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He wasn’t certain when it had started.
In fact, if pressed, Theo might have said it had been birthed the first time he had seen her.
Perhaps.
But perhaps it had been part of him since his first breath, lying dormant, waiting until she was near enough to touch in order to fully awaken.
Again, he wasn’t sure.
But even though he could not recall exactly when it had started, he knew what it was: it was an ache branded deep in his marrow, an ache that made him…thirsty. Ravenous.
And the ache had a name: Granger.
He had tried to control it. Suppress it. Because he knew, dammit he knew—whether it be by his father’s hand or another Death Eater’s—he’d be flayed alive if anyone discovered his need for someone like her.
But concealing it only fed the hunger that consumed him.
o0o0o
A cacophony of perfumes and colognes, mixed with the damp of the main hall and the smell of wet stone, pressed in on him like bodies of the students themselves, leaving Theo nauseated and longing for a shower.
As he turned away from the crush of people, Theo’s breath caught.
Granger was striding down the hallway toward the Charms classroom, chatting animatedly with The Weasel and The-Boy-Who-Insisted-on-Living, oblivious to all around her save her two Gryffindor companions. Her chaotic hair bounced wildly.
Theo felt himself salivate.
Her boisterous hair pillowed around her face; her robes fluttered behind her as if they were admirers too awed by her beauty to dare caress her skin.
By necessity, she slowed as she approached. In order to watch her better, he slipped off to the side of the swarm of students congregating just outside the classroom door. Just as she moved past him, a seventh year Puff collided into her from behind, sending her careening to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing as she glanced up at Theo with her hands flat against his chest. The golden flecks in her eyes momentarily stunned him into silence.
Granger had never once spoken to him. And she certainly had never touched him before.
Theo felt as if he might suffocate.
“’s okay,” he managed before she backed away and vanished back into the crowd.
The loss of her touch crippled him so fully, he thought he would die.
o0o0o
The next few weeks were a blur of reliving the moment her hands had made contact with his chest.
Theo even found himself beginning to think of her as Hermione, now that they had spoken.
Every day before Charms, he positioned himself exactly where she’d been pushed into his arms. But every day, without the Hufflepuff brute bumping into her, she seemed to squeeze by without even the briefest of touch.
It was irritating. Didn’t she know of his need to hold her?
o0o0o
The Great Hall echoed with the clicking of forks against plates and the buzz of breakfast conversation. The smell of the rashers permeated the warm air, and all was well: Hermione was seated at the Gryffindor table, and Theo could see her easily.
Does Hermione like rashers? How is it that I don’t know whether she likes rashers or not? Theo pursed his lips, annoyed with himself. She seemed to prefer toast, but he thought that toast might simply be her breakfast of convenience—one that she ate only when she was in a hurry. So, what should he serve her every morning after he and she were—
“Hey, Nott,” Malfoy said, looking up from his nearly empty plate and jolting Theo out of his reverie, “come fly with us later?”
Theo glanced over Malfoy’s shoulder to the Gryffindor table to see if she had put any rashers on her plate during the last couple minutes. He felt his housemate’s eyes follow his gaze. He looked back down at his beans without meeting Malfoy’s stare.
“Nah. I’ve got something tonight,” Theo said, pushing his cold eggs around with his fork.
Crabbe chimed in, spittle flying. “Come on. You haven’t come in ages. We need one more,” he urged around a mouth full of half-chewed breakfast.
“I’ve got something.”
Draco laid his fork down and eyed him strangely. “Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be on the Pitch around 7.”
“’kay.”
Theo watched as Malfoy and his fan club stood and stalked away.
He returned his gaze to the Gryffindor table. Hermione was cutting something on her plate, her graceful fingers grasping the knife as if she were trying to evoke a delicate melody out of a violin. It sent shivers down his back.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin—oh, if only he could have that napkin—and reached for her rucksack.
Would she turn and look his way? Would Merlin favor him, and grant him the good fortune of glimpsing the colour of her eyes?
Apparently not.
Remaining at least ten steps behind, Theo followed her out of the Great Hall and down the main corridor until she ducked into the entrance of the girls’ toilet.
He rounded a corner and sat down on a bench to wait until she reappeared, removing a roll of parchment from his bag so those passing by would assume he was studying. When she emerged, he gathered his belongings and trailed behind her to the Transfiguration classroom.
Theo tarried by the door and watched as she pulled out her chair.
He had become mesmerized with how her fingertips would caress things: he swallowed hard as he watched them wrap around the wood of a chair as she pulled it away from the table before sitting down for class.
The Weasel and The-Boy-Who-Got-To-Be-Near-Her settled down, one on each side, into the space that, by any reasonable account, belonged to him.
As Theo sat down across the classroom from her, she looked up. And, Merlin help him, her eyes…they were the most mesmerizing amber he’d ever seen. It reminded him of the colour of the liquor Malfoy snuck into the boys’ dorm.
Maybe he’d indulge in some of that tonight, since he wasn’t yet able to indulge in her…company.
o0o0o
The next day was a Tuesday, so after dinner, Theo made his way to the library, winding through the moving staircases determinedly. At 7 p.m., Hermione would start tutoring Neville Longbottom in Potions at the table behind the Divination Section, and he had to arrive before they did.
Theo loved Tuesdays. Longbottom rarely cancelled, so it was almost guaranteed that he would be able to see her in the library. There were three tables in the section; Theo could settle two tables away, still watch her, yet be far enough away not to be noticed.
Tuesdays were quite different from Thursdays, when Hermione might show up with The Weasel, or, Merlin help him, that nutter, Lovegood in tow. Based on the curious stares from the Ravenclaw, somehow Lovegood seemed to know Theo wasn’t there simply to study.
Outside of those two days, she would come alone; Theo could never predict exactly when she would arrive or precisely what section she would sit in. It was maddening.
Theo arrived, his nerves already jittery at the prospect of being so close to her. He unpacked his rucksack and cast a discreet Tempus. She would be there any minute. He swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the parchment in front of him.
And then she was there.
The hands that had touched his chest reached for the zipper on her bag…her textbook…
Theo did his best not to stare.
A little less than an hour later, Longbottom rose from his seat—his chair scraping loudly against the slate floor—fumbled for his Potions book and a stack of parchment, and bobbed his head in thanks.
Hermione smiled widely at him. “No problem, Neville. You’re doing great. See you next Tuesday.” At that, Longbottom nearly backed into the stacks of books behind him, then turned and hobbled down the aisle.
Hermione remained when Longbottom left, as she often did. She rummaged through her bag and finally extracted her Arithmancy text, parchment, and a quill. Theo smiled inwardly: Arithmancy meant she would be there for a while.
Closing his eyes, Theo concentrated on trying to smell her; she was slightly too far away for him to fully breathe in her scent, so he resumed staring at his Transfiguration textbook.
A few minutes later, he heard her sigh in frustration. He glanced up to find that she had broken her quill and was using her wand to clean up the spilled ink. As he suppressed the urge to present her with one of his own, she sighed again, and began to pack up.
As she walked by, she tossed the broken quill in the waste bin to his left.
As soon as Hermione was out of sight, Theo sprung out of his chair and picked through the garbage until he found her broken quill. Abandoning his schoolwork, he settled into the chair she’d just vacated. He sighed happily: it was still warm. Leaning his head against the cold wood of the table, he breathed deeply, trying to inhale any essence of her that she might have left behind.
The air I’m breathing in might have been inside her! We’re sharing the same air!
He closed his eyes in bliss and let his tongue trace where her elbows had met the wood.
“May I help you, Mr. Nott?”
Theo jumped, and opened his eyes to discover Madam Pince staring at him threateningly.
“No, ma’am.”
She gave him an odd look. “Why, pray tell, were you licking the table, Mr. Nott?”
“Eh…”
“Perhaps it is time for you to return to your dorm,” Pince said, dismissing him with a stare and a brief wave of her hand in the direction of the exit.
As he retreated down the aisle away from the librarian, he brought the vane of the broken quill’s feather to his lips and imagined he could taste her.
o0o0o
Today.
Today would be the day he would speak to her.
Today he would greet her, just a passing-by-hello, just a simple hey-how’s-it-going to keep him in the forefront of her mind.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t spoken before. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t touched before.
In the last week, he’d imagined all that would follow his greeting: Hermione would seek him out and study at his table in the library; she would inherently understand their connection, a connection that never needed words. He would protect her, and in return, she would share her deepest secrets. They would become lovers. She would tell him she couldn’t live without him.
That she would die without his touch.
All of that was going to start today. When he said hello to her in the library.
But when Hermione didn’t show up for her usual tutoring session with Neville, Theo abandoned his plans and began to panic. Why didn’t she come? Was she hurt? Sick?
Didn’t she know he would be worried about her?
In the main hall the following day, Hermione walked by without even glancing in his direction. She was laughing at something The Weasel had whispered in her ear.
She didn’t look at him.
And she wasn’t in the library when she was supposed to be.
She was ignoring him.
How dare she?
The bounce of her wild curls taunted him. They needed to be tamed. Subdued.
Like all of her.
He would take care of that.
o0o0o
The field mouse squirmed and trembled in Theo’s hands as he removed it from its cage. He’d seen Mad Eye—well, Barty Crouch, Jr—do it to a spider during class, so how hard could it be?
“Imperio,” he commanded. “Freeze.”
And it did.
He spent the rest of the evening testing the limits of the Imperius.
He didn’t find any.
Now all he needed was a little more practice on something—or someone—a bit more sophisticated than a mouse.
Because Hermione—no, she always be Granger, he thought fiercely—still hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the hall outside Charms. And it was about time she did.
He would teach her to.
And even if she didn’t want to, he’d make her.
Because she was his. She just didn’t know it yet.
o0o0o
Theo followed his housemate until Bulstrode entered the girls’ toilet just outside the Potions classroom. He strode past the door, turned a corner, and waited until she emerged.
“Imperio.”
He took her by the hand and led her to the Room of Requirement.
Theo opened the door to find a cozy sitting room, complete with a thick rug and fireplace. Apparently, the Room agreed with his plan. Otherwise, why would it have given him this space to practice in?
He placed Bulstrode on the sofa and settled into the chair opposite her.
“Tell me that you think I’m good looking.”
“You’re very good looking,” she said through a hazy smile.
“Tell me Granger is lucky to have me as her wizard.”
“She’s a very lucky witch to have you, Theo.”
“Tell me you would fuck me if you were her.”
“Absolutely,” she said, licking her lips.
Well, so far, she was taking orders just fine. Since he had a more-than-willing witch at his disposal, he decided to make things a little more interesting.
“Lick my hand.”
Bulstrode moved toward him, fell to her knees, and dragged her tongue across his palm. His cock demanded attention.
“Go back to the couch and take off your knickers.”
Raising his eyebrow at how fast she complied, he added, “You’re going to touch yourself, and I’m going to watch you.”
Bulstrode laid down, hiked up her skirt, and drew down her knickers, exposing herself to him. She pulled back her folds with one hand and slowly rubbed her clit with the other.
She began to moan.
Thinking of amber eyes and curly hair, he unzipped his trousers and joined Bulstrode stroke for stroke, grateful his housemate’s eyes were closed.
When they were both finished, he compelled her to dress and led her to the door.
Would she remember anything of her hour here? Theo had no idea. But he was thankful he’d been a quick study in memory charms, nonetheless.
“Obliviate.”
And he let the door swing shut behind them.
o0o0o
“Teach me how.”
Parkinson, whore that she was, may not have needed the Unforgivable. The witch just might have volunteered.
She was stretched out before him on the couch in the Room, legs parted languidly, naked and eager under his touch. While he didn’t want to fuck her, per se, he did want to know how best to please his witch.
And Parkinson was going to show him.
Parkinson took his finger, licked it, and steered it toward her clit.
“Put it there,” she breathed, placing her hand on top of his own, and guiding it into a slow rhythm. She took two fingers of his other hand, wet them with her tongue, and pushed them in to her entrance.
Parkinson was soft and warm and wet inside; his cock wanted in. But he was saving himself for Granger.
“Fuck me harder,” she urged.
So witches like to be fucked hard, do they?
That could be arranged.
He smiled as he shed his tie to bind her wrists.
o0o0o
Theo waited near a statue, his back propped up against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed. Granger strode down the hall purposefully, clutching her bookbag and no doubt thinking about what homework she needed to complete when she got to the library.
He stepped out of the shadow.
She jumped.
“Nott, what the f—“
So she knew his name, did she?
He cast the Unforgivable, without need for speech or wand. Her eyes stuttered in response; she was fighting it. He smiled in pride. Bulstrode and Parkinson had never fought—it was almost as if they welcomed no longer being in control, no longer thinking for themselves.
Not his witch.
Her lips were frozen forming the first letter of her profanity, as if she were about to worry her lip. His cock twitched at the beauty of it. Although he abhorred hearing foul language from witches, he made a decision.
She would speak that word many, many times before this night was over, although as a plea, rather than a curse.
He took a step towards her.
“Enter the closet behind you.”
She turned and walked slowly and jerkily towards the broom closet, opened the door, and moved inside. He’d prepared the space earlier for them: the back wall was devoid of its usual brooms and mops. He shut the door, locking it with a brief wave of his hand.
“Face me.”
Her eyes widened a fraction, and her pupils dilated in fear, the brown having retreated into the black. Pity. He loved the brown.
Moving until he was close enough to reach her clothing with the tips of her fingers, he rid her of her offensive red and gold house tie, and ripped the blouse of her school uniform open with one quick motion.
The buttons clattered softly around them on the slate floor.
He gripped her neck with his left hand, his fingers around one side pushing into the back of her neck, his thumb thrusting her chin upward, exposing her ivory skin. He closed the gap between them, and took possession of her mouth.
He broke the kiss. “You want me,” Theo whispered—although his training made the vocalization unnecessary—and stepped back to watch her eyes accept him.
He yanked his shirt out from his uniform pants.
“Granger,” the bastardization of her name saturating the air in the small space.
“Granger,” he growled again, “mine.”
And he advanced, his fingers closing around the skin of her neck again, his other hand unbuckling the belt of his trousers.