door. Anticipation had welled within her, a font of wanting that had her on tenterhooks. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she could put all of her burdens and responsibilities aside and allow the man inside to burn away her worries one at a time.
It had been a curiosity the first time. A rumor she’d heard, forgotten until a boyfriend broke up with her for being too wound up. Too uptight. A workaholic.
A bore.
She’d come here with no expectations, no real knowledge of anything beyond the whispers and hints of release. The man that had introduced her to this world, the man behind this door, remained a mystery. He wore a mask and kept quiet, their only communication written in contracts and questionnaires meant to discern her limits and lay down ground rules. Every session came with new forms, one she would fill out upon arrival to apprise her of his plan, and a three-question exit sheet, meant to gauge her ongoing comfort and satisfaction.
The concept of a safe word had been thoroughly new to her. She’d chosen paperback, thinking there was no sexual situation in which that particular thing might come up.
When he’d reviewed that particular sheet, his lip had turned upward in amusement, and he'd revealed to her a beat-up old copy of The Shining tucked away amongst the more salacious paraphernalia in his rich, heavy armoire. A muggle novel, buried amongst the mysteries in a wizard's wardrobe. Every little thing she learned about him, every tidbit, had her more and more curious.
Tonight, she was determined to find out something new. The man haunted her thoughts, kept her preoccupied day and night. The way he had learned to play her like a musical instrument was unmatched, and the way he’d opened her eyes to her darker desires was something she was sure she could never repay.
And she paid him well.
If that was what it took to keep this man in her life, she would pay him handsomely the rest of her days. Her bones called to him; her entire body lit aflame with the mere thought of him. This man had awakened her from within; every cell of her blossoming like a garden under his tutelage. There was no expanse of skin, no stretch of flesh that didn’t respond to him. No nerve ending that didn’t flash and tingle with every new meeting.
And what was the heart, if not the beating center of it all?
Her fingers closed around the doorknob, and she stepped within.
“Hello,” she said, and he turned to face her, spreading his arms wide in greeting. She removed her cloak and hung it on the hook by the door. “Someday, I’ll get you to say it back.”
A short expulsion of air, a hint of amusement, was all she got. He shook his head, his dark hair falling becomingly around his temples, hanging over the mask he wore to disguise himself. It covered him from hairline to mouth, all black and etched with ornate patterns. Otherwise, he was dressed in a simple button-down shirt—sleeves rolled to expose his tattooed arms and collar loose—and black trousers. He closed in on her, looming in her personal space, and leaned in. His scent enveloped her, a pleasant and undeniably masculine combination of bergamot, vetiver, and cedar. One of his large hands grazed her cheek as he tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Your voice,” she said. “Please, I want to hear your voice.”
Long fingers grazed along her jawline as he shook his head.
He spun her swiftly, capturing her wrists in one hand and pushing her into the wall. She yelped with surprise and excitement, her heartbeat picking up immediately. With one foot, he kicked her legs apart, pressing himself against her back and crowding her into the shadow cast by his body and the flickering firelight that illuminated the room.
His hot breath was once again on her cheek, but that familiar silence was all he gave her, sliding his free hand along her side until he came to the hem of her skirt.
He paused.
“Are you disappointed?” she asked, voice trembling with anticipation. “Have I displeased you?”
The skirt shifted along with his hand as he slid it up to her center to find her knickers already soaked.
She whimpered as he cupped her, dragging his fingers along her slit, the fabric between them a frustration for them both. He tore the flimsy fabric away, the snap of the elastic lace barely registering to Hermione as he adjusted her one more time, kicking her legs a little further apart still.
Without further warning he entered her, rough and swift, his fingers still tight around her wrists.
Pressed against the wall without the use of her hands, Hermione reveled in the feel of him, his large cock pistoning into her with a harshness she’d come to crave. There was a part of her that was wildly impatient, that wanted the tension that built within her to snap sharply, rather than dissipate away. One of their first discoveries together had been the realization that getting her first orgasm out of the way quickly made the rest of their sessions more productive.
That she liked the sensation of being trapped, of having her control wrested from her without warning... well. That was newer.
They’d learned that one together the last time she was here.
“Yes, yes,” she gasped, his powerful thrusts jostling her entirely every time he slammed into her. “Yes, please, yes, yes—”
A delighted scream escaped her throat as her body shuddered with ecstasy. The masked man continued to buck into her through it, and she closed her eyes against the intensity of it all. As her body relaxed into a post-orgasmic daze he finally let her wrists go.
She braced her hands against the wall, knowing what came next. He pulled away from her, his own climax unreached.
Panting, she turned.
Stepping back from her, he gestured with a hand, indicating her clothing.
She reached back and unzipped her rumpled skirt, dropping it to the floor. Her top followed, and her lacy balconette bra shortly after. As she rose to her full height, her skin tightened in the cool air, and he returned to her, cupping her left breast with a large hand. With his thumb, he grazed the hard point of her nipple before adding his forefinger and pinching. The sharp sensation drew a whimper from her, her lips parting, and with his other thumb he hooked her bottom teeth, holding her mouth open.
He lingered there, eyes fixed to the place where his finger met the pillow of her lips. His own mouth hung slightly open, his heavy breathing interrupted by his tongue, darting out for just a moment before his gaze snapped up to hers.
He’d never once in her months of sessions allowed a single hint to his identity behind that which she could plainly see: his large ears, his thick hair, the deep oceanic blue of his eyes. Even his smile, which she rarely saw, disappeared in part behind his mask, keeping her from seeing it in full. And yet there was something about him that gripped her deep in her chest. Their sessions had long since become a source of comfort and solace to her, and deep down she knew it had crossed the line of propriety for her to feel the way she did about this man.
But she didn’t have it in her to end the contract.
It was his job to give her what she requested, to open her sexually to new experiences and guide her safely into unfamiliar territory. She saw affection in every movement and felt care and connection from him, but she was constantly second-guessing herself. After all, this was his job. She literally paid him to treat her like this.
But she couldn’t stop that small voice in the back of her head that hoped. That wanted it to be more than that, that wanted him to need her the way she needed him.
As she dropped to her knees in front of him, her thighs shook with the aftermath of her first orgasm. Arousal churned within her, only exacerbated by the sight of his magnificent cock glistening with her own dew. She opened wide for him, her tongue meeting his head as her nose filled with their combined musk. A blend of salt and sweet met her as he slid into her mouth, his girth almost too much for her to bear. But he’d been patient in teaching her. Suppressing the urge to gag, she took him as deep as she could, sliding her tongue along his length before pulling back and wrapping her slim fingers around his base to make the task easier.
He trembled slightly as she took him again and began a pattern. Using her tongue to tease swirls along his length as she moved, she kept her eyes on his masked face, enjoying every hint of pleasure she could see around its edges. The slack way his jaw hung open, the flush of color that had crept up his neck. His eyes, fixed upon her, watched as she deftly employed the fruits of his labor.
Every slide, every swirl of her tongue, was given in thanks. She laved him with her appreciation. He had helped her unlock her sexuality, to explore and relish those things which brought her the purest pleasures. If not for him, she might never have known half as much as she now knew about herself, about what made her body hum, and what brought her true satisfaction. If not for him, she wouldn’t know where to set her standard.
Then again, her standard was now him.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she took him deep, wanting to bring him the greatest pleasure. Wanting him to feel the way she felt when she was with him, as though she could tell him by allowing him to reach further within her than any other man ever had.
She opened her throat and he bottomed out with a hiss of air through his teeth.
The next time she pulled back, she hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard and enjoying the shudder that shook his entire body. She braced for him to stop her; he always did before he came, refusing to give in and release in her mouth. His hand came down as it always did, and her stomach swooped with disappointment as she expected he would pull away. But instead, his long fingers slid back along her jaw, gathering her hair and holding it. An excitement so bright she nearly sobbed burst inside her as his grip tightened, the tug on her roots just this side of painful and so encouraging.
With one hand still at the base of his cock, squeezing and dragging in time with the bobbing of her head, she used the other to grip him by the fabric of his trousers and hold on. He bucked slightly, a sign of the impending break in his control.
She removed her hand and took him as deep as she could, humming to add vibration. His grip on her hair tightened further and he lost control. His spend hit the back of her throat, and she kept up her ministrations as he gifted her his ecstasy. Swallowing every drop, she licked him from base to head and then let him guide her back to her feet with a light touch of a crooked finger under her chin.
He stared into her eyes for a long moment. Hermione lifted to her toes, leaning toward him, the hope that he might say something hovering between them.
With a flick of his tongue against his lips, he turned to his cabinet of curiosities. Somehow, despite giving in to his base desire, he had returned to composure in what seemed like an instant.
Disappointment returned her to flat feet, and she tried to keep it off her face as he turned to her with today’s forms.
They were extremely short.
“Item one,” she read the page quickly. “Binding?”
She looked up at him, and in his hand he held shining black strips of fabric. Silk, by the look of them. Though it was hidden by his ornate mask, she could somehow tell he’d cocked an eyebrow at her.
With his other hand, he held up his wand. She’d memorized it in her time here. It was eleven inches of red oak, polished and smooth, but for some carving around the edge of the handle in runes that, because he usually had his hand over them, she had never fully been able to see. If she had an idea of what the core was, she thought it would tell her about his nature, given that wands select their masters. But handling someone else’s wand was personal and intimate, and as a client, she didn’t think she had the right to ask.
He scanned her up and down, slowly and appreciatively. She kept still, knowing he would like it if she remained bold.
“I suppose we can try binding,” she nodded. He tapped the form with his wand, and the completed agreement filled in below, indicating she had verbally consented. She then read the rest of the form. “Item two: spanking.”
She scanned the detail beneath and then looked up at him. He merely held up his wand hand, palm square, his thumb tucked to hold his wand. His mouth turned with mild amusement and the corners disappeared under the mask.
“All right.”
He tapped the form again. Another agreement.
“Item three: to be reviewed at the end of the session.” She’d never seen that before, and looked up at him with furrowed brows. “That’s different.”
He merely nodded.
“I suppose that’s all right,” she agreed. He tapped the form one last time, and the final agreement filled in. He then whipped his wand sideways and sent the form to be filed away.
Then, he gestured with the hand full of silk fabric toward the ornate poster bed that dominated one side of the room.
Hermione obeyed, but took advantage of the fact that he had not told her how to get on the bed. She crawled on slowly, making sure to glance back at him over her shoulder. His eyes were fixed to her, the heat of his gaze on her bare skin practically palpable.
He gestured downward with a finger, indicating that she should sit.
She put her back to the pillows, leaving her knees up before her as she sat, awaiting his next move. Her thighs were already trembling slightly, and anticipation permeated every cell of her body.
He flicked his wand.
The black silk ties flew from his hand. Two shot toward her ankles from the posts at the footboard, capturing each of her legs just as two other ties shot from the headboard posts, capturing her wrists. With another flourish of his wand, the ties retracted, pulling her limbs outward. Hermione relaxed into it, allowing the bindings to spread her wide for him without protest. Only when they stopped moving did she test their hold.
The ties limited her movement, but she could still bend her legs and arms somewhat, which kept her from feeling caged. Craning her head back to see her hands, she flexed her fingers.
When she returned her gaze to the masked man, he was bare, but for the mask that obscured his identity and the tattoos that wound up his arms in two full sleeves of artful snakes and runes. She’d been a stellar student of ancient runes, and therefore had already translated some of them. At his collarbones were two threads of runes that she was relatively certain was an old incantation for protection, an ancestral shield carved into his skin.
In the crook of his left elbow was a set of three runes together that she pondered regularly. It could mean thunder; it could mean storm. It could be any number of derivative meanings, or a combination of both. And in the mirroring spot in his right arm, a space, as though he was saving that patch of skin for something he had not yet found.
The scarring beneath the tattoos on his left forearm, a raised outline in smooth skin, healed over like a brand, had not escaped her. This man had once been a Death Eater. The first time she’d realized what it was, she’d been stunned, unsure she could continue with a man who had taken the mark.
But the following week, she’d returned, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Ever since, she’d wondered, but not had the nerve to ask.
Not that she thought he’d answer. He’d never once said a word to her. Even his laughs, when she managed to extract one, were silent.
Eyes meeting hers expectantly, he gestured to her wrists.
She shook her head. “Not too tight.”
He then placed himself above her, holding himself up so that their skin did not meet. He was close enough that his intoxicating bergamot and cedar scent surrounded her; far enough that she couldn’t feel him. Anticipation had her quaking.
The first touch of his fingers, a light grazing of the flesh between her breasts, made her skin erupt in goosebumps and her nipples contract. He avoided direct contact with the parts of her where she craved touch the most, teasing her with soft touches at the curve of her hip, the round of her breast, the outside of her arm, her jawline, her inner thigh. Until she was practically vibrating with need, he didn’t touch a single erogenous zone directly.
So when he tipped his mask ever so slightly and sucked her clit between his lips, she screamed. The sensation was intense and immediate, and his lips and tongue played relentlessly against her core. Pleasure rushed through her as he expertly worked her into a frenzy, adding two fingers to curl against that sensitive focal point deep within her and send tremors rocketing through her bound limbs.
Now she understood the appeal of it. The deprivation, the inability to reciprocate. She was fully at his mercy and he’d chosen to enact a calculated strike against her composure.
When she came with another scream, she arched off the mattress, held in place by his tight grip as he held her to his face and prolonged her orgasm with his relentless tongue.
The fleeting, manic I want to take you home with me that nearly escaped her only died on her lips because he surged upward, placing himself at her sensitive entrance and plunging into her core with his hot, rigid girth. Replaced with a long, whining moan, the notion had to be expressed instead with her body. She squirmed, unable to move her arms or legs with any amount of effort, and was left with only her core at her disposal.
He was overwhelming her with hard, fast, deep strokes, and she was so oversensitive from her prior orgasm that making an effort to squeeze with her pelvic muscles had the interesting side effect of pulling her back from the brink. She had to think hard enough to do it that his efforts to shatter her with one orgasm on top of another were thwarted.
He shook his head above her, a smirk on his lips, and let out an amused puff of air.
She grinned back at him triumphantly and squeezed again and again, meeting him thrust for thrust. It felt as though she had bested him, doing something he hadn’t expected of her. Her heart swelled as she looked up at him, those ocean blue eyes fixed to her face, hidden behind the mask she so desperately wanted to rip away.
She wasn’t expecting his fingers.
He pinched her clit, immediately sending her over the edge, and again the bindings kept her from moving her body the way she wanted, leaving her open to him even as her muscles spasmed and her back arched with ecstasy. Her voice tore from her throat, a string of vowels pouring from her lips as he sent tremors through her body in a way no one else had ever done. That she couldn’t touch him, couldn’t even cling to him with her thighs, left her fully open to the sensations coursing through her and entirely at his mercy.
And he showed her none.
He rose to his knees, continuing to thrust into her with relentless ardor as he tugged her into position, sliding her hips up his thighs to angle her in such a way that his cock slammed into her most sensitive flesh as though they were tethered.
When his palm connected with her ass, she yelped—and immediately marveled at the way her body processed it as pure serotonin.
“Again,” she gasped. “Please.”
His hand rubbed a circle against her, soothing the sting of the first strike, and then he brought his hand back and gave her another sharp slap.
“Ohhhh, fuck,” she moaned. “Again, please. Please.”
He obliged her. Another sharp strike to the flesh of her ass, and then another.
Fully unable to do anything more than moan and wail as he plundered her for every ounce of her pleasure, Hermione came apart. So intense and so powerful it was that tears came to her eyes, the sheer amount of pleasure coursing through her almost hard to comprehend.
His grip on her tightened, and his cock hardened within her as he came close to his own release. She was soaked and overstimulated, and he slipped in and out of her frantically. She was truly sobbing now, her nerve endings firing at a rate that had her bewildered.
She felt his warmth within her, and the release of the ties from her limbs, and as his strong arms wrapped around her, she let her emotions flood out of her.
***
“How long has it been?” she asked, snapping out of a doze and realizing she was still there. Still trembling from the sheer power of their coupling; still aching from the absence of him now that it was done. He was stroking her hair, holding her sweetly in a way she recognized as part of his usual aftercare.
She’d just never drifted off on him before.
With a stretch of his lean, muscular form, he reached to the end table and took up his wand. He waved it in the air and conjured the time; they were technically outside the bounds of her appointment, but only by ten minutes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. Trying to rise and get her things, she startled as he pulled her back. “I’m over time, you probably have other clients—”
He shook his head, waving his wand and summoning a slip of paper.
When he offered it to her, she took it, then furrowed her brow. “This is item three?”
His nod brought tears to her eyes.
“This is our last session,” she read from the paper, her breath hitching. “I… you’re… just like that?”
The mattress shifted beneath her as he moved closer, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her back, his palm warm on her bare shoulder. A comforting gesture, a kindness.
More tears erupted from her. “I’m so sorry. You’re allowed to move on, this is a job for you, I just… I don’t know why I’m—I’m sorry.”
She stood abruptly and gathered her things, pulling her clothes on quickly. She scrambled to pull it all together, to keep from bawling as she cleared the evidence of their last session from the floor and draped it back over her body like so much set dressing. The facade of a satisfied customer, with the interior of a broken heart.
When she turned back to him he was simply sitting on the bed where she’d left him, watching her with those deep blue eyes through that ornate black mask that he never removed.
“I, er, well,” she stammered, clearing her throat against the lump climbing steadily within it. “I suppose this is goodbye then.”
He rose and closed the space between them, taking her hand in both of his and clasping them together. His hands were so large around hers; these hands that had shown her so much and taught her things about herself she’d never have learned otherwise.
She couldn’t meet his gaze again. The tears were welling now, and she had to go before she made a fool of herself.
This was his job. She was just a client.
“Well, er, thank you,” she said awkwardly.
That she didn’t start sobbing until she made it out of the building and back to Knockturn was one of the greatest feats of self-restraint she’d ever pulled off in her life.
***
Three Months Later
“Madam, I must insist that you stop,” Hermione dismissed the witch in the memoirs aisle, having endured solid, unceasing minutes of babble about how famous Hermione was and the woman’s own ambitions for fame and fortune, and an attempt to recruit her into some sort of a scheme in which she would sell potions at discount costs that she could offset by recruiting her own friends to also sell potions.
Truly, she wondered how the wizarding world had missed out on the modern travesty that was a pyramid scheme for so long. It seemed the muggle world had finally gotten the idea past the statute of secrecy.
With a huff and a shake of her shoulders, the woman finally relented, though not without muttering about how stuck-up and self-involved celebrities were.
Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to the shelves. Somewhere here was a memoir by Sir Atticus Gerhort-Whipple, the inventor of the modern bobotuber farming method, and she had gotten it into her head that Ron needed a copy.
He and George had recently found that bobotuber pus was a remarkably versatile prank ingredient. Clearly he needed to read about Sir Gerhort-Whipple and his methodology.
That it was supposedly the dullest, most overwrought memoir written in the last century only gave her a small amount of satisfaction. Ron would be so annoyed.
Scanning the shelf, she finally set eyes upon it. On the top shelf, roughly six inches out of reach.
“Damn,” she muttered to herself, scanning the aisle for something to stand on. She knew better than to try and climb them; that hadn’t worked for her since she was a fourth year, and she knew without a doubt that as soon as she put a foot on one of the shelves the proprietor would be there immediately to scold her.
With a huff, she took one step back, put her hands on her hips, and studied the tome from below. Maybe she could will it down with her mind.
Perhaps if she just… timed her jump properly. She got as close to the shelf as she could, using the fingers of her left hand against the shelf at eye-level as leverage, and tried leaping up to reach the tome.
All she managed was to push it backward on the shelf.
“Bloody buggering—”
All at once, her senses flared to life. The heartwrenching scent of bergamot and cedar wafted past her, a single inhale of it enough to make her breath stop.
And then, his low baritone, warm and soft and thick with a Russian accent, just to her right. “Let me help you with that.”
One large, warm hand fell to her hip as the other reached up, handily grasping the Gerhort-Whipple and offering it to her. She turned to face him and met those dark, ocean-blue eyes. His dark hair draped over his forehead; strong brows framed hooded, downturned eyes. His prominent nose suited him; stubble darkened his jaw in a way it never had in their sessions.
“Hello, Hermione,” he said.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Here he was, right in front of her, and all the things she’d wished she could have told him flew from her like birds from a hunter’s rifle. They simply ceased to be; one moment she had a full speech prepared for the mere possibility she might ever run into him again, the next she was blank, her mind fully empty, devoid of even the slightest synaptic activity.
Then he laughed softly, and the sound was enough to pull at least one of the myriad phrases she’d prepared for him from the void between her ears.
Later, she would be mortified. Later, she would wish she’d saved it for another time, for after introductions and the requisite getting-to-know-you lines. Later, he would tease her for it. And much later still, it would be their favorite anecdote.
But in the moment, the soft, panicking cells inside her head fired off in a flash, sending “I love you” to the tip of her tongue on a breath.
The broad smile it earned her, though, and the life-altering kiss that followed—her brain would hold onto those for the rest of its days.