You moved up quickly—field assignments, high-risk raids, interrogations where your calm voice and unflinching stare made hardened suspects falter. You took no partners at first; trust was still a wound that hadn't fully scarred over. Eventually you let one man in: Thorne, a senior Auror fifteen years your senior with salt-and-pepper hair and a dry sense of humor that reminded you, distantly, of the way Sunghoon used to tease you before everything turned cold. Thorne took you under his wing without asking permission. He taught you how to anticipate a Death Eater's Apparition flicker, how to read micro-expressions in a suspect's face, how to keep breathing when the Killing Curse passes close enough to feel the air move.

He became the closest thing to family you allowed yourself outside blood.

And then, four years after graduation—late autumn, Tuesday—a tip came in.

A suspected safehouse in the Yorkshire moors. High-level Death Eaters rumored to be regrouping after a string of Ministry leaks. The raid was scheduled for midnight. You were assigned to the strike team. Thorne was leading your flank.

It went wrong almost immediately.

The moment the first Aurors breached the warded perimeter, green light answered. Avada Kedavra after Avada Kedavra. Spells clashed in midair: red Stunners, blue Shield Charms, purple hexes that made skin blister on contact. The night turned into chaos—shouts, cracks of Apparition, the wet thud of bodies hitting frozen earth. You fought like a machine: Apparating in bursts, firing Incarcerous ropes that wrapped around masked figures, shielding fallen colleagues, countering curses with a flick of your wand that had become second nature.

Then you saw it.

Thorne—broad-shouldered, steady Thorne—took a jet of green light square to the chest. The curse lifted him off his feet like a rag doll. He flew backward, robes billowing, and landed hard on the frost-crusted ground twenty feet away. He didn't move again. Didn't twitch. Didn't breathe.

Time slowed. 

You felt the scream rise in your throat but swallowed it. Felt the cold fury coil in your veins like venom.

The Death Eater responsible was already turning—black robes swirling, mask gleaming under moonlight. Tall. Lean. Moving with lethal grace.

You Apparated without thinking.

Crack.

You reappeared ten feet behind him. Fired a Stunner. He twisted mid-air, vanished. Crack. You followed. 

Again. Again. Again. 

A deadly game of leapfrog across moorland and hedgerows until the landscape gave way to crooked headstones and moon-bleached marble.

A graveyard.

He Apparated one final time inside the iron gates. You landed right behind him—boots crunching on frozen grass—and fired a full-body bind.

The spell struck true.

He went down hard— slamming into a weathered angel statue, and crumpled to the ground between two cracked headstones. His wand flew from his grip, skittering across the ground to land several meters away.

You advanced—wand tight in your grip, breathing controlled, heart slamming so hard it hurt.

"Hands where I can see them," you said, voice flat. Auror protocol. "You're under arrest. Resist and I will use force."

He stayed crouched for a long second—shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Then, slowly, he lifted one gloved hand, not to surrender but instead to his mask.

A whispered Finite Incantatem.

The intricate dark metal shimmered, dissolved into coiling smoke, and drifted away on the night wind.

And there he was.

Park motherfucking Sunghoon.

Older. Harder. Hollowed in places that used to be soft. The boy who once kissed you like the world was ending had been replaced by this man—taller somehow, broader through the shoulders beneath the heavy Death Eater robes, dark hair falling in careless strands across his forehead and brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones. A thin scar curved along his left jaw, silver-pink against pale skin. Stubble shadowed the elegant cut of his face, rough where he used to be meticulously smooth. But the eyes—those eyes that once looked at you like you were the only star worth following—were the worst.

They weren’t soft anymore.

They were dark. Wild. Crazed. Pupils blown wide under the moon, glittering with something feral and hungry and unhinged. They locked onto you with the precision of a predator that had finally found the one thing it had been hunting for years.

Your whole body reacted before your mind could catch up.

A shiver raced down your spine—cold and wrong in all the ways that still felt delicious. Your stomach twisted. Heat crawled up your throat even as revulsion burned behind your ribs. Every nerve screamed danger and memory at the same time, and the conflicting signals left you dizzy, rooted to the frozen ground with your wand still trained on him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the wand. Just stayed crouched—knees planted, black-gloved hands loose at his sides—like he was deciding whether to pounce or play.

Then he smiled.

Slowly.

The corner of his mouth lifted first before spreading into something lazy, and far too knowing. It wasn’t the shy, private curve he used to give you in empty corridors. This was the smile of a man who knew exactly what the sight of him did to you after all these years. A man who could still read every micro-twitch of your expression like an open book.

His gaze never left yours. Not for a second.

“Hello, love.”

The words rolled out in a low, velvet purr—thick with power, dark with intent, every syllable dripping like honey laced with arsenic. His voice had deepened over the years, roughened at the edges, but the cadence was the same. It landed like a hex you hadn’t braced for, curling around your ribs and squeezing.

For one frozen heartbeat, you couldn’t move.

Your wand stayed locked on him—steady in theory, trembling in reality. The graveyard wind sliced between you, carrying the faint old scent of frost-bitten marble. Your breath fogged in small, erratic clouds. The black serpent on your finger burned—insistent, alive—like it recognized its maker and was trying to crawl off your hand to reach him.

You felt it all at once: the old ache blooming fresh behind your sternum, the muscle memory of his mouth on your throat, the ghost of his hands. And beneath it was the rage. The fury that had kept you upright for years. The fury that had turned you into someone who could stare down Death Eaters without flinching.

You hardened your face.

It happened in stages: jaw clenching until your teeth ached, eyes narrowing to slits, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. The tremor in your wand hand steadied—not gone, but locked down, forced into submission by sheer will. You drew your shoulders back. Lifted your chin. Let every inch of Auror training snap into place like armor locking over skin.

You were no longer the girl who cried in a forgotten study room. 

You were the woman who had walked through fire and come out the other side with a badge and a kill count.

And he—Park Sunghoon, masked killer, boy who once claimed your heart and then discarded it—was kneeling in front of you with no wand, no backup, no escape.

Your voice came out low. Cold. Professional.

“Stand up. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just watched you—head tilted, that slow, dangerous smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. Like he was cataloguing every change: the sharper line of your cheekbones, the way you held yourself now, the faint scar across your left eyebrow from a raid two years ago that he would never know the story of. Like he was drinking you in after years of starvation.

Then he rose in one fluid motion. No sudden jerks. No attempt to lunge. Just unfolding from his crouch until he stood at his full height while the black robes fell around him like spilled ink. He lifted both hands slowly, palms open, fingers spread. 

“Park Sunghoon,” you said, each syllable clipped and precise, voice carrying the flat authority of someone who had read this script to dozens of masked figures before him, “you are under arrest for murder, for being a follower of the Dark Lord, and use of the Unforgivable Curses. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of magical law.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked at you.

The stare was raking—from the tight knot of your hair down the sharp line of your jaw, over the fitted black Auror robes that hugged your frame, lingering on the way your chest rose and fell too fast despite your control, then lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the taut stretch of fabric over your thighs, before dragging back up to your face.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t ashamed. 

Your skin prickled. Heat crawled up your throat even as ice settled in your stomach.

“Quit it,” you snapped, voice low and dangerous.

He laughed. The sound vibrated through the cold air and straight into your bones. The same laugh he used to give you when you tried to scold him in empty classrooms. 

“Quit what?” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to let a lock of dark hair fall across his brow. “Looking at what’s mine?” His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You still bite the inside of your cheek when you’re trying not to react. Still—” he took one step forward despite the wand aimed at his sternum—“get wet just thinking about what I used to do to you.”

The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk. Fury ignited behind your ribs—bright, blinding. 

You opened your mouth to lash out—to spit protocol, to threaten him with every curse in the Auror handbook, to remind him exactly who held the power here—

A spell slammed into your back.

No warning. No sound but the sharp crack of magic in the air.

The force lifted you clean off your feet. Your wand flew from your grip mid-flight. You twisted helplessly—boots scraping nothing—before crashing hard onto frozen ground meters away. Pain exploded through your ribs, your shoulder, the back of your skull. Breath punched out of you in a ragged gasp. You rolled instinctively, trying to find your wand, trying to rise—

“Crucio!”

The word ripped through the night gleefully.

Instantly, white-hot agony tore through every nerve in your body.

You screamed.

The sound was torn from your throat, raw and helpless. Your back arched off the ground, limbs locking, muscles seizing as though every fiber was being ripped apart by invisible knives. Vision whited out. The graveyard spun. Somewhere distant you heard laughter, cruel and triumphant.

It lasted only a heartbeat.

Then—

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light flared, bright and unmistakable.

You forced your eyes open just in time to see it.

Sunghoon had somehow retrieved his wand in the chaos. His arm was extended and the Killing Curse had erupted from the tip in a clean arc.

The other Death Eater—the one who’d cast Crucio—didn’t even have time to look surprised. The green light struck him square in the chest. He froze mid-laugh. Then he dropped—limp, lifeless, robes pooling around him like spilled oil.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Sunghoon lowered his arm. Turned. And looked at you.

Still crouched on the ground, still gasping, still shaking from the aftershocks of Cruciatus. Your wand lay somewhere to your left—too far. Your body felt like it had been run over by a herd of hippogriffs. Every nerve ending screamed phantom fire; your muscles twitched and spasmed without permission, refusing to obey the simplest commands. But you forced yourself up onto one elbow anyway—teeth gritted so hard your jaw ached, eyes burning with unshed tears and fury, because you would not lie helpless in front of him. Not him. Not after everything.

Sunghoon stepped over the dead man without looking down, his boot brushing the edge of the sprawled arm as though it were nothing more than a fallen branch. His focus never wavered. It stayed locked on you while he walked toward you.

You tried to move back.

Instinct. Pure animal fear.

Your elbow slid; your palm scraped against frozen earth. Pain lanced through your ribs, your spine, your skull—sharp enough to steal your breath. Your legs refused to cooperate; they jerked uselessly, still half-paralyzed by Cruciatus echoes. You managed half a pathetic meter before your strength gave out and you collapsed again, chest heaving, vision swimming.

He kept coming.

Close enough that the hem of his robes brushed your knee when he stopped above you. He dropped to one knee bringing his face level closer to yours. His gaze raked over you as something flickered behind the madness in his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to regret.

Then—

A blast of red light tore through the night.

Stunner. Bright. Angry. Aimed straight for the center of his back.

Sunghoon didn’t even turn.

His wand snapped up and a Shield Charm erupted from the tip in a dome of shimmering silver. The Stunner struck it dead-center and ricocheted harmlessly into the dark, lighting up crooked headstones like lightning. In the same motion the Death Eater mask slipped back over his face—smooth, seamless, as though it had never left. 

He rose.

Turned.

And the graveyard became a battlefield again.

Another Auror had Apparated in behind a crumbling mausoleum. Wand already raised. Face half-hidden by a scarf. Voice shouting something you couldn’t make out over the ringing in your ears.

Sunghoon moved like liquid shadow.

He Apparated and reappeared behind the Auror—fired a jet of purple light that sent the man sprawling. The Auror rolled, came up firing. Sunghoon blocked again then retaliated with a curse that made the air scream. Headstones cracked. Marble shards flew. The Auror staggered but didn’t fall.

Then more came.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three—no, four—Aurors Apparating in rapid succession. Reinforcements. Your backup. Finally.

Wands lit the night in a storm of color. Shouts overlapped—“Stupefy!” “Protego!” “Expulso!”—spells clashing midair, explosions of light and sound turning the graveyard into chaos.

Sunghoon laughed as he moved through the fight like he was dancing—apparating in short, vicious bursts, blocking, striking, never staying still long enough to be hit.

You watched as he carved through them with terrifying efficiency.

The first to fall was the Auror who’d fired the opening Stunner. Sunghoon apparated directly behind him when an opening appeared. “Sectumsempra.” The curse sliced clean across the man’s chest. Blood sprayed black in the moonlight. The Auror gasped once—wet, choking—then collapsed face-first into the dirt, robes soaking dark.

Sunghoon didn’t pause.

He twisted—Apparated again—reappeared behind a second Auror who was hiding by the mausoleum. Before the words “Protego Maxima” could fully leave her lips, Sunghoon’s wand flicked upward. “Avada Kedavra.” The curse struck her square between the shoulder blades. She froze mid-gesture, wand still raised, then dropped straight down like a marionette with cut strings. 

The third Auror—a tall man with a scarred cheek—saw it happen. Saw his colleague crumple. Rage twisted his face. He roared something incoherent and unleashed a barrage: three rapid Blasting Curses, each one tearing up graves and sending marble flying like shrapnel. Sunghoon apparated through the debris cloud, reappeared at point-blank range and hid behind a gravestone and aimed his wand towards the man.

“Confringo.”

The explosion was muffled—sickeningly wet—as the man’s torso burst outward in a spray of red and bone. What remained collapsed backward over a headstone, robes smoldering.

The fourth Auror—the last one standing—froze for half a second.

Long enough.

Sunghoon turned toward him.

The Auror’s wand rose—trembling—mouth opening on a final, desperate “Expelliarmus—”

Sunghoon was faster.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The curse struck the man clean. His eyes widened with shock—then fell backward, limbs splaying awkwardly across a cracked angel statue. Wand clattered uselessly to the ground beside him.

Silence returned—thick, ringing, broken only by the sound of your own breathing.

Sunghoon didn’t even look at the bodies. Didn’t survey his work. He looked only at you.

For one suspended heartbeat you held your breath.

Then—more cracks.

Reinforcements. Real ones this time. Too many. Too late for the fallen.

Sunghoon’s head tilted as he took one last look at you, eyes burning through the mask’s slits and raised his wand in a casual salute.

Crack.

The graveyard was empty of him in an instant.

You collapsed fully then, cheek pressed to frozen grass, vision tunneling to black at the edges.  Voices reached you—shouts, running boots, someone yelling your name—but they sounded far away. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the moonlit outline of four dead Aurors sprawled among the headstones.

And the empty space where Sunghoon had stood.

Like he had never been there at all.

When you woke up, it was to the harsh white light of St. Mungo’s ward. Your body felt like lead wrapped in cotton—every limb heavy, every joint protesting even the shallowest breath. 

The Cruciatus aftershocks lingered like static under your skin; your fingers twitched without permission for days. Healers came and went, murmuring about nerve regeneration potions and rest and psychological evaluation. You answered their questions in monosyllables. You stared at the ceiling until the white tiles blurred. You replayed the graveyard over and over until the memory carved itself into the backs of your eyelids.

The questions started small.

How had the boy who once kissed you under enchanted snow become this?

What had happened in the years you’d spent trying not to think about him?

Had the Dark Mark burned under his sleeve the night he told you he’d fallen out of love?

Had he already been carving his path to Voldemort while you cried yourself to sleep?

You locked yourself in your Ministry office the moment they discharged you.

Desk buried under files. Door slammed shut. You pulled every record you could access—old Hogwarts enrollment logs, Ministry surveillance reports, seized Death Eater correspondence, even the classified Auror debriefs from raids. You read until your eyes burned. You cross-referenced dates. You mapped disappearances. You hunted for anything. 

You came up empty.

There was no single smoking parchment. No intercepted owl. No witness testimony that named the day or the hour he chose the Dark Lord over everything else. Just gaps. Unexplained coincidences. Sunghoon had walked into the dark so quietly no one had heard the door close behind him.

The obsession became unhealthy.

You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating anything that wasn’t conjured coffee. Stopped answering owls from old friends. Your office became a tomb—papers pinned to every wall, red string connecting nothing to nothing, your own handwriting growing more frantic in the margins. Colleagues knocked. You didn’t answer. Superiors sent memos. You ignored them. The serpent ring on your finger pulsed hotter every night, like it was feeding on your spiral.

Eventually your department head noticed. Then the Minister’s office.

You quit before they could force the issue. The resignation letter was three lines long. Delivered by owl at dawn. No explanation. No farewell speech.

The news spread like fire.

Star recruit quits without warning.

Disgrace to the badge.

Whispers followed you. Former colleagues looked away when you passed. Your parents sent a howler—furious, disappointed, the same tone they’d used when your Transfiguration grade slipped in seventh year. You walked away without reading the second paragraph.

It was fine.

All dandy, really.

Because three days after your resignation hit the Prophet’s front page, an owl arrived at your tiny rented flat in Knockturn Alley. It was a large, silver-feathered bird with knowing eyes. It tapped insistently at your window until you opened it—half-dressed, hair wild, still clutching yesterday’s cold coffee.

The letter was short. Written in Dumbledore’s familiar handwriting.

My dear former student,

The Defense Against the Dark Arts post has once again become vacant. Hogwarts could use someone with your particular experience and resolve.

If you are willing, the castle awaits.

Albus Dumbledore

You stared at the parchment for a long time. Then you folded it carefully. Set it on the table. Packed your life into two trunks in under an hour.

You left without looking back.

Hogwarts welcomed you like it had been waiting.

The castle smelled the same—old stone, beeswax, faint traces of potion fumes drifting up from the dungeons. The Great Hall still echoed with student laughter at breakfast. The Black Lake still glittered under the weak autumn sun. Your room—high in one of the northern towers—overlooked the Forbidden Forest and had a fireplace that lit itself when you entered.

You were safe here.

No Death Eaters Apparating out of shadows. No green light waiting around corners. No raids that ended in deaths and destruction. No Sunghoon.

You only had to worry about which third-years were sneaking banned books into the common room. Which fifth-year Slytherin kept asking too many questions about Unforgivables “for research.” Which Gryffindor troublemaker thought setting off Dungbombs in the corridor was still funny.

You lectured on shield charms, you demonstrated counter-curses with calm precision, you stayed late in the classroom helping struggling students, answering questions about dark magic with unflinching honesty. You patrolled corridors at night with your wand loose in your hand—not because you expected danger, but because old habits died hard.

The students called you Professor.

They liked that you never talked down to them, never pretended the dark arts weren’t real.

You genuinely found happiness.

Mornings started with tea, the low murmur of McGonagall’s voice discussing Quidditch schedules with Flitwick while you listened without needing to speak. Afternoons were filled with the bright chatter of third-years finally mastering Protego, their faces lighting up when a Shield Charm held against your gentle testing hex for the first time. Evenings stretched long in your classroom—windows open to let in the scent of pine and lake water—while you sat cross-legged on a desk helping a nervous fourth-year Ravenclaw understand why counter-curses required intent as much as wandwork.

The students liked your unflinching honesty. When a Slytherin boy asked whether the Unforgivables were really unforgivable if used against Death Eaters, you didn’t give him the Ministry-approved platitude. You looked him in the eye and said, “They are unforgivable because they strip away choice. Yours. Theirs. The person you become after you cast them. That’s the part no one can give back.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then nodded once. 

You started smiling—real smiles—when a Gryffindor girl stayed late to perfect her Disarming Charm and finally managed it with a flourish that sent your practice dummy cartwheeling across the room. You laughed when Peeves tried to drop a bucket of ink over your head during patrol and you wordlessly redirected it onto him instead. The poltergeist sulked for a week.

You slept through the night sometimes. Not always. But sometimes.

The nightmares still came—green light, Thorne’s body hitting the ground, Sunghoon’s masked face turning toward you—but they came less often. When they did, you woke up, sat up and pressed your palm to the cool stone wall until your breathing steadied, then went back to sleep.

For exactly one month, you were happy. Truly.

Then—

You opened your classroom door on a late Thursday afternoon, arms full of second-year essays that needed grading before tomorrow’s lesson. The corridor outside was empty, torches already lit. You shouldered the heavy oak door open with your hip, already mentally sorting the stack by house—

And froze.

Sunghoon was sitting in your chair.

One long leg crossed over the other, dark hair falling just so across his brow. He looked relaxed, elegant, utterly at home in a space that wasn’t his.

Your cat—Erebus, that enormous, treacherous black tom who usually hissed at anyone but you—was curled in his lap.

Purring… Loudly… 

Sunghoon’s long fingers scratched idly behind the cat’s ears. Erebus’s eyes were half-closed in bliss, tail flicking lazily against Sunghoon’s thigh.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, Sunghoon looked up. And lit up. 

Not with a grin or a flourish. Just—his whole face softened. The hard edges melted. Those dark, wild eyes you remembered from the graveyard turned warm again, almost gentle. 

Your heart lurched so violently you almost dropped the essays.

You slammed the door shut behind you.

The bang echoed through the empty classroom.

Your wand was in your hand before you consciously thought to draw it. You twisted the lock with a sharp flick—wards snapping into place—then rounded on him.

“Are you crazy!?” The words came out half-whispered, half-shouted—desperate to stay quiet, terrified someone would hear.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. Just tilted his head slightly, still petting Erebus, who had now rolled fully onto his back in shameless surrender, paws in the air.

“I missed you,” he said simply. Soft. Honest. Devastating.

Your grip on the wand tightened until your knuckles bleached white.

“You can’t be here.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re a wanted man. There are wards. There are professors. There are students—” Your voice cracked on the last word—half accusation, half plea—and the sentence died in the suddenly too-small space between you.

Sunghoon didn’t answer with words. He only looked at you. 

That smug, devastating grin spread across his face—small at first, just a lift at one corner of his mouth, then wider, lazier, until it reached his eyes. The same grin he used to give you when you tried to scold him in fifth year for sneaking you into the restricted section after curfew. 

He stayed seated behind your desk. Relaxed. Regal. Utterly unbothered.

Erebus—that purring traitor—had now abandoned his lap, leaping down to wind around your ankles once before retreating to the windowsill to watch the drama unfold with lazy green eyes.

You took another step forward. Then another. Close enough now that you could see the faint scar along his jaw glint in the late-afternoon light slanting through the high windows. Close enough that the hem of your professor’s robes brushed the edge of your desk.

That was perfect for him as his hand moved. Fingers closed around your wrist. 

You gasped.

He pulled.

One smooth, decisive tug.

Your balance gave out; your knees hit the edge of the chair. Before you could plant your feet or wrench free, he had you—dragged forward and down until you landed astride his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. 

He didn’t let go of your wrist.

Instead he slid his other hand to the small of your back—long fingers splaying wide, pressing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You could feel every inch of him: the hard planes of his chest, the heat radiating through his robes, the press of him against your inner thigh.

“Get your hands off me,” you hissed—voice low, trembling, barely above a whisper in case anyone passed the corridor outside.

“No.”

“Why the hell not?” you demanded, voice cracking despite your effort to keep it quiet. Your palms shoved hard against his chest, but he didn’t budge; if anything, his arm around your waist tightened. “You think you can just stroll into Hogwarts—into my classroom—like you’re not a wanted fugitive? Like you didn’t murder four Aurors in front of me? Like you didn’t disappear for years and leave me to pick up the pieces?” Your words tumbled out faster, sharper, each one a blade you’d been sharpening in silence for too long.

“How did you even get here? The wards are supposed to be impenetrable with detection spells keyed to every known Death Eater signature. You shouldn’t have made it past the gates, let alone up seven flights of stairs and through my door. And don’t tell me you just walked in. You didn’t. So how? Who helped you?!”

You were breathing too fast now, chest rising and falling against his, close enough to feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

“And Dumbledore—” Your voice dropped even lower, almost a hiss. “He has to know. He always knows. The portraits report. The castle itself reports. You think he’d let a Death Eater sit in my chair petting my cat like this is a social call? Or is that part of your plan too? Drag me down with you again? Make me choose between turning you in and—”

He shut you up mid-ramble.

One second you were spitting questions like curses; the next his mouth was on yours.

His hand fisted in your hair—fingers threading through the pins and pulling them loose in one rough tug. The sharp sting at your scalp made you gasp against his lips; he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding in, claiming every inch like he’d never left. His other hand wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing against your racing pulse, fingers curling around the side of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You froze for half a heartbeat—shock, fury, memory crashing together in a blinding wave—then your hands fisted in the front of his robes and you bit his bottom lip hard enough to taste copper. You shoved your tongue against his like you were trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.

That only spurred him on as the kiss turned wet and obscene, tongues sliding slick and aggressive, lips swollen and bruising from the force of it. 

His other hand—the one that had been on your throat—dropped to your hip, fingers digging in with bruising strength. He jerked you forward, grinding your core down hard against the thick ridge straining behind his trousers. The friction was immediate, ruthless; you couldn’t stop the broken moan that tore out of you, muffled against his lips. 

“Still so responsive...” he growled into your mouth.

You hated how right he was.

You could already feel your underwear clinging uncomfortably as you rocked against him without permission. Your nails raked down his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, trying to hurt him back, but it only made him rougher.

One arm banded around your waist and he stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your legs automatically locked around his hips; your back hit the edge of the desk with a thud that rattled quills and ink bottles. Papers scattered. A stack of essays fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.

He didn’t care.

He shoved you back until your spine arched over the desk, hips canted up, thighs spread wide around his waist. His free hand yanked your robes open, fabric tearing slightly at the shoulder and shoved them down your arms until they caught at your elbows. Cool air hit your skin; your blouse was next—ripped open, buttons scattering across the wood.

You reacted instantly—hands flying up to shove at his chest, nails digging into wool and muscle, trying to create even an inch of distance. “Get off—”

He caught both your wrists in one large hand and slammed them down above your head, pinning them to the desk with bruising force. 

“Stop fighting me,” he growled against your throat, voice thick with hunger. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

You bucked—hips twisting, legs kicking—but he simply stepped closer, wedging his hips between your thighs so you had nowhere to go as he yanks the bra cups down, baring you completely. Cool air hit your nipples causing them to tighten. He covered one with his mouth immediately—sucking hard, tongue flicking—while his fingers pinched and rolled the other, tugging until you whimpered.

“Sunghoon—stop—” Your voice cracked when he bit down, sharp enough to make you gasp. “Stop it—please—”

You tried to twist away; he simply followed, mouth chasing skin, sucking harder, biting down just enough to sting.

“Stop—talking—” he muttered, voice fracturing when he switched sides and bit the underside of your breast, leaving another dark mark. 

“You—you broke up with me. You said—you said you didn’t love me anymore—”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you—eyes blown black, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed. “Young me was stupid,” he rasped. “How could I fall out of love with a woman like you?”

You stared down at him, chest heaving, confusion crashing through the anger like cold water on hot coals. Your mouth opened—words forming, scrambling, anything to claw back control, to remind him (and yourself) that this was wrong, that he had no right, that you should be hexing him through the nearest wall.

But the sentences died on your tongue.

His hands were still on your breasts, thumbs brushing worshipful circles over your nipples, keeping them peaked and aching. Every few seconds he dipped his head again, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft undersides, the valley between them, the faint red marks his teeth had already left. He looked… lost in it. 

And Merlin help you—you didn’t really want him off.

Not anymore.

Not when you could feel the heat of his palms seeping through your skin, not when every drag of his tongue sent sparks straight to your core, not when the man staring up at you with raw devotion was still—despite everything—the one you used to fall asleep dreaming about marrying. Back when the future felt soft and certain. Back when you pictured silver bands and quiet vows and his hand in yours at every Ministry function. 

The boy who looked at you like you were the only star worth navigating by. Until he wasn’t. Until the lies started, the disappearances stretched longer, and the boy you loved became a stranger wearing his face.

You blinked, trying to hold onto the anger, the betrayal, the righteous fury that had carried you through years of rebuilding, while you were still locked in that spiraling thought—still trying to decide whether to shove him away or pull him closer—his hands had moved.

He had shoved your skirt up to your waist in one rough yank. Fingers hooked into your tights and underwear before he tore it off—fabric ripping with a sharp, satisfying sound.

Then he dropped.

Went to his knees between your spread legs like it was the most natural place in the world.

His shoulders pushed your thighs wider while his hands gripped the backs of your knees and spread you wider. Wide enough that the desk edge dug into your lower back and your heels hooked uselessly over his shoulders. The cool air of the classroom kissed your exposed cunt for half a second—then his hot mouth covered you completely.

He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked—hard, greedy, like he was trying to pull your soul out through that single point of contact. Your hips jerked up off the desk with a strangled shout; your hands flew to his hair, fingers knotting in the dark strands so tightly you felt strands snap against your knuckles.

“Sunghoon—!”

He groaned against you—vibration ripping straight through your pussy—and doubled down.

His tongue lashed—fast, merciless flicks over the swollen bud while he sucked, hollowing his cheeks. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room immediately: the slick slide of his tongue through your folds, the obscene suction of his mouth, the wet squelch every time he plunged his tongue inside you only to drag it back up to your clit again. His saliva dripped down, mixing with your own slick until everything was glossy, messy, dripping onto the desk beneath your ass.

He ate like your cunt was the only one he’d ever kneel to.

His hands tightened on the backs of your knees—fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises shaped like his grip—keeping you spread and helpless while he feasted. Every time you tried to close your thighs he forced them wider, shoulders wedging deeper, stubble scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs until it burned red.

You yanked his hair harder—half to hurt him, half to anchor yourself. He moaned into you—loud, shameless—the sound muffled against your soaked folds. The pain only made him rougher. 

“Too much—too much—”

He didn’t stop.

Instead he pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your pussy, watching the saliva slide down your folds before he dove back in. Tongue flat and broad now, lapping up every drop like he was collecting something sacred. 

“Pretty cunt..” he rasped between long, sloppy licks. “So swollen already. All for me. Always for me.” He sucked your clit back into his mouth—harder this time—while two fingers plunged inside without warning. Deep. Rough. No gentleness. He fucked them into you fast—curling hard against that spot on every thrust—while his tongue never left your clit. The wet sounds were pornographic: slick fingers pumping, mouth slurping, your own choked moans and gasps echoing off stone walls.

You yanked his hair again—harder—trying to pull him off, trying to regain control.

He retaliated by biting the inside of your thigh, then soothing the sting with slow licks before returning to your clit with renewed ferocity. Another finger joined the first two—three now—stretching you wide, pumping brutally while his tongue flicked faster. 

Your back bowed off the desk. A sob tore from your throat—pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

He moaned again—long, low, vibrating straight through your clit—and you shattered.

The orgasm hit like a curse—violent, unstoppable. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, pulsing, fluttering, gushing slick that coated his hand and chin. Your thighs locked around his head, heels digging into his back, hips grinding against his face as wave after wave ripped through you.

Eventually he pulled his fingers out, letting you feel every inch. Lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean—eyes locked on yours the entire time—tongue curled around each finger in turn, slow and thorough, sucking them clean. A low, satisfied hum vibrated in his throat as he swallowed every trace of you.

Then he rose.

He stood in one smooth motion, towering over you again. His hands never left your body—sliding up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips, along the dip of your waist—as he kissed his way back up. Open-mouthed, bruising kisses. He sucked hard on the soft skin just below your navel, leaving a dark, wet mark that would bloom purple by morning. Higher—teeth grazed the underside of your breast, then closed around a nipple, pulling it deep into his mouth with a hard suck that made your back bow off the desk. 

Every mark he left was claiming. A constellation of red and purple blooming across your collarbones, the tops of your breasts, the sensitive skin along your ribs. By the time his mouth reached your throat you were trembling, body strung tight and liquid at once. He kissed the frantic pulse there—soft first, then bit down hard enough to make you cry out. His tongue traced the fresh mark immediately after, like an apology he didn’t mean.

He finally lifted his head.

Face to face.

Noses almost touching. Breaths mingling in harsh, uneven pants that fogged the narrow space between you.

His hand slid up until it cupped your jaw. Fingers splayed wide across your cheek, warm and rougher from calluses you didn’t quite remember from school. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just beneath your bottom lip, tilting your chin up and forcing your mouth open. 

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough, barely above a whisper yet heavy enough to sink straight into your bones. “Did you let any other man touch you after me?”

The question landed soft. But it carried teeth.

Your throat worked—once, twice—muscles flexing visibly. No sound came out at first. Just a small, helpless swallow. Your eyes—still glassy from tears, from the sheer overwhelming force of him—darted across his face.

His smirk faded into something sharper, more dangerous. The hand on your jaw tightened—fingers digging in until you felt the faint sting of nails pressing half-moon crescents into the soft flesh of your cheeks. 

“Answer me.”

You shook your head—small, frantic jerks that made fresh tears spill over your lower lashes.

For one suspended heartbeat the room held its breath—only the faint crackle of the dying fire and your own uneven panting breaking the silence.

Then—slowly—his entire face lit up.

“No one else,” he breathed—voice cracking open on the words, raw with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “After all this time...”

The realization seemed to hit him in waves. His breath hitched once—sharp, audible. His grip on your jaw loosened fractionally, thumb stroking once across your trembling lower lip in something almost like worship.

Then he straightened.

Hands dropping from your face to his belt.

The clink of metal was loud in the quiet room—buckle opening, leather sliding free, zipper dragged down with rough impatience. He shoved his trousers and boxers down in one impatient motion—fabric pooling around his thighs—and his cock sprang free.

Thick. Hard. Flushed dark at the tip, already leaking steadily. Veins stood out along the shaft ,pulsing faintly with every heartbeat. The head glistened with precome, a thick bead welling at the slit before sliding slowly down the underside in a slow, obscene trail. He wrapped a fist around it once, giving himself one long stroke from base to tip. 

“You stayed empty for me,” he rasped—voice thick with awe. “All these years. No one else got to touch what’s mine. No one else got to feel how tight you are, how you cry when you come. Just me.”

He stroked himself again—slower this time—watching the way your gaze dropped involuntarily to his cock, watching the way your tongue darted out to wet your swollen lips, watching the way your pussy clenched like your body was already aching to be filled again.

“Still so perfect,” he murmured—almost to himself. He stepped closer—cock brushing the inside of your thigh, leaving a wet streak of precome across your skin.

His free hand slid into your hair—fingers threading gently this time, cradling the back of your head—tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again.

“I’m going to fill you again,” he said softly, voice low and trembling with barely-leashed hunger. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember what it feels like to be empty… until every breath you take reminds you I’m still inside you… until you forget there was ever a time your cunt wasn’t stretched around me.”

The other hand guided himself to your entrance—hot, blunt, already leaking.

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt in a single motion—thick, stretching you wide and deep until your walls burned with the sudden invasion and your back bowed off the desk in a violent arch. A scream tore from your throat—raw, involuntary—shattering the quiet of the empty classroom. He swallowed it instantly, mouth crashing down on yours, tongue shoving past your teeth to muffle the sound as his hand came up to your throat.

Fingers clamped around your neck, cutting off just enough air to sharpen every sensation until it felt like fire racing under your skin. The pressure was perfect—cruelly precise—his thumb pressing against the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other fingers dug into the sides of your throat, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Sunghoon didn’t ease up. 

He fucked you like he was trying to carve himself permanently into your body—each thrust brutal, punishing, bottoming out so hard you felt the thick head batter your cervix with every snap of his hips. The desk creaked dangerously beneath you—wood groaning, legs scraping an inch across stone with the force of it. 

Your thighs trembled uselessly around his waist—heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him deeper even as your body screamed. You hadn't been so full after his absence, so much so that every deep plunge felt like it was splitting you open again, yet your hips still rolled up to meet him, greedy and traitorous, chasing the ache.

“So good.. taking my cock so fucking well. Look how deep I am, baby—look how your belly swells every time I bottom out.” His free hand slid down your stomach, until his palm flattened just on your navel. He pressed down.

Hard.

You felt it instantly—the obscene bulge of him inside you, the thick ridge of his cock pressing outward against your lower belly with every punishing thrust. He watched his own hand move—watched the way your stomach distended slightly every time he slammed home.

“Oh—feel that?” he groaned, pressing harder, making you feel every inch of him even more clearly. “Feel how your greedy little cunt is stretching around me? That’s me. Inside you..”

You whined, eyes rolling back as the combination of pressure and depth pushed you closer to the edge again. 

He moaned loudly,head thrown back for a second as your walls fluttered around him.

“Merlin—oh—keep clenching like that,” he panted, hips snapping harder, faster.

You came hard—walls clamping down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, gushing slick that coated his cock and dripped down his balls. Your back bowed off the desk so violently he had to pin you down with his body weight. A scream tried to tear free but his hand turned it into a strangled whine.

He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were sobbing, shaking, oversensitive and still coming apart.

“Take it, baby” he snarled, hips stuttering, thrusts losing rhythm. “Take every inch. Take me.”

He buried himself deep—one last brutal thrust—and came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, filling you until you felt it leak out around his cock, mixing with your own release on the desk beneath you.

Minutes passed.

Or seconds.

Time didn’t matter.

Eventually he eased his grip—letting you drag in full, shuddering breaths that burned all the way down your raw throat. The world swam back in fragments: the faint scent of old books and spilled ink, the creak of the desk beneath your sweat-slick back, the slow drip of your combined release leaking out around where he was still buried deep inside you.

Sunghoon didn’t pull out.

He stayed.

Thick. Hot. Pulsing faintly even after he’d come so hard it felt like he’d tried to flood your womb. His hips stayed flush against yours, cock seated to the hilt, stretching you open and keeping every drop of his cum locked inside. When he shifted—barely an inch—the pressure made you whimper.

Sunghoon exhaled roughly through his nose, the sound almost pained with how much restraint it took not to start fucking into you again right then. Instead he shifted, arms banding beneath your thighs and around your back in one smooth, possessive motion.

He lifted you off the desk.

Your legs automatically locked around his waist; a soft, broken whimper escaped you at the shift of his cock inside, the swollen head dragging along oversensitive walls while gravity pulled you down even deeper onto him. He groaned low in his throat—long, guttural—forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder as though the sensation almost undid him.

Then he dropped back into your chair with you still impaled on him. The impact was gentle enough not to jar you too badly, but it still punched a high, startled sound from your throat. Your knees sank into the worn leather on either side of his hips; your chest pressed flush to his.

He settled you fully on his lap—your ass seated against his thighs, his arms locked around your lower back like iron bands. “Stay,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked. “Just like this. Warm my cock.”

You whimpered, head lolling forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder. Your body was still trembling from the last orgasm; every tiny shift of his hips sent fresh sparks skittering up your spine. He was so deep the head of him pressed against your cervix with even the slightest movement making you dizzy.

“Sleep, love,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. “Just sleep. I’ve got you.” His voice dropped lower. “I’ll take such good care of you.” He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering—then your closed eyelids, then the tear tracks on your cheeks. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair now, soothing where he’d pulled earlier.

“Sleep,” he whispered once more, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again...”

You woke slowly to the apparent wet feeling.

A warm, slippery sensation between your thighs—persistent, rhythmic, dragging you out of the heavy black of unconsciousness like a tide pulling at your ankles. Then sound filtered in next: soft, wet, obscene noises—slick glides, muffled suction, greedy moans that weren’t entirely yours. Your breathing hitched and your eyelids fluttered.

You blinked awake.

The room was dimmer now. Evening had deepened into proper night; the only light came from the low fire in the hearth and the single candle you’d left burning on the desk before… before everything, only your classroom no longer looked like a classroom. You were in your private quarters. Your robes, your blouse, your skirt—everything—had vanished. You were fully naked on your own bed, sheets twisted beneath you, wrists loosely bound above your head with what felt like your own torn tights, ankles free but thighs held wide by strong, familiar hands.

And between them—

Sunghoon.

With his shoulders wedged under your knees, head halfway resting on the inside of your thigh like it was the most comfortable pillow in the world. His dark hair was a mess—sweat-damp strands falling into his eyes, clinging to his forehead. His cheeks, his jaw, his chin—absolutely dripping. Slick coated him from nose to collarbone in glistening trails; it caught the candlelight and shimmered every time he moved. His lips were swollen, dark red, shiny with you. His tongue—almost dreamy now—traced slow, broad stripes up your slit, circling your clit without urgency, then dipping inside to collect more of the mess he’d already made.

He looked gone.

Eyes half-lidded, pupils blown so wide. Lashes fluttering every time he swallowed another mouthful of you. Soft moans vibrated against your folds, like he was praying into your cunt. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints, keeping you spread even though you were too boneless to close them anyway.

You registered the overstimulation last.

Your pussy was throbbing, swollen and absolutely hypersensitive. Every lazy lick felt like fire and honey at once; every gentle suck on your clit made your hips jerk weakly even though you had no strength left to arch. You’d come so many times while you were out—while he kept going, relentless—even when your body had simply shut down. Now every touch was too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too him.

A small, shattered sound escaped you—half sob, half moan.

His eyes flicked up.

Found yours.

Slow. Dangerous. Utterly pleased.

“Morning, love,” he murmured against your folds—voice wrecked, thick with hours of use. “Or evening.. Hard to tell.”

He sucked your clit almost tenderly, then released it with a wet pop.

“You passed out so pretty,” he continued, kissing the inside of your thigh where he’d already left a constellation of bite marks. “Couldn’t stop. Kept tasting you. Look at this mess—” He pulled back just enough to let you see: his chin dripping, your cunt puffy and glistening, slick smeared across his cheeks and down his neck. “You soaked me. Soaked the sheets. Soaked my face.”

You tried to speak. But only managed a trembling whimper.

He smiled adoringly and lowered his head again.

His mouth returned to your cunt with the same lazy hunger he’d had for hours. No frantic flicks. No punishing suction. He licked like he had all night—like he intended to spend the rest of his life between your thighs if you’d let him.

You couldn’t move.

The tights he’d used to bind your wrists were knotted tight around the iron headboard slats; every weak tug only made the fabric bite deeper into your skin, sending fresh sparks of pain racing down your arms. Your shoulders ached from being stretched overhead for so long; your fingers had gone numb at the tips. But even without the bindings, your body was too heavy to obey you. Your thighs quivered uselessly around his head; your hips gave tiny, involuntary twitches every time his tongue passed over your clit, but you couldn’t lift them, couldn’t close them, couldn’t do anything except lie there and take it.

His hands slid under your ass again—palms cupping, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise—and lifted your hips just enough to give himself better access. He groaned softly against your folds at the new angle, the vibration traveling straight through your oversensitive clit and making your whole body jolt.

“So sensitive..” he murmured, lips brushing your swollen lips as he spoke. “ No one else will ever know how to take you apart like I do..”

The overstimulation was excruciating. Tears slipped steadily down your temples now, mixing with the sweat already dampening your hairline.

He noticed, lifting his head just enough to watch your face, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Cry for me,” he whispered. “Let me see how much it hurts. How much you love the hurt..”

His voice was velvet dragged over broken glass, every word sank into you like teeth, sinking deeper.

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t form words.

Only cry out—high, fractured, animal sounds that tore from your raw throat every time his lips sealed around your clit again. 

He hummed again—long, low, pleased—which in turn ripped another broken cry from you.

And that was it.

The final thread snapped.

Your body locked up—back bowing violently off the bed, walls fluttering helplessly around nothing—and then went utterly limp.

You fainted.

Again.

Sunghoon stilled.

For one heartbeat, his tongue paused against your folds. Then a slow, dangerous grin broke across his face.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, taking in your slack, tear-streaked face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed—voice thick with dark glee. “You went out on me again.” He laughed—soft, breathless, utterly delighted. “Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh where he’d left fresh bite marks. “Sleep for me.”

He shifted carefully, easing your thighs wider still now that you couldn’t resist. “So loose now,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So soft inside. Took me so well…”

He slid two fingers inside you with no resistance at all. Your walls parted around him like silk; he curled them gently, stroking that oversensitive spot with feather-light touches that still made your unconscious body twitch and sigh. He watched—mesmerized—as your hips gave tiny, helpless jerks, as more slick welled up around his knuckles, coating his hand in a fresh, glistening sheen.

You moaned in your sleep—soft, sleepy, so sweet it made his chest ache.

A tiny, breathy sound that slipped past your slack lips and went straight to his cock, hard and leaking against his thigh.

He suddenly pulled his fingers free, watching the way your cunt clung to them, reluctant to let go, slick stretching in thin, glistening strands between his knuckles and your entrance before snapping.

“So greedy even when you’re asleep,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Still trying to keep me inside…” He shifted, guiding himself to your entrance. The head of his cock nudged against you and your body welcomed him instantly.

He slid in one long, slow glide.

Your walls—loose and slick—parted around him like they were made for this exact shape, this exact stretch. He sank deep—deeper—until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt again, the swollen head kissing your cervix while your pussy fluttered weakly around him, trying to pull him even further.

Sunghoon groaned—long, low, broken—forehead dropping to rest between your breasts.

He stayed like that for a moment—just feeling you. The slow, sleepy clench of your walls. The way your body sighed around him even in unconsciousness. The obscene, wet heat that coated him from base to tip.

Then he started to move.

Every thrust measured—pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in with a slick glide that made the wet sounds echo softly in the quiet room. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself into every inch of your insides—long, rolling strokes that dragged his cock along every sensitive spot. 

Your head lolled to the side, mouth open on another soft, sleepy moan.

So cute…

So perfect…

He kept the rhythm gentle but deep enough to bump your cervix every time, shallow enough not to wake you, just enough to keep you floating in that hazy space between sleep and pleasure.

“More…” 

The word was slurred, sleepy, barely audible, but it hit him hard.

Your voice—thick with sleep, mumbled it again, hips twitching upward in tiny, helpless searches for more of him.

“More… please…”

Sunghoon’s eyes snapped shut.

He had to.

The sight of you was too much. Too perfect. Too dangerous.

He exhaled shakily through his nose, while he forced himself to keep the rhythm steady. Deep inhale. Slow exhale. Again. Again. Counting the beats of your heartbeat against his cheek until the urge to slam into you and chase his own release receded just enough to let him breathe.

Then—carefully—he lowered his mouth to your breast. He took the swollen nipple between his lips like it was something fragile.

You sighed—long, dreamy—chest arching up into his mouth without conscious thought, offering more even in sleep.

Sunghoon felt the shift in you instantly.

The tiny, unconscious roll of your hips.

The way your back arched just a fraction more.

The soft, needy lift of your chest like your body was begging without words.

Something in him cracked—just slightly.

His next suction wasn’t gentle.

He pulled your nipple deep into his mouth with sudden, bruising force—hollowing his cheeks, sucking so hard the tender bud stretched taut and throbbed against his tongue. 

A fresh sob slipped free from you, body jerking in his lap like you’d been shocked.

For one dangerous heartbeat Sunghoon lost the leash.

His hips snapped forward—harder than before—driving his cock deep in one brutal thrust that made your lower belly bulge visibly again, the thick head battering your cervix while your walls clenched helplessly around him.

“Filthy little thing… Even passed out you’re trying to fuck yourself on my cock..”

But then—

You moaned his name.

Soft. Slurred. Barely audible.

“Sunghoon…”

One word and he fractured, eyes fluttering shut like the sound had punched through him.

“My sweet girl.. Still calling for me. Still needing me.”

That was really all it took to remind him why he’d burn the world down to keep you.

The next day arrived like a punishment wrapped in routine.

You stood at the front of your Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, spine straight, voice steady, pretending the night before had been a dream you could simply wake up from and discard.

You’d covered everything.

High-collared blouse buttoned to the throat. Long sleeves pinned at the wrists. A heavy black shawl draped over your shoulders despite the mild autumn warmth filtering through the high windows. Skirt long enough that it brushed your ankles.

Every visible inch of skin concealed the evidence Sunghoon had left.

You stayed behind your desk the entire lesson. Not because you wanted to loom over the students like some old-fashioned professor, but because your legs felt like they might give out if you walked more than three steps. The desk became your anchor—hands braced on its edge when you gestured, hip leaning against the wood when you turned to write on the blackboard. Every movement pulled at sore muscles, tender places, the lingering ache between your thighs where he’d been buried so deep for so long.

You spoke about Shield Charms and their variations against dark curses. Your eyes scanned the room with practiced authority. But inside you were screaming.

When you finally dismissed the class to begin their practical assignment, pairing off to practice, you lowered yourself into your chair with excruciating slowness.

A tiny, involuntary wince slipped past your lips as your bruised ass met the cushioned seat. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper, forced your expression neutral, and reached for the stack of third-year essays you’d barely touched yesterday.

He was gone when you woke up this morning.

You had come to slowly and found the bed empty beside you. No note. No trace. Just the lingering soreness between your legs.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a long minute. Then sighed—long, defeated.

Probably only came to fuck you and leave.

The thought tasted bitter, but it wasn’t new. So you’d dragged yourself out of bed, cleaned the evidence as best you could, and came to class pretending nothing had happened.

Now, halfway through grading the first essay, you felt it.

Something cool and smooth slithering up the inside of your calf.

The quill in your hand stilled mid-word.

Slowly you pushed your chair back just far enough to glance under the desk.

A black viper.

Sleek. Glossy. Thick-bodied. Its scales caught the candlelight in iridescent ripples. Navy-blue eyes—too intelligent, too knowing—locked straight onto yours.

Your breath caught.

Sunghoon.

He was an Animagus..

You knew it instantly. The way the snake held its head—tilted slightly, almost curious. The way those eyes watched you with the same hunger you’d seen last night. 

You bit back the meanest insult you could think of.

Glanced up—quick scan of the room.

None of the students had noticed. They were too busy dueling in pairs, laughing when shields shattered, groaning when hexes hit home. Controlled chaos.

Perfect cover.

You looked back down.

The viper—Sunghoon—had already slithered higher.

Panic surged through you like ice water. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure the nearest student would hear it. Your hand shot beneath the desk—instinct, desperation—fingers curling to grab him, to yank him out before anyone noticed, before he could—

He dodged. Smooth. Fluid. Almost playful.

The black-scaled body twisted sideways with impossible grace, evading your grasp like smoke, and before you could adjust your grip he surged forward, slithering straight up the inside of your thigh.

You clenched your fists on the desk so hard the wood creaked.

The cool, muscular length of him glided beneath your skirt—scales whispering against nylon—higher, higher—until the blunt head of the viper pressed right up against the crotch of your tights.

You bit back a gasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

He nuzzled. Once. Twice. Pressure right over your clit through the thin fabric, the forked tongue flicking out in tiny, teasing darts that you could feel even through the layers.

Your thighs tensed—trying to close, trying to trap him, trying to stop this madness—but he was already moving.

Sharp little teeth caught the nylon.

A quick, precise rip—barely audible over the chatter and spell-fire in the room—and cool air kissed your suddenly bare cunt.

Then he slipped inside the tear.

The first contact of his scales against your heated folds made you squeak high, the sound swallowed instantly by the dueling students’ laughter and the crack of deflected hexes. His body was shockingly cold compared to your flushed skin: sleek, smooth muscle sliding against slick warmth, the contrast so sudden it made your inner thighs twitch and clamp reflexively around him.

You tried to stay still. You really did. But Sunghoon—ever attentive, even as a viper—moved with purpose.

He slithered forward, thick body gliding until his blunt head nudged directly against your clit.

Then he… cuddled.

Pressed the flat, cool top of his head right against the swollen bud and rubbed slow circles that dragged his smooth scales over the oversensitive nerves in a maddening friction. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to make your hips jerk forward, light enough to tease rather than overwhelm. His forked tongue flicked out once—quick, curious—tasting the fresh slick that had already begun to leak from you again, and the tiny, wet touch sent a full-body shiver racing up your spine.

And then his tail moved. Thick, muscular, sinuous—it coiled once around the inside of your thigh like an anchor before the tapered end found your entrance.

And sank in. Deep. Wide.

The stretch was strange, foreign, overwhelming: not like fingers, not like a cock, but something alive, something that moved inside you. Sending tiny sparks skittering up your spine that made your toes curl inside your shoes. He didn’t thrust like a man would; he rippled—slow, fluid undulations that pushed deeper with every wave of muscle, filling you inch by cool, thick inch until you felt impossibly stretched, impossibly full, the blunt pressure nudging against your g-spot with every lazy coil.

A moan slipped free, barely a breath.

“Sunghoon…” you whispered—barely audible, more breath than voice—praying no student turned at the sound of their professor murmuring a name that didn’t belong in a classroom.

He answered with a low, vibrating hiss against your clit—pleased, smug, content.

The head of the viper stayed nestled right against the swollen bud—nuzzling, rubbing, occasionally flicking that wicked little tongue in quick, feather-light darts that made your hips jerk forward despite every effort to stay still. Meanwhile his tail kept moving—slow, deep, exploratory—curling and uncurling inside you like it was mapping every inch of your walls, every sensitive spot, every place that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

When he found that perfect angle, tail tip pressing firmly against the spot just behind your pubic bone—he stayed there.

Your breathing turned shallow, each exhale a trembling whine you tried to disguise as thoughtful hums while pretending to read the next essay. Your free hand dropped beneath the desk—fingers hovering, shaking—half wanting to push him away, half wanting to hold him there.

You did neither. 

You just sat—frozen, thighs quivering, cunt clenching helplessly around the living intrusion. 

Each individual scale was a point of friction: smooth enough to glide, textured enough to drag, and the way they rippled against your g-spot felt like hundreds of tiny fingers massaging you from the inside at once. 

You clenched involuntarily—hard—and he answered with a pleased, vibrating hiss directly against your clit.

The sound traveled straight through your core.

You choked on a moan—turned it into a cough at the last second—and one student glanced over briefly before returning to their duel.

You were growing slicker by the second, fresh arousal leaking out around the black scales, coating them until every movement made an obscene sound you were terrified someone would hear. The wetness eased his exploration, let him push deeper, let the tail wiggle in ways that made your vision blur: curling upward to stroke that perfect spot again and again, then flattening to press outward against your walls, stretching you in slow, pulsing waves that mimicked the rhythm of a heartbeat.

It hurt.

It felt good.

It hurt because it felt good.

You tried to focus on the students. Tried to pretend you were still their professor.

The practical portion of class dragged on—pairs practicing, laughter and spell-fire filling the room—but every second felt like torture wrapped in velvet. Your thighs trembled beneath the desk; your breathing stayed shallow, controlled only by sheer force of will. When a fourth-year asked a question about wand movement you answered—voice only cracking once—and prayed no one noticed the way your knuckles whitened on the desk edge.

Finally after some time the practical ended.

“Sit down and begin your written analysis,” you managed, voice steady enough to pass for calm. “Ten minutes on shield charm theory and counter-curse applications. Quietly.”

Chairs scraped. Quills scratched. The room settled into the low hum of focused work.

You made it through the rest of the lesson.

Barely.

When the bell finally rang and students began packing up, you stayed seated until the last straggler had filed out and the door clicked shut behind them.

Only then did you allow yourself to slump forward, forehead pressed to folded arms on the desk, breathing in short, shuddering gasps.

But there was no reprieve.

The next class—sixth-year Slytherins—was due in less than five minutes. And they had a test. Which meant you had to stand at the front of the room. Supervise. Watch for cheating. Be present.

You sat upright—wincing as the motion shifted the thick tail inside you—and smoothed your skirt down with shaking hands. The fabric clung uncomfortably to damp thighs; you could feel the slick still leaking out around Sunghoon’s body with every step.

The students trickled in.

You forced your voice to remain level as you greeted them, handed out parchment, and reminded them of the rules. Every syllable felt like a performance. Your legs shook beneath the desk as you stood—back straight, chin up—pretending the black viper coiled inside your cunt wasn’t currently exploring deeper.

Sunghoon didn’t seem to mind the audience at all. No, that bloody goblin changed his position while you stood at the front watching Slytherins settle into their seats.

His thick tail stayed buried deep inside you but the rest of his long, powerful body began to rearrange itself with terrifying efficiency.

First came the loop around your waist—once, twice—tight enough that your next breath got caught in your throat. The cool scales pressed against your blouse, hidden beneath the heavy fabric, squeezing in pulses that forced your diaphragm to work harder for every inhale, your ribs compressed slightly; your stomach sucked in on instinct.

Then he moved higher.

One more coil around your stomach—lower this time, just above your navel—constricting firmly, like he was trying to imprint the shape of himself onto your organs. The pressure pushed against the faint bulge of him inside you, making you feel the fullness even more acutely. Then the sleek black length continued upward—dragging the undersides of your breasts, then right in the center of your cleavage.

And then—

The final coil.

Around your neck.

He wound once—tight—hidden beneath the high collar of your blouse and the thick wool scarf you’d wrapped around it to conceal the hickeys and bruises. The pressure was immediate. Your pulse hammered against the cool scales; he could feel it—he must have felt it—because he tightened fractionally in response, a slow squeeze that made your vision spot black for half a second.

Fuck.

He was everywhere.

His head came to rest just beneath your ear, blunt snout pressed to the sensitive skin there, forked tongue flicking out once to taste the salt of your sweat.

You heard him hiss—soft, low, almost like an evil little laugh.

“Bastard… get the hell—”

He tightened. 

Around your throat. Around your waist. Around your stomach. The sudden constriction made stars explode behind your eyes. Air became thin, precious, expensive. Your vision tunneled; your knees threatened to buckle. 

You got through the full test time.

Somehow.

The Slytherins bent over their parchments—quills scratching, occasional sighs of frustration, the soft rustle of turning pages—while you stood at the front like a statue carved from willpower and desperation. Your voice had steadied enough to call out the standard warnings: “Eyes on your own work. No talking. No wand movements unless checking the time with a charm.” The words came out almost bored, the way you’d practiced in the mirror a thousand times before real lessons. No one looked twice.

You caught two cheaters early.

First was a boy near the window—sixth-year, dark hair, perpetually smug—trying to sneak a glance at his neighbor’s parchment. You called his name sharply; he startled, flushed, and snapped his eyes back to his own work. Your voice didn’t waver, but the effort cost you—Sunghoon chose that exact moment to ripple his tail deeper inside, curling it against your g-spot. Your knees nearly buckled; you gripped the edge of your desk until your knuckles bleached white, turning the involuntary whimper into a throat-clearing cough.

The second was subtler—a girl passing a folded note under the desk. You spotted the movement from the corner of your eye, strode over (each step a torment as his body shifted with you), and confiscated it without comment. She paled; you returned to the front, parchment crumpled in your fist.

Every stride made him move. The tail inside you thrust lazily—shallow, rolling waves that dragged scales along every oversensitive inch. 

A student looked up curiously.

You forced a tight smile. “Focus, please.”

The moment their eyes dropped, you hissed under your breath—barely audible—“Get—out—”

He punished you instantly.

The coil around your throat clamped down like a vice—cutting air to a thin whistle. The bands around your waist and stomach squeezed in unison—ribs compressing, belly sucked in until the pressure on your full cunt became unbearable. His tail stilled for one heartbeat—then curled viciously against that spot until your vision whited out.

You stumbled—caught yourself on the desk—papers fluttering. A tiny, choked sound escaped before you swallowed it.

Your free hand slipped behind you—beneath the shawl, beneath the blouse—fingers finding the thick coil around your waist. You dug your nails in hard—trying to pry, trying to hurt, trying to make him stop.

He didn’t. 

He only tightened further.

You bit your lip, forced yourself upright to scan the room again. 

No one had noticed. They were too busy scratching answers, frowning at questions, chewing nails in concentration.

Every time your mind tried to surface—tried to plan how to get him off, how to end this before someone looked too closely—he tightened again. Squeezing until thought melted away.

The end of class came like a distant mercy you barely registered.

You stood frozen at the front, hands braced on the podium like it was the only thing keeping you upright—as the Slytherins gathered their things. Quills tucked away. Parchments rolled. Chairs scraping back in a symphony you barely heard. A few glanced at you curiously—your cheeks too flushed, your breathing too shallow—but no one lingered. No one questioned. They filed out in twos and threes, chatting about the test's difficulty, oblivious to the black viper coiled so intimately around and inside their professor.

When the last student crossed the threshold—door swinging shut with a soft, final thud—you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Then waved your wand.

A lazy flick and the test papers floated up from the desks in a neat stack, drifting onto your own like fallen leaves. The movement cost you; your arm trembled, wand nearly slipping.

The room was empty.

Silent.

You collapsed.

Knees giving out like strings cut—hitting the cold stone floor with a thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet. You caught yourself on the desk edge—palms slapping wood, nails scraping for purchase—gasping, moaning out his name in a voice that didn’t sound like yours anymore.

“Sunghoon—please—”

The words tore free, broken by sobs you couldn’t hold back. Your mind was melting, thoughts fragmented: he’s inside me, around me. No logic. No resistance. Just surrender. Just the exquisite agony of being filled and squeezed and claimed in ways no human body should be able to endure, let alone crave.

And your broken plea was all it took.

Sunghoon`s tail—still buried deep inside your cunt—began to thrust.

Hard.

Fast.

Slick sounds filled the empty classroom—wet squelches blending with your broken moans, overpowering his triumphant hisses. Each thrust stretched you wider, filled you deeper, the alive intrusion writhing inside like it was alive with intent: exploring every fold, pressing every nerve, corrupting every inch of you from the inside out. The tail curled at the tip on every upward stroke—hooking against that spot until your hips jerked helplessly—then straightened on the withdrawal, dragging out with a slick pop only to slam back in.

More, tighter, deeper, hurt me, break me. 

No shame. No control. 

You moaned—loud, wrecked—knees spreading wider on the floor, hips grinding back against the intrusion even as tears streamed down your face.

Sunghoon didn’t let you have it.

The moment your walls began to flutter—tightening in that telltale, helpless rhythm that signaled the edge—he stopped.

The thick tail inside you stilled—frozen mid-thrust, curled firmly against your g-spot but no longer moving. 

You cried out, the sound ricocheting off stone walls. “No—no—please—”

Your hips jerked forward—searching, grinding, trying to force friction from the unmoving length inside you—but he only constricted tighter around your waist, pinning you in place, making every tiny movement feel like fighting steel bands. 

“Sunghoon—please—don’t stop—please—”

You were begging. Voice cracking on every syllable, hands scrabbling beneath your blouse to find the coils around your waist, nails digging into cool scales in helpless desperation. You clutched at him—holding on like he was the only solid thing left in the world—trying to pull him deeper, trying to make him move, trying to chase the orgasm he’d just yanked away.

He hissed again—mocking, delighted.

“Please—Sunghoon—need it… need you… don’t—don’t do this…” Every word was punctuated by a helpless roll of your hips—grinding down like you could force him to continue through sheer desperation. 

And then—finally—he moved. 

He surged, pulling out then thrust forward in one satisfying stroke, bottoming out so fast your lower belly bulged visibly again beneath the tight coils around your waist. The sudden stretch ripped a choked scream from your throat, immediately muffled by the iron grip around your neck. 

You were close—dangerously close—pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every brutal stroke, every punishing squeeze, every hissed vibration against your ear.

He felt it.

The moment your walls began to flutter again—tightening in that helpless, telltale rhythm—he tightened everything at once.

Your scream was choked off before it could form—mouth falling open in a silent, wide O, only small choking sounds escaping as your eyes rolled back so hard you saw nothing but white as the orgasm ripped through you like a curse finally unleashed.

Walls clamping down around the writhing length inside you,, gushing slick in messy waves that soaked his scales, dripped down your thighs, and pooled on the stone floor.

Then—suddenly—he released.

The coils around your throat loosened first—air rushing back in a dizzying flood that made you gasp and cough. The bands around your waist and stomach unwound next—slowly, almost reluctantly. Your ribs expanded gratefully; your belly softened, the pressure on the faint bulge easing until you could breathe without fighting.

His tail slipped out last.

He withdrew in one long glide—thick length dragging along every oversensitive inch on the way out. The wet sucking sound echoed in the empty classroom as your walls clung desperately, trying to keep him inside even as he pulled free. You whined at the sudden emptiness, hips jerking forward instinctively like your body still needed to be filled.

He slithered out from under your skirt, black scales glistening wetly with your release, every inch of him shining in the low light. Only when the last tapered tip slipped free did you really see him.

Long.

Thick.

Black as midnight.

Coiled on the stone floor in front of you—easily six feet of sleek, powerful muscle. Navy-blue eyes lifted to meet yours and you felt your breath catch again.

He was beautiful.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as you leaned your head back against the desk leg.

“Bastard snake… absolute menace…” The words came out slurred, breathless, half-hearted. You didn’t even mean them anymore. Not really.

Then you heard it.

Low laughter. Human laughter.

Your eyes snapped open.

Sunghoon stood in front of you now.

Shirtless. 

Sweat glistened on his bare chest, catching candlelight along the sharp lines of his collarbones, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the faint scars that hadn’t been there in school. 

And on his left forearm—

The Dark Mark.

Black against pale skin—skull and serpent twisting in permanent ink.

The sight of it hit like ice cold water.

He stepped closer. One stride. Two.

Then he reached down, strong hands closing around your upper arms and pulled you up from your knees in one effortless motion. Your legs shook and you stumbled forward into his chest.

He caught you, his arms banding around your waist before he spun you around, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he shoved your skirt down your thighs in one impatient yank. The ruined fabric caught briefly on your knees before pooling at your ankles; he kicked your legs wider, bent you over the desk with a hand between your shoulder blades, and forced your chest flat. Your palms slapped wood—breath punching out in a startled gasp.

Then he buried himself to the hilt in your dripping cunt.

You shouted surprised, the sound fracturing into a whine as he immediately started fucking you hard.

His hips snapped forward again and again, each thrust slamming you into the desk until the heavy wood creaked and rocked beneath you. Your toes barely touched the ground; every stroke lifted you up, bouncing you forward only for him to yank you back onto his cock by the grip on your hip. 

One hand stayed clamped on your hip—fingers digging in so deep you’d wear the shape of them for days—while the other fisted your hair, yanking your head back sharply until your spine arched and your throat exposed.

“Sunghoon! Too much—please—”

“Too much?” he growled, hips slamming forward harder, making the desk jolt. “You begged for this, remember? Now take it. Take every fucking inch like you deserve.” He yanked your hair tighter—scalp burning—pulling your head back until your neck strained and tears spilled fresh down your cheeks.

“Such a filthy professor—letting a Death eater fuck you stupid while your students’ papers are still warm under your tits. You love being used like this, don’t you?”

You whined helplessly, voice cracking on every moan.

“Sunghoon—please—need… need—”

He groaned and gave you exactly what you begged for.

The thrusts turned fast, each one slamming you forward until your hips bruised against the desk edge. 

You were loud.

Too loud.

Broken moans and high  cries spilled out with every stroke, echoing off stone walls like a confession.

He noticed.

One hand left your hip and clamped over your mouth, palm sealing your lips, fingers digging into your cheeks to muffle the next sob before it could escape.

He then draped over your back. Chest to spine. Weight pinning you down. Hot breath against your neck.

His hips never slowed—still pounding into you with punishing depth—but now every thrust rocked you both forward.

His other hand came down to your clit, fingers clamping down until the swollen bud throbbed. Your muffled scream trapped, swallowed whole by the rough seal of his hand. Tears streamed faster, sliding down your cheeks in thick tracks that soaked into his skin and dripped onto the scattered parchment beneath you.

Thrust. Pinch. Squeeze. Release.

Thrust. Pinch. Squeeze. Release.

Your body searched for more without your permission. Hips rolling back to meet every slam, trying to take him deeper even as your thighs shook and your toes curled uselessly against the cold stone. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him in helpless spasms, walls sucking at his length like they were trying to pull him in permanently, to keep him buried forever. 

You weren’t in control anymore.

You hadn’t been for a long time.

Every involuntary twitch, every greedy roll of your hips, every flutter of your walls betrayed you—told him exactly how much you needed this, how much you craved it, the pain, the possession. Your body craved him even as he tore you apart.

And that knowledge—that your own flesh was begging for him—only made Sunghoon more aggressive.

His hand clamped tighter over your face, palm sealed like iron, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumb pressing cruelly against your nostril while his pinky hooked under your jaw to force your head back further. You could only get the thinnest threads of oxygen, panicked little sips that made your head swim and your vision spot black.

Without even realising it you came hard.

Your eyes rolled up completely—only whites visible behind fluttering lids—as your mouth stretched wide in a mute scream against his palm. Your walls clamped down so tightly around his cock it was almost painful for him. Your legs—already lifted and trembling in the air—shook uncontrollably, toes curling, thighs quivering like they were trying to snap closed but couldn’t because his hips kept you spread and pinned.

His hand left your clit, and slid up to join the first.

Both hands now on your face. One clamped over your mouth and nose, while the other covered your eyes—palm pressing your eyelids shut, fingers splaying across your forehead and into your hair.

Your arms—previously just weakly supporting your weight on the desk—collapsed. They gave out in one trembling instant, elbows buckling, forearms sliding forward across the desk until your chest and cheek met wood with a soft, defeated thud. Your body simply surrendered, front half draped over the desk like an offering left for slaughter.

Sunghoon caught your head before it could slump completely.

His hand—the one that had been blinding you—slid to cradle the back of your skull, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair with surprising gentleness. He lifted just enough to keep your face tilted upward, cheek no longer pressed to parchment but hovering a fraction above it. Your neck strained at the awkward angle, throat exposed, pulse hammering. He held you there like a collector displaying something priceless.

His mouth found your ear. Hot breath ghosting over the shell. Low voice pouring in like slow poison sweetened with honey.

“Good girl,” he whispered, so soft it almost sounded like love. “That’s it. Let go. You don’t need to hold yourself up anymore. I’ve got you.”

The words sank deep—slipping past every cracked defense you’d tried to rebuild over the years. It was the same tone he used to use in empty corridors when you were still students: calm, coaxing. The same velvet murmur that once convinced you to sneak out after curfew, to let him mark your throat, to believe forever was something he could give you.

“My perfect thing,” he continued, lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear with every word. “So strong for so long—carrying all that pain, all that anger, all that love you tried to bury. And now look—bent over your own desk, crying because it feels too good to stop. You were always meant to end up right here. Owned by me..”

His hips rolled, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in lazy circles that made your walls flutter weakly around him. 

“You don’t have to think. You don’t have to be the perfect professor, the perfect Auror, the perfect anything. Just be mine. Just let me keep you. That’s all you’re good for now, isn’t it? Only I can put you back together.”

Your breathing hitched, each trembling inhale catching on a soft sound.

Eventually his thrusts grew rougher.

What had started as possessive rolls—each one grinding deep, claiming every inch like he was rewriting your body’s memory—shifted into something harder. Hungrier. Less controlled. His hips snapped forward with increasing force, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder again.

Your body now answered him on instinct—hips rocking back to meet every brutal slam even as tears poured down your cheeks.

With one last brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you felt him in your throat as he emptied inside you. Hot, thick spurts flooded your cunt, filling you until it leaked out around his cock in messy, dripping waves that ran down your thighs and puddled on the floor. 

When he finally finished he pulled back.

His cock slipped free with a wet, obscene sound—your used hole gaping slightly, clenching on nothing as thick ropes of his cum dripped out in slow, glistening strands. 

You thought he was done.

You were wrong.

He walked around the desk—boots clicking on stone—until he stood in front of you, reaching down, his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head up from the desk with a sharp tug that made your scalp burn and your neck strain.

Your mouth fell open in a dazed gasp and he didn’t hesitate to push his cock past your lips in one smooth thrust.

You choked, eyes widening as the thick head hit the back of your throat. Your hands flew to his thighs—gripping hard, nails digging into muscle—trying to push, trying to breathe. 

He didn’t let you.

He set a rhythm, fucking your mouth with the same brutality he’d used on your cunt, hitting the back of your throat with every stroke until your gag reflex kicked in.

You looked up at him—eyes wide, glassy, pleading—while he stared down with a crazy glint.

“Let it all go… The anger. The years. The walls you built. Let them crumble. You’re safe here. You’re wanted here. You’re mine here.”

Sunghoon made sure to let you feel every thick inch sliding over your tongue, bumping the back of your throat as your gag reflex fluttered and tears welled fresh. Hips rolling forward until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base and your throat convulsed around him in helpless spasms.

Saliva poured, dripping from the corners of your stretched lips, running in thick strands down your chin. Every time he pulled back the slick strings stretched between your mouth and his cock before snapping; every time he thrust forward again you choked.

He pulled back suddenly—cock slipping free with a wet pop—leaving you gasping, mouth open, tongue lolling slightly as strings of saliva connected your lips to his glistening tip.

He yanked your head back until your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—met his.

He lifted his left arm, showcasing the Dark Mark for you. He held it right in front of your face, close enough that you could almost taste the dark power radiating from it.

“Scared?” he murmured, voice taunting, thumb brushing the edge of the brand almost lovingly. “You should be. One word from me—one single word—and he’d come. Right here. Right now. Because I’m one of his most trusted. His right hand. His favorite blade.” He tilted his head—watching your eyes widen, watching fresh tears spill as the reality of it sank in. “He’d walk through these walls like they were nothing. See you bent over your own desk and he’d laugh. He’d laugh because the great Auror-turned-professor who used to hunt his followers is nothing but my broken little toy now.”

Your breath hitched—shallow, panicked—chest heaving.

“Say it scares you. Say the thought of him walking in right now—seeing you like this—makes you terrified….”

You whined in fear, helpless as tears streamed faster.

He smiled cruelly and shoved his cock back into your mouth. Fucking your throat with renewed savagery while his branded arm stayed raised—taunting you with the symbol of everything he’d become, everything he could summon with a single breath.

“Choke on it,” he snarled. “Choke on the cock of a Death Eater while you think about how easily I could end you.”

The rhythm grew erratic—thrusts losing precision, becoming shorter, harder, chasing release. His breathing turned harsh—panting—while the hand in your hair yanked tighter, forcing your head still so he could fuck your throat exactly how he wanted.

Your vision spotted black—air thin, lungs burning—but your body still answered: throat relaxing on instinct, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft, trying to please even as you choked around him.

He came with a broken groan—deep, guttural—hips jerking forward one last time as the first hot, thick spurt flooded your mouth, salty and bitter, filling your cheeks until you had no choice but to swallow convulsively around him. He moaned loudly, hips stuttering through pulse after pulse, pumping half his release straight down your throat while you gagged and choked, tears pouring faster, saliva and cum bubbling at the corners of your lips.

Then he pulled out.

You coughed, mouth open, as you dry heaved and gasped as the rest of his cum painted your face, one landing on your upper lip, another arcing over the bridge of your nose, a third dripping slowly down your cheekbone to trace the curve of your jaw before falling in a slow droplet down. 

Sunghoon stayed like that for one long heartbeat—cock still in hand, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. Then he exhaled and crouched down in front of you. He balanced on the balls of his feet, forearms resting loosely on his thighs, bringing his face level with yours. Close enough that you could see the faint tremor in his lashes, the way his pupils still hadn’t shrunk back to normal, the way his lips curved into that dangerous smirk you used to dream about.

“I have to leave now,” he said quietly.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

You searched for him—without even realizing it. 

One trembling hand lifted—fingers curling in the air between you like you could physically hold him there. Your voice cracked on the first syllable, raw and hoarse from everything.

“No…” It came out small. Broken. Desperate. “Don’t leave.” The plea hung between you—naked, humiliating, impossible to take back.

The glint in his eyes flared brighter—pupils dilating again like he’d just been handed the most delicious secret in the world.  “Oh, love,” he murmured, reaching out and brushing the pad of his thumb across your cum-streaked cheek, smearing it further instead of wiping it away.

“Still begging me to stay? After everything?” His thumb dragged lower—tracing the swollen curve of your bottom lip, pushing just enough to part it again. “So needy,” he hummed, eyes glittering with manic delight. 

“I’ll be back,” he said—voice dropping to something almost gentle. “I have to go for now. Things to do. Orders to follow. But I’ll be back, love.” He leaned in—forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

He kissed you once—soft this time, almost chaste—lips brushing yours in a ghost of tenderness.

Then he stood.

Took one step back.

And Apparated.

Crack.

You stayed there—kneeling, trembling, face still painted with his release—staring at the empty space where he’d been.

And whispered—barely audible, voice cracked and small—

“Come back…”

Because despite everything—

You still wanted him to.

You didn’t hear from Sunghoon for quite some time.

Weeks bled into months. The castle kept turning—seasons shifting outside the high windows, students cycling through exams and holidays, the Great Hall filling and emptying with the same predictable routine it had held for centuries. You taught your classes with the same measured calm you’d cultivated since taking the post. You graded essays late into the night in your tower office, quill scratching steadily while the fire crackled and Erebus sprawled across the hearthrug like nothing had ever been wrong.

You pretended it didn’t affect you.

You were good at pretending now.

You smiled at McGonagall when she asked if you were sleeping enough. You laughed—light, practiced—at Flitwick’s jokes in the staff room. You answered letters from old Auror colleagues with polite, clipped updates: The students are progressing well. The castle is quiet. You wore high collars and long sleeves even in summer, let the black serpent ring sit cool and silent on your finger, and told yourself repeatedly that the absence was a gift.

Yeah. That dirty Death Eater could rot in whatever dungeon he was lurking in. Probably casting Cruciatus on some poor soul right now. Probably kneeling at Voldemort’s feet, sleeve rolled back, Dark Mark on show while the Dark Lord hissed orders. 

The thought sent goosebumps racing down your spine every single time.

You hated it.

Hated how vivid the image still was: Sunghoon—the boy you once loved now on the other side, wand raised, green light flaring at the tip without hesitation. A student. A Muggle-born. An Auror who got too close. He wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t hesitate. The sweet boy who used to leave notes in the margins of your textbooks, who once spent an entire night teaching you a complicated shielding variation until you got it right—he was gone. Replaced by someone who could torture or kill on command and sleep soundly afterward.

The anxiety spiked without warning.

In the middle of a lesson—mid-sentence—your heart would suddenly lurch, pulse hammering against the base of your throat as though the Dark Mark itself had just flared somewhere nearby. You’d pause, chalk hovering an inch from the blackboard, and force a tight smile when a student asked if you were all right.

“Fine,” you’d say. “Just remembered something.”

You’d turn back to the board and keep writing, hand steady, voice level, while your mind screamed: He’s close enough to him. He could be standing in the same room as Voldemort right now. Breathing the same air. Taking orders. Planning raids. Planning murders.

You told yourself it shouldn’t matter.

He’d chosen.

He’d come back sure, but then vanished again without a backward glance.

So let him rot. Let him kneel. Let him kill.

It wasn’t your problem anymore.

You had classes to teach. Essays to grade. A cat to feed. A life to live that no longer included Sunghoon.

You were fine. Most days you almost believed it….

You knew you had to report it.

Every rational part of you screamed it—loud, insistent, Auror-trained. The moment you’d seen the Dark Mark on his arm, the protocol had flashed through your mind like a memorized oath: Immediate report to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Full description. Last known location. Suspected Animagus form. Threat level: extreme.

You should have gone straight to the Headmaster’s office that very night. Or sent an owl to the Ministry. Or at least write the report yourself.

You should have. But something in you didn’t allow it.

Not when the memory of his mouth on your throat still burned hotter than righteous fury. Not when the serpent ring on your finger pulsed faintly every time you thought his name—like it was still listening, still waiting, still bound to him in ways you couldn’t sever. Not when the thought of him made your chest ache with something too complicated to name as hate.

So you waited.

You told yourself it was strategy. Gathering evidence. Watching for patterns. You told yourself you were protecting the students by keeping him close enough to monitor. Lies, all of them. The truth was simpler and uglier: some part of you still wanted him to come back.

And he did.

One winter night—snow falling thick and silent outside the castle windows—you pushed open your classroom door after curfew, intending to retrieve a forgotten stack of fourth-year essays.

Only to find Sunghoon there.

Leaning casually against your desk, one hip braced on the edge, long black robes pooling around his boots like spilled ink. In his hand: one of your students’ parchments, held up as though he were grading it himself. 

The moment you stepped in he looked up. 

“This one,” he said, voice amused as he tapped the parchment with one long finger, “is failing spectacularly. Can barely string a coherent sentence together. Clearly a mudblood. Talent like this doesn’t come from good breeding.”

The word landed like a slap—casual, cutting, exactly the way he used to speak when he sat with those scummy Slytherins raised with the mind of Salazar Slytherin.

You scowled, already crossing the room with purposeful strides.

“Shut up.” You pulled your wand as you closed the distance, the tip rising until it hovered an inch from his throat.

“Easy, Professor,” he murmured, smirk widening. “I come in peace.”

You didn’t lower the wand. 

He leaned forward anyway, until the tip pressed lightly against the hollow of his throat.

“Do it.” The words came out almost coaxing. Like he was daring a child to jump into deep water. “You’ve got the spell,” he continued, eyes locked on yours. “One word. One flick. Stupefy. Incarcerous. Expelliarmus. Or something nastier—something that would really hurt. You could send me straight to Azkaban. Watch them drag me away in chains. Be the hero everyone already thinks you are.” He tilted his head—just enough that the wand tip slid along the side of his throat, tracing the faint scar there like a lover’s caress. “They’d give you a medal,” he went on, smirk curling sharper. “Order of Merlin, Second Class at least. Maybe even First if you play the tragic card right—tell them how I broke your heart, how I used you, how you still loved me anyway and that’s why it took you so long to turn me in. They’d eat it up. The Ministry loves a redemption story with a body count.”

Your fist clenched tighter around the wand—knuckles bleaching white. The tremor was small, contained, but he saw it. His gaze flicked down for half a heartbeat, then back up, and the smirk turned into something almost gleeful.

“Shaking already?” he teased, voice dropping to that velvet register that used to make you melt in empty corridors. “Not from fear, though…No. You’re scared of what happens if you don’t pull the trigger. Scared of what happens if you do.”

He reached up until his fingers brushed the back of your wand hand, thumb stroking once along your knuckles. “One word and I’m shackled. Dementors waiting. No more midnight visits… No more me...” His eyes searched yours. “But you won’t do it.. Wanna know why? Because deep down you know what happens when I’m gone. You go back to being the perfect professor. The perfect Auror who walked away. The perfect woman who survived me. And every night you’ll lie in bed, wondering why it still feels empty without me.”

Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached into his sleeve. 

And pulled out his own wand. Black ebony. Sleek. Deadly.

He brought it up until the tip rested feather-light against the hollow of your throat, right where your pulse hammered hardest.

“Now we’re even,” he murmured.

The air between you turned electric—two wands, two throats, two heartbeats slamming in dangerous sync.

“Say the word,” he whispered. “End it. Or…”

The spell came before you could think. 

“Depulso!”

A burst of raw force exploded from your wand tip—unfocused, emotional, more instinct than incantation. It slammed into his chest like an invisible fist. Sunghoon flew backward—boots skidding across stone—crashing into the opposite wall hard, then slid down a foot before catching himself, one hand braced on stone, the other still loosely holding his wand.

And laughed. Bright and unhinged—the same delighted sound he used to make when you finally beat him at chess after three hours of silent warfare.

“Damn,” he gasped, rubbing his chest with a grin that showed too many teeth. “There she is.” He pushed off the wall—graceful even when winded—and flicked his wand in a casual arc.

“Expulso!”

You threw yourself sideways; the spell struck the desk instead, splintering wood in a violent spray of shards and ink. You rolled, came up firing.

“Stupefy!”

Red light streaked across the room. He twisted—almost lazily—and deflected it with a casual “Protego.” The spell ricocheted into the ceiling, showering dust and stone chips.

“You hate me,” he called over the crack of magic, voice bright with manic joy. “Say it louder! Let it out!”

“I hate you!” you screamed—voice raw, echoing off stone. “I fucking hate you!”

“More,” he laughed, dodging another Stunner and firing back a jet of purple flame that you barely shielded against. “Tell me how much!”

“Stupefy! Incarcerous!”

Ropes shot from your wand. He sliced them mid-air with a flick—“Diffindo”—then Apparated—crack—reappearing behind you.

You spun—fast—wand already rising.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

He blocked it—wand sparking—and closed the distance in two strides.

“Levicorpus!”

You felt the tug at your ankle, then your body flipped upside down, skirt falling toward your head, wand slipping from shocked fingers. He caught it mid-air with his free hand, twirling it once like a trophy.

You hung suspended—blood rushing to your head, hair cascading downward, heart slamming against your ribs.

He stepped closer, throwing your wand on the ground as he tilted his head to look at you dangling there.

“Still hate me?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” You spat at him.

“Good.”

He flicked his wand.

“Liberacorpus.”

You dropped, crashing onto the stone floor with a grunt. Pain flared through your shoulder, your hip, your knees. You rolled and grabbed your wand from the floor from where he had thrown it.

“Reducto!” The blasting curse exploded against the wall where he’d stood a second earlier. Stone shattered; dust billowed.

He laughed again—bright, breathless—and Apparated behind you.

You spun—wand raised—but he was faster.

His arm locked around your waist from behind—pulling you back against his chest—while his other hand caught your wand wrist, twisting until you dropped it with a hiss of pain.

You thrashed—elbows, heels, nails—fighting like you were drowning and he was the water.

He took it all.

Let you claw at his arms, let you kick backward, let you scream every hateful word you’d swallowed for years. 

“Fuck you—fuck you—I hate you—I hate you—”

He only tightened his hold—chest heaving against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“More,” he growled. “Get it out. All of it.”

You twisted—hard—managed to turn in his grip—and slapped him.

Full force. Across the face.

His head snapped to the side.

A red mark bloomed instantly on his cheek.

He laughed then caught your wrist before you could strike again.

You slapped him with the other hand. Harder.

He caught that one too.

Now both your wrists were pinned between you while you glared up at him, chest heaving.

He looked down at you—cheek red, eyes glittering with something manic and tender all at once.

“What now?” he asked softly. “Going to send me to Azkaban? Let them kiss me with Dementors while you go back to pretending you’re whole?”

Your chest heaved—once, twice—then something inside you finally shattered.

Tears burst free, spilling down your cheeks. “I hate you,” you spat—voice cracking with fury and something darker, something that clawed its way up from the deepest part of you. “I hate you. I hate what you became. I hate that you came back. I hate that I still—”

The sentence fractured—unfinished, unfinishable—because saying it out loud would make it real, would make the love you still carried for him something monstrous and undeniable.

“More,” he growled, low and urgent, eyes blazing. “Get it out! Scream it! Hit me! Curse me! Hate me until you can’t anymore! I want every fucking drop of it!”

You twisted—wild, feral—knees coming up hard toward his groin in a vicious strike meant to cripple.

He barely managed to block it, grunting as your knee grazed his inner thigh instead of landing true. The impact jarred through both of you; his grip on your wrists slipped for half a second.

That was all it took.

You wrenched free, shoved at his chest, trying to get leverage, trying to hurt him the way he’d hurt you for years. He laughed as you fought, nails catching his cheek this time, leaving a fresh scratch under his eye.

“Come on, honey,” he panted—eyes blazing, blood trickling from his nose where your elbow had clipped him earlier, smile manic. “Is that all you can do? Give me everything. Hate me harder. Fight me harder!”

You lunged.

No thought. No plan. Just raw, animal fury.

Your fist connected with his jaw. His head snapped sideways.

You didn’t stop. You hit him again across the same cheek, then the other, back and forth like you were trying to erase him with every strike.

He took it every slap. Every scratch. Every sobbed accusation. He didn’t block. Didn’t retaliate. Just let you pour it out, while his hands stayed loose at his sides.

“More,” he rasped, voice thick with something that sounded almost like pride. “Keep going.”

You screamed furious—and shoved again.

This time he let you.

He stepped back—just enough—and your momentum carried you forward. Your legs gave out beneath you—exhaustion, grief, rage finally winning—and you slid down to your knees in front of him.

The stone was cold.

Your palms slapped against it, trying to hold yourself up, but your arms shook too hard. You collapsed forward—forehead almost touching the floor—sobbing now, great heaving sobs that tore out of your chest like something alive.

He crouched slowly in front of you.

One knee hitting stone. Then the other.

He reached out, fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your face up.

You tried to jerk away.

He didn’t let you.

His face was a mess: lip split, nose bleeding, cheek red and swelling, fresh scratches down his neck and chest. But his eyes were intense. Locked on yours with a focus that made your breath catch.

A small, crooked smile tugged at his bloody mouth.

“Why are you here?” you whispered—voice cracked, small, trembling. “You told me you didn’t love me... You said it was over… You said—”

He sighed—long, slow, almost pained.

“I lied.”

The admission hung between you.

“Why?”

He looked at you for a long moment—really looked—like he was seeing every scar he’d ever left, inside and out.

“Because I was stupid,” he said softly. “Young. Weak. I thought if I broke you enough—if I made you hate me enough—you’d stay away. You’d be safe. You’d never follow me into the dark. You’d live. Without me dragging you down with me.” He laughed once, bitter and full of self-loathing. “It didn’t work.” 

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek.

“You kept breathing. You kept being so fucking perfect it killed me every day not to be with you. Every raid. Every order. Every time I had to kill  someone else so they’d believe I belonged—I thought of you. Of how you’d look at me if you knew..”

He leaned closer—forehead almost touching yours.

“I couldn’t stay away.. So now I have to make sure you stay with me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I have to make up for lost time. I have to make sure you stay safe.”

“Safe?” The word came out choked, incredulous. “With you?” 

“Yes… With me. Because I’m the threat. I’m the one who can keep you alive when the rest of them would kill you just for knowing my name. I’m the one who can stand between you and him. I’m the one who will burn everything down before I let anyone touch you.”

His eyes burned into yours in a terrifying way.

“So hate me,” he whispered. “Fight me. Curse me. Try to kill me. But don’t ever think you’re safer without me. Because you’re not.” 

He leaned in—lips brushing yours in the ghost of a kiss. 

“You’re only safe with me.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, shallow little pants that did nothing to ease the burn behind your ribs. Tears clung to your lashes, blurring him at the edges until he looked almost unreal.

But it was wrong.

The Dark Mark on his forearm stared back at you like an open wound. His chest rose and fell with the same rhythm as yours, and yet he looked at you like you were the only sacred thing left in a world he’d already set on fire.

“You’re still so beautiful when you’re wrecked,” he whispered, “still so fucking perfect. Even after everything… Even when you hate me... Especially when you hate me.”

His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, collecting a tear in the motion. He brought it to his mouth, sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every word. You’re only safe with me. Because anyone else—Ministry, Order, even Dumbledore—they’d use you. They’d put you on a pedestal or in a cage or on a battlefield until there was nothing left. I won’t. I’ll keep you, keep you alive. I’ll keep you mine.”

You wanted to scream at him. To curse him. To tell him he was delusional, dangerous, a monster wearing the face of the boy you once loved.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because part of you believed him.

Believed that in a world where green light waited around every corner, where friends became enemies and trust became a liability, the only place truly safe was in the arms of the man who’d already destroyed you once.

His hand slid to cup your jaw—thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, fingers splaying across your cheek like he was trying to hold every piece of you together.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just asking you to let me stay. Let me protect you. Let me love you the only way I know how...”

The words landed gently this time.

Not like a command. Not like a taunt.

But like a confession he’d carried for years and finally allowed himself to speak aloud.

His grip on your face softened—fingers loosening until they cradled instead of held. The pad of his thumb brushed away the last tear clinging to your lower lash gently, as though he were afraid one wrong touch would shatter you completely. 

You closed your eyes.

And almost—almost—melted against him.

It happened in stages.

First your shoulders dropped—tension bleeding out like ink in water. Then your head tipped forward—just a fraction—until your temple brushed his. Then your hands—still clenched at your sides—unfurled slowly.

He exhaled relieved, like he’d been holding that breath since the day he walked away.

“I’ve got you… I’m here...”

The shift in him was sudden and complete. No more taunts. No more manic edge.

Just careful tenderness.

He kissed your temple, then your closed eyelid. His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, massaging slow circles against your scalp. The other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was no space left between you.

“You’re exhausted. I know. I did this to you. I know.” He rocked you slightly—barely a movement, just enough to soothe—like he was comforting a frightened child instead of the woman he’d broken down over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Not for coming back. Not for wanting you. But for every day you spent thinking you weren’t enough. For every night you cried alone because I made you believe I didn’t care. I cared. Too much. That was the problem.”

His lips found your hairline —kissing softly, like he could press the words into your skin. 

“I thought if I hurt you enough you’d hate me. You’d move on. You’d be safe. But you didn’t hate me. You just… waited. And it tore me apart every single day.” His voice cracked on the last word before he swallowed hard, then pressed his forehead to yours again.

“Let me take care of you. Let me fix what I broke. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg if you want. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll burn the whole fucking world down if it keeps you safe. Just… let me stay.”

You felt it. You felt the last wall inside you—the one you’d rebuilt brick by bloody brick after he walked away—finally crumbled.

You didn’t see the change in his face.

Didn’t see the way his eyes flicked over your expression, reading every softening line, every trembling breath, every tear that slipped free. Didn’t see the victorious grin that spread across his bloody mouth, like a predator finally watching the trap snap shut.

All you felt was the sudden, overwhelming need to close the distance.

Tears still running down your cheeks in hot, silent tracks, you surged up and kissed him. Your hands flew to his face, fingers digging into his jaw, pulling him down as though you could fuse your mouths together permanently. You tasted blood, salt and the faint metallic edge of everything you’d both bled tonight. You kissed him like you were drowning and he was air, like you hated him and loved him and needed him all in the same ragged heartbeat.

He just kissed you back harder.

a/n: HEY thats it for part 2. I was unsure where to end it, but this is good.. i think? Just a warning that part 3 will be VERY ANGSTY! So be prepared ;)

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