Fic: Pleasures in Dark Places - M - 1/1 - Marcus/Hermione

Title: Pleasures in Dark Places
Author: HumbugGirl
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Hermione/Marcus
Rating: M (R)
Summary: "...the knowledge that she was in the arms of a living, breathing, feeling human being was blissful. Hermione could not help but want to touch him even though she knew that she should hate him..."
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author’s Notes: Post-war dark-fic. Voldemort won. One shot.



'Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.'
Marilyn vos Savant, 1946- , American columnist

Hermione’s hair was a bushy, knotted mess as she attempted to run her fingers through it. At least it was not greasy though and she was tremendously thankful for the fact. The thought of not washing the riotous mass of curls to try and tame them still made her squirm slightly – just like it always had - but she had not been scheduled a trip to the freezing showers down the corridor today so she had been forced to make do. Fortunately, her life in Azkaban was not active enough to leave her particularly dirty and in need of daily washes. Unlike the majority of the other prisoners, she was kept in isolation, never even being allowed to walk around the yard outside let alone work in it as well.

Sat on the edge of her pallet, the brunette stared critically at the tangled ends, winced as her fingers snagged and pulled her hair. She gave up. It would be impossible to do anything without a particularly strong brush or her wand – neither of which she was going to be given any time soon. They would not allow her anything that might constitute a weapon or be used as a means of escape – not after she had used the wire from her bra to pick the lock of her cell. The garment had been snatched away from her when they had discovered what she had been attempting to do.

Instead, she took hold of her makeshift hair tie which had started out life as the bottom of her prison issue trousers. Bunching her hair with one hand, the brunette struggled to wrap the tie around it and fasten the mass back, away from her face so that at least her features might appear to their best effect. She did not have any make-up to highlight them but there was a type of natural beauty about them that could not be dulled even by the poor diet she was on and the hours of constant darkness inside the prison.

Carefully, she ran her fingers over her scalp to make certain that it was as neat as possible, that there were no noticeable lumps and bumps. Later it would not matter if it was mused but for the time being she wanted to look presentable – or as presentable as was possible in her worn grey prison uniform. There was no mirror in the cell so she could only guess whether she had actually managed to achieve the desired effect but her fingertips cause her some degree of reassurance.

Having accomplished her task, Hermione placed her hands demurely on her knees and waited, setting her mind to not thinking about the infinite number of minutes that could yet pass. It was already dark outside so at least she knew that she would not have the entire day to wait.

Since arriving at Azkaban almost four years before, Hermione had grown accustomed to waiting, to the stresses and strains it was capable of creating. In a way, waiting could be as much a method of torture as being beaten. Sometimes it seemed like it was all she ever did, her only respite being those hours at night when she managed to slip into sleep. She waited for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She waited for her twice weekly trips to the shower room – as uncomfortable as it was to stand naked in the freezing cold little box knowing that just outside the door a Dementor hovered, waiting to take her back to her cell. She waited for the one day a week when the Dementors would leave the block, letting her know that she should expect her visitor. She waited for the empty feeling to begin to wane when they did leave.

Until she had been brought to Azkaban, Hermione had failed to truly understand the shear desolation of the place. It was a prison unlike any other in the magical world or the muggle one. Some sadistic soul had decided that it should be built on a small, barren island in the middle of the North Sea. While a thousand years ago it might have well served the purpose of locking up dark wizards and witches, it was now employed in the unjust business of detaining the enemies of Voldemort.

It was windswept; the majority of the rocks involved in building the prison having been salvaged from what protection that had been offered on the island itself. The salty, corrosive water was picked up by the constant wind and turned into an icy spray that barraged the walls and seeped through into the cells. Not a thing could survive on the prison isle, not even in the shelter of the enormous building. Even the plants grown by the prisoners in the relatively sheltered yard struggled. The place barely varied from one season to the next; it was constantly cold and dreary. It was utterly depressing even without the Dementors.

Hermione had learned very quickly just how inhospitable the island could be. She had only been in Azkaban three months before one of her escape attempts had finally succeeded and she had made it outside the prison walls. Stumbling out into the growing gloom, Hermione had blindly headed away from the building, moving over the weather worn rocks and twisting her ankle in the process.

For weeks she had been desperately trying find a way out – a way to escape the soul destroying Dementors that patrolled the prison and, to her shame, the other prisoners who were not much better. She had still been permitted to live with them at the time and Hermione had no doubt that the decision had been made with the view to see how distressing she would find it. Many were former classmates, other members of the Order who had fought alongside her but who had been caught by the Death Eaters before the war finished unlike her who had managed to live underground for several years afterwards. Most had been driven mad – some deep into catatonic states that they would in all likelihood never recover from. Only a month or so before her escape attempt Hermione had looked across the lunchroom and realised that she was looking directly at an unseeing, uncaring Ginny Weasley. The vivacious redhead she had remembered was gone; replaced by something emaciated and broken. The other witch had not even recognised her and when Hermione had tried to take her along on a previous attempt, the redhead had screamed so loudly that it had brought the Dementors and the few human guards stationed at Azkaban quickly down on their heads.

It was at that moment that Hermione had realised just how alone she actually was. Some part of her had been hanging onto the hope that perhaps she would be able to find allies in Azkaban but now she knew that it would not be possible.

Stood on the dark cliff edge, peering down at the black waves pounding on the jagged rocks below, Hermione could not imagine how Sirius had ever made the crossing. Even if she had not been alone, Hermione thought it would be impossible. Anyone who tried would be battered against the rocks or freeze to death in the water.

When the prison guards had found her, Hermione had still been stood there, tears streaming down her face. Drenched through to the skin with salt water, Hermione had been escorted back to the prison and straight up to the Warden’s office.

The unexpected warmth of the room had been exceptionally painful to her chilled limbs; it stung her skin and caused it to redden. Hermione had stood stiffly, tiredly, in the middle of the room, feeling the glorious thickness of the expensive rug underneath the paper-thin soles of her boots and nearly felt like crying all over again. Looking around the room she had wanted nothing more than it sink into the comfortable look armchair by the fire with a glass full of the amber liquid in the decanter on the sideboard. She wanted to close her eyes and rest, to go to sleep until everything was better again. She battled to pull together her strength, her courage, but it had failed her completely so when the Warden had finally entered the room and sent the guards away, she had been weeping and hugging herself tightly, shivering violently as she did so.

At that point, a snort of laughter had made Hermione glance up, straight into the dark amused eyes of Marcus Flint. It had been impossible to keep the shock from her features.

Wordlessly, Hermione had listened as the old routine of biting insults had been thrown in her direction. It had bounced off her: Flint had never been the most imaginative of her tormentors at Hogwarts and had apparently come up with little new material in the years since. When Flint had realised that she was not going to respond and play the old game, he had gone strangely still, pausing before proceeding to tell her that he was the new head warden at the prison. Apparently Voldemort had not been too happy with the man who had been in the job previously – something to do with the number of escape attempts that had been happening during his term. Flint had been the man given the job instead and Hermione had to wonder what he had done to be given such a dreadful assignment. She doubted that anyone in Voldemort’s favour would ever be sent to the hellish island.

The way the man had smiled when he spoke had made Hermione feel a flicker of nervousness deep within. She had not known the previous warden and he had left her alone for the most part even considering the fact that she was Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s trusted friend and resistance fighter. Flint, she had doubted, would be the same. There was too much personal history between them for it to be any different.

Wandering around his desk, Flint’s eyes had wandered over her lecherously and he had plucked disdainfully at the soaked uniform that clung intimately to her body while Hermione had sought to ward of his hands. He had smirked at her discomfort before drawing back and informing her that she was going to be moved into isolation.

Oddly, it had almost been a relief at the time. When she had been taken straight to the office instead of her cell, Hermione had begun to wonder whether they had finally decided to execute her. She knew that the only reason she was kept alive was as a warning to other potential rebellious witches and wizards and the very fact that she was still defying Voldemort from prison had to be annoying him. All that it would take would be one word from that creature and she would be killed.

Of course, she had not entirely understood what the man had meant by ‘isolation’. Hermione had not only been separated from the other prisoners but from all human life in Azkaban. She was tended to solely by the Dementors, never seeing another living being. The only exception to the rule was the person that she was now waiting for; Marcus Flint.

The first time he had come to her, Hermione had been stunned – terrified even. He did not try to charm her or to bring her around to the idea gradually, instead Flint – Marcus had simply told her rather bluntly that he intended to have her. He had kissed her then and Hermione had been so starved for warmth and the touch of another human being that she had clung to him even though she hated herself for doing so. As repulsed as she might have been by the thought of letting him take advantage of her in such a manner, she could not stop herself from responding to him. He had seemed big and solid and fantastically real – the only thing worth touching in the world she now found herself to be in. Ever since he had been coming to her once, sometimes twice, a week and she had always known to expect him when the Dementors disappeared.

Warmth began to slowly filter into the room, starting from somewhere over by the door. Hermione turned her head towards the door as there was an audible click followed by a screech and it swung open just enough to allow a dark-clad figure through before slamming shut again.

For once he was dressed in his official robes, informing Hermione that something significant must have happened in the outside world because he never wore them unless he had to. They were a smart, perfectly black set with a small silver insignia over his heart and she thought that he looked wonderful in them. His unruly black curls were pushed back, gelled flat against his skull in a manner that reminded her bizarrely of Malfoy in his younger days at school and he was unusually clean shaven. Normally, he would have a significant amount of stubble by this time of day. The revelation made Hermione feel vaguely self-conscious even though she knew that there was not anything else she could have done to make herself more presentable.

She was far more used to seeing him in what amounted to casual clothes. For day to day wear, he favoured thick woollen trousers and vest tops covered by bulky jumpers, often pulling on a heavy coat as well when he knew he would be straying far from his quarters in the warmer upper reaches for the prison. It was odd to see that he was wearing a fine set of dragon hide shoes instead of his usual heavy-duty boots.

Shaking slightly, Hermione pushed herself to her feet. She wanted to ask him what had happened but knew from experience that to do so would be a mistake. He would clam up and turn cool towards her, conscious of what would happen to him if Voldemort should find out he had been passing secrets to the enemy even if the ‘enemy’ in question was under lock and key. Marcus had hinted at what had happened to his predecessor and he had sense enough to not want to follow in that man’s footsteps.

She did not want him to either. It had not sounded pleasant.

By the time that she had crossed the small cell to stand in front of him, Marcus had already unbuttoned his outer robe and discarded it. Now only dressed in slacks and a thin black silk shirt he was visibly trembling, the warming charm he had cast before entering the room still not having managed to completely take effect. Hermione bit her lip as she scanned his body, starting with the long muscled legs, to his firm torso and the way that his nipples had hardened in the cool of the room to jut against the smooth material. He was a big man; physically impressive with the potential to be easily intimidating if he desired to be.

A slither of lust began low in her body. Turning her eyes upwards, Hermione met his gaze boldly. His expression was dark and clearly troubled. Whatever had happened had apparently been serious and she felt a glimmer of satisfaction that he had apparently come to her first before going to his quarters.

As she watched, he reached out, taking hold of her elbow and tugged her the rest of the distance towards him. She was abruptly crushed against the hard lines of his body and his arms swept around her, holding her. For a moment, she was shaken by the action. Rarely had he ever reacted to her in such a way. Normally there was little about their time together that was so blatantly affectionate. Such behaviour usually came later, after the sex, when they lay side-by-side and she could risk snuggling against him for warmth and the comfort his presence offered.

Carefully, Hermione lifted her arms and furled them around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder and pulling in a deep breath. They stood there for several minutes before Marcus broke away, at which point she saw that there was a light flush to his cheeks. It seemed almost as if he was embarrassed and she supposed that there was a chance he was. Hermione doubted that Marcus had grown up in the sort of house or experienced the type of life where expressing one’s emotions was smiled upon too much. She had always thought that it was a shame. In bed he was such a passionate man.

He turned away slightly and began to unbutton the fine shirt, letting it slip over his broad shoulders and puddle on top of the discarded robe. Hermione stared at him for a moment, trying to simply appreciate the view without thinking about the oddity of the moment that had preceded it.

When he moved to sit on edge of the bed and glanced towards her expectantly, Hermione was spurred into action. Her hands dropped to the waistband of her prison issue trousers and tugged at the drawstring until it came loose. The large pants were easily two sizes too big without something holding them up and they drifted down over her hips. Hermione stepped out of them and moved closer to the bed, to Marcus who stroked his large hands up her thighs and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers. They too were drawn down her legs.

The sensation of his hands on her was delicious. They seemed to burn wherever he touched her cool skin and if Hermione had not known better then she would have guessed that they had left small marks behind, almost as if were claiming her. She rested her hands on his bare shoulders and let him draw her closer until she was stood with his strongly muscled thighs on either side of her legs. The heat radiating from his body pulled her even nearer and she dipped her head to press her lips tightly against his.

After the tedium of her day, of the hours and hours spent alone with nothing but the voiceless horrors that patrolled the block outside her cell, sucking the will from her, the knowledge that she was in the arms of a living, breathing, feeling human being was blissful. Hermione could not help but want to touch him even though she knew that she should hate him – that somewhere deep down she probably did hate him. The man stroking her thighs, slipping a long-fingered hand between them, was her gaoler after all and not once during all his visits had she ever forgotten that fact. Starved of human company however, the feel of his mere presence was overwhelming and despite the resentment that nestled deep inside the brunette had long since accepted the fact that she felt closer to him than she had ever felt to another being. Even when he was not there, she longed for him.

With a brief murmur of appreciation, he broke off gently rubbing and pulled back slightly. Lifting his long finger to her lips, Marcus waited until she had licked it clean then fastened his hands on her waist to make her sit on the bed. Within a matter of seconds, Hermione found herself sprawled on her back, watching as he stood to shed his trousers and underwear. Automatically, her eyes were draw towards his groin, to the wiry dark hair surrounding his prominent erection. It jutted upwards proudly and twitched slightly under her gaze. Hermione reached for him but found her hand waved away. Instead, Marcus simply stood and stared down at her for several moments before moving to kneel on the edge of the bed which shifted under his weight.

She spread her legs, making room for him to settle between them, before meeting his eyes as he started to languidly unfasten the large buttons of her dirty grey prison shirt. They were shadowy, the concern that had filled his eyes previously seeming to gradually fade. It was replaced with something far more familiar; a measure of the smug superiority that Hermione recognised instantly mixed with pure lust. Parting her shirt with his fingertips, he found the heated mass of her bare breast and let out an amused chuckle as Hermione dug her elbows into the scratchy sheets beneath her and ached into his hand, needing to be closer to him.

Gritting her teeth, she ignored the arrogance in his reaction and chose to concentrate on the sensations he was causing in her body, on the way in which her breasts ached to be touched and liquid heat began to collect low in her. It was easier that way – simpler when she did not think too much about his motives for coming to her. There was the lust – she could not deny that was real just as she could not refute that it was a mutual feeling between them. Even if he had not been the only man – the only person – she came in contact with then Hermione would not have been able to deny to herself that she found him attractive. On his part, it was evident in the possessive manner in which he touched her.

There was more to it than that however. When he looked at her with such smugness, such satisfaction painted across his features, Hermione knew that there was a part of him that was enjoying having her beneath him for reasons that had nothing to do with wanting her or merely sating himself in her body. At such times, she suspected he was rejoicing in seeing her, the infamous ‘Mudblood’ best friend of Harry Potter, brought low. Without her books, her studies, and the use of her enormous intellect to defend her, she was unprotected and Marcus had taken advantage of that fact. He had taken advantage of the situation she was in and the position of power he held over her, turning her into a whore – into his whore. No doubt, she thought time and time again, knowing that she was his in such a base manner whenever he wanted her was stimulating for a man she had made feel a fool on more than one occasion when they were both young.

The knowledge did not stop her from trembling when he lowered his head to draw one abused nipple into his mouth or when he shifted his hips against her and she felt the hardness of his erection pressing into her thigh. It did not stop her from letting out a breathy moan and wantonly propping up her legs so that the burly man had no choice but to nestle deeper between them, pressing pleasurably against a very different part of her anatomy. It did not stop her from letting out a frustrated cry when he turned his lips and teeth from the sensitive nub leaving her aching with need.

Moaning her displeasure, Hermione brought her hands up from his shoulders and tangled them briefly in his hair. She wanted it loose and as strangely playful as it usually was when he had not plastered it to his head. The texture was always surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips and there was something intimate and somewhat exciting in the knowledge that at least for a few short minutes she might have the upper hand in their encounters. In those moments she could tug on the locks, drawing his head back so that her lips could capture his or force him closer so that he once again grazed her body with his mouth, suckling on the pale sun-deprived flesh. Inevitably, he always pulled away however; just as he did now.

There was something addictive about this man, about the way that he made her feel. Sometimes, she would lie on her pitiful excuse for a bed and wonder whether her reaction to him would have been quite as strong if it had not been for the peculiarity of her position. She wanted to say ‘no’ – to believe that it was simply because she was frightened that if she were to shy away from him too much or act as though his attentions did not stir her physically then he would leave her alone in her little hell. In a way it was the truth; every time he came to her then her body would betray her, growing feverish around him. Even her conscious mind had to admit that she would do anything to feel the touch of another human being even if that meant prostituting herself.

Hermione knew that it all probability all it might boil down to was a primal survival mechanism. Marcus was undoubtedly the strongest, most influential male in Azkaban. In other words, he was the alpha male and as such the primitive part of her psyche recognised that it would be beneficial to her chances of survival to be his mate. Underneath, human beings were just another species of animal after all. The idea repulsed the sensitive, emotional part of her mind even as she tried to accept the logical explanation that she played with as a solution for why she behaved the way she did around him.

Ultimately the assumption seemed justified and it was always something of a relief to consider that her reaction to Marcus was not entirely of her will. At the same time, however, she could not help but doubt a little. If she had come across him in the world outside, if he had not been a Death Eater, then would his status as such a physically magnificent specimen have appealed to her?

The answer, when she thought about it and convinced herself to be honest, was invariably ‘yes’. Marcus was physically everything she looked for in a man. He was tall, towering over her considerably smaller frame, and also broad-shouldered with powerful arms and legs. His features were decidedly masculine; dark, almost swarthy in fact, and even his crooked teeth did not repulse her. There was something about them that appealed to her when she ran her tongue over them as they kissed. It added something brutish to the demanding kisses that excited her. True, he was not her intellectual equal but there were few men who truly were. Her academic brilliance tended to scare off those with lesser abilities and she had discovered that out of the men who could match her, many ended up feeling as if they needed to be in competition with her and they hated it when she won. It was something that Hermione had grown rapidly tired of both in school and after she had left. She wondered whether Marcus would ever have been able to appreciate her scholastic abilities or whether it would have been purely physical between them.

It was a mute point however, she thought as she ran her hands back over his shoulders and down his arms to find his hands as they gripped her hips. He was married and as such would probably never have looked in her direction even if she was not Muggle-born. No doubt somewhere he had a gleaming, beautiful woman; a perfect pureblood wife with whom he could spend the rest of his life.

As if to prove her point she ran her fingers over the back of his left hand, in search of the thick wedding band he always wore whether he was with her or not. She froze when she encountered nothing but the slightly roughened skin of his hands and looked up sharply in surprise.

Marcus was looking at her strangely, his eyes nearly expressionless for the first time since he had entered the room. After wetting his lip slightly, he said bluntly, his voice straining, “She left me – divorced me, actually. I can’t really blame her. She always was ambitious and ending up married to a prison warden was probably not amongst her plans.”

Hermione parted her lips but did not speak. She could not think of anything to say. He had sounded so bitter.

She wondered briefly if that was where he had been today; off finalising his divorce. It would explain his manner of dress and it might offer some explanation for the way he had behaved on entering her cell. A part of her wanted to offer him commiserations but considering the position they were currently in, him poised so temptingly at her entrance, it did not seem very appropriate. After a few moments’ quick thought, she settled on a course of action and pulled his lips down to hers, kissing him fiercely while wriggling her hips in encouragement.

She wanted to drag whatever sadness he might be feeling right out of his body and take it into hers. Sorrow was something she could handle; each day she spent in the presence of the Dementors hardened her against it. She wanted him to be rid of it before those monsters could begin to draw whatever happy thoughts he might have left about his wife from him and leave him with nothing but despair. Marcus was a strong man mentally – there was no way he could not be considering how long he had been warden – but no one person could withstand the effect of the Dementors forever and surely this must weaken him against them somewhat.

He responded with fervour, gripping her hips and lifting them into a more favourable angle even as the kiss deepened. With a deep thrust, he was sheathed inside her and before long began to work on building up a rhythm. Hermione matched it, arching her back and offering her breasts to him once more. They were greedily accepted, Marcus’s tongue finding the swollen points and soothing them, causing delicious sensations to creep through her body and gather low in it. A tight knot of tension began to form, building and concentrating until abruptly it erupted and Hermione let out a cry, clinging to Marcus’s shoulders as her body trembled. He continued to move for a few seconds more then mirrored her actions and collapsed so that their sweat drenched bodies were tightly pressed together.

Breathing heavily, Hermione’s head fell back and she closed her eyes, trying to catch up with the myriad of sensations that were assaulting her senses. She could smell them; the musky satisfying scent that always followed sex permeating out into every corner of the tiny room. It added to the delicious sense of relaxation that had began to filter through her limbs even though her body still pulsed with small aftershocks and her heart beating wildly in her chest. She was certain that Marcus must have been able to hear the latter. His head was nestled against her bosom, his eyes closed so that long dark lashes brushed his cheeks and his breathing steadying slowly.

Bringing her hands up, Hermione rubbed his shoulders and back gently; as much for her own satisfaction as for any sense of comfort that the dark-haired wizard might gain from it. Her pleasure addled mind sought to find some way to soothe him without being too obvious about it. Marcus would not appreciate her cooing softly in his ear that everything would be okay in the end. In the end, she could only hope that he had found something in her presence that would help him.

Eventually, he rolled to one side, settling onto the thin uncomfortable mattress and drawing her to him so that Hermione could rest her head on his shoulder. She looked towards him but Marcus had already closed his eyes and within a few seconds the sound of his breathing had changed informing her that he had slipped into sleep. She followed him soon after.

When Hermione woke the next morning she knew he was already gone before she had even opened her eye. There was no heavy male mass beside her, disrupting the mattress, and when she breathed in the scent of him was muted. The room had long since started to cool, indicating to her that he had already been gone for some time. She was not surprised. It was rare that he ever fell asleep beside her and not once in the years he had been coming to her had the witch ever woken up beside him. Often, she thought that he must have feigned sleep and waited until she had drifted off before moving although last night she had been certain that he truly had drifted off.

She rolled onto her side, discovering with pleasure as she did so that he had apparently covered her naked form with her threadbare blanket before leaving. Opening her eyes, a small smile slipped onto her lips as she saw the pile of objects on the bed next to her head. Perhaps his visit had been a more planned than she thought, Hermione mused as she moved into a sitting position and drew her legs up to fend off the impending chill.

On the mattress beside her nestled a small collection of veritable treasures; a bar of vanilla scented soap, a large rosy red apple, a copy of the Prophet (heavily censored, of course) and finally a large bar of chocolate. It was not completely unusual for her to wake up to such little gifts. They were the final part of their strange little arrangement though she was not used to finding quite so many items at once.

Reaching out, Hermione plucked the fruit from the pile. The rest of the items would have to be rationed until she knew he was coming again but she could not deny herself the pleasure of eating the apple. It crunched loudly, pleasingly, as she bit into it and chewed, filling her mouth with sweet juice. She made a small moan drenched with enjoyment.

The tender smile still on her lips, Hermione leaned back against the cold wall and began to wait all over again.

END