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The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and Harry and Dumbledore sat without talking for the longest time yet. The realisation of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow. 

“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”

“That is up to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “We are in King’s Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to . . . let’s say . . . board a train.”

“And where would it take me?”

“On,” said Dumbledore simply.

Silence again. 

“Voldemort’s got the Elder Wand.”

“True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.”

“But you want me to go back?”

“I think,” said Dumbledore, “that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does.” 

Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair. 

Harry released a long, drawn out sigh; the weight of holding the wizarding world settling on his shoulders, a weight that could only be likened to Atlas holding the world aloft. “I’m tired, Professor. So tired.”

Dumbledore rested his palm against Harry’s shoulder with a gentle smile. “Then rest, dear boy. You have earned your rest.” The words were kind but an out of place curiosity danced in his ancient eyes. 

Harry rationalised that he had done his part. He had sacrificed himself to allow the part of Voldemort’s soul that resided within him to be killed as well. The rest would be up to those that remained. He had earned his rest. He had earned his endless days with his family. “We have destroyed all but one of the Horcruxes, only the snake left. The DA all knows; Hermione will handle it… and Ron,” he said as an afterthought. “I’ve had enough battles for a lifetime.” 

“I’m sure Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, and the others can handle the rest.” He gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and then released it, bringing his hands together and lacing his fingers.  

“Will you be coming with me, Professor?”

Dumbledore viewed Harry over his half moon spectacles for a moment and then smiled warmly. “How lovely. Of course, Mr Potter. Do lead the way.”

And thus the owner of the Elder Wand and the Invisibility Cloak walked together into the great beyond. Greeting Death as an old friend, they departed this life as equals.

“You,” said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.” 

It was Narcissa Malfoy that walked towards the late Harry Potter. She held her head high and moved without haste or fear - stoical to the bitter end. She touched Harry’s face, half expecting to feel his jaw jump at the sudden contact, but there was nothing. She pulled open an eyelid and stared into the sparkless depths. Her hand crept beneath the collar of his shirt, down his chest, and felt for his heartbeat His skin was still warm beneath her fingers, but no life beat beneath his ribcage. Harry Potter was dead at last, and with him the final hope for the side of light. 

A wailing Hagrid dutifully carried Harry’s body all the way from the Forbidden Forest and through to the edge of Hogwarts’ grounds. Hagrid’s tears had flown thick and fast, soaking both his own clothes and Harry’s but he was too distraught even to notice. He just kept placing one foot in front of the other, allowing the chains that bound him to direct him.

As their funeral cortege broke from the tree line and onto the open lawns of Hogwarts ground, Voldemort pressed his wand to the side of his throat and began to project his voice across the whole of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade alike.

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in a new world we shall build together.” 

Their procession continued, trudging its way through Hogwarts’ grounds and into the main courtyard. The doors of Hogwarts flung open and the heroes of light spilled into the open expanse that would act as the final meeting point of the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix. 

Screams of grief pierced the air; McGonagall, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny among the first to give voice to their pain. But soon a hundred different voices joined their song of loss. Their cries quickly turned to anger - a mob of vengeful soldiers, bearing their teeth as they prepared to rip into the Death Eaters with tooth and nail if necessary. 

“SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang followed by a flash of bright light as silence was forced upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

The shocked crowd fought against the silencing spell but it held firm. The sight of Harry’s body lying at the Dark Lord’s feet spurned a bitterness within them and in that moment each one of them swore to fight until their final breath. They would never surrender to this tyrant.

Someone broke free from the crowd and charged at Voldemort but moments later the figure hit the ground, disarmed. Voldemort threw the challenger’s wand aside laughing. 

“And who is this?” he asked in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Bellatrix gave a delighted giggle, skipping forwards to stand beside her master. 

“It is Neville Longbottom, my lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists. 

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, but there was no answering cheer from the crowd, Voldemort’s Silencing Charm seemed to hold too well. 

“Very well, if that is your choice, Longbottom. On your head be it.”

Voldemort waved his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end, and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?” He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then forced the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay. 

“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” said Voldemort, and with a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames. Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

And then, many things happened at the same moment. They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the school, as what sounded like hundreds of people came swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. 

At the same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of the castle and yelled, “HAGGER!” His cry was answered by roars from Voldemort’s giants: They ran at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake. 

Then came hooves and the twangs of bows, causing the Death Eaters to break ranks and shout their surprise as arrows started to fall amongst them. 

In one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat fell from his head, and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle — the slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seemed to draw every eye.

With a single stroke, Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall. Voldemort’s mouth opened in a scream of fury that nobody could hear over the roar of the oncoming crowd of clashing giants and stampeding centaurs. And yet the swipe of the silver blade seemed to draw every eye. The heavy body of the Nagini thudded to the ground at the Dark Lord’s feet. 

His anger was swift; the Killing Curse muttered lazily from snake-like lips. Neville was shot down - and everything stopped.

The survivors watched in horror as Neville fell at Voldemort’s feet, lying side by side with Harry; both boys had sacrificed their lives in the aim of defeating the Dark Lord, both born as the seventh month died, the bravest wizards of their age lying at the feet of the Heir of Slytherin. It was a powerful image. 

There was silence amongst the Hogwarts fighters. It was clear now; they all would be cut down one by one. Voldemort had said they were outnumbered - and they were. Even with the appearance of Grawp, Buckbeak, and the Thestrals, they stood no chance against the dark army and everyone knew it.

Moment’s later, the Death Eaters broke from their trance and shot chains from their wands at the still frozen Grawp. The centaurs turned tail and galloped back to the forest; they had known the fate of this day could fall two ways, but they recognised the loss of Neville as the point of no return.

Pleased that the newcomers had been neutralised, the Dark Lord stood before the remaining fighters once again and urged them to see sense.

“The battle is won. No more magical blood need be spilt today. Come kneel before me and embrace the new world. Dumbledore is gone, the chosen one is gone. How many more friends do you need to lose, to see that you have lost? Kneel before me and I shall spare your families; kneel before me and we shall bring peace.”

One pureblood family came forward, dropping to their knees before the Dark Lord, and once one had fallen, more followed. Soon, there were nearly a hundred pureblood people - staff, students, and parents alike - kneeling before the Dark Lord and swearing their fealty. 

There was confusion and betrayal from the half-blood and Muggle-born witches and wizards but some managed to shake themselves from their shock and Disapparate away. Some merely remained frozen to the spot, too shell shocked to even attempt to escape. A few tried to fight, but each was cut down before they could even raise their wand. 

It was obvious now - the world they lived in was no longer the world of Harry Potter; of unicorns, ghosts, and adventure. This was the world of Lord Voldemort now - a world of hatred, blood lust, and power.

When the final revolting witch was forced onto her knees, the Death Eaters released their victory cry and Bellatrix pointed her want to the sky. 

“Morsmordre!” 

A thick black serpent slithered from her wand -more smoke than substance - it slithered into the sky, curled around itself, and transitioned into the dark mark.

Having fought hard and lost many, finally, the second wizarding war was over.

And Voldemort won.

Hermione Granger sat in the dank dungeon - noticing everything, but reacting to nothing. She had remained eerily calm since the events of Harry’s death ten days ago. She assumed it was a disassociation of some form, but she was grateful for it. It allowed her to keep a clear head and to fully absorb everything that had happened thus far; it also allowed her to speculate about what could happen next.

Information on the state of the world hadn’t been easy to acquire, but as captives came and went from the dungeons, she had been able to gather information from a few sources; a stray comment from a guard, a copy of the Daily Prophet left open and unattended, even a Howler once appeared in the dungeon - Alecto Carrow had blushed furiously at the latter, her mother wasn’t best pleased that she now had to pay to kill Mudbloods and blood traitors and her screeching echoed around the chamber like a twisted harmony of hatred. From this evidence she had managed to piece a few things together - none of it good. 

Those purebloods who had supported the Dark Lord’s regiment were living the high life: balls, banquets and the like. Those that hadn’t supported him, but also hadn’t defied him, were sent to take over the jobs that the Death Eaters wouldn’t sully themselves with; but largely the purebloods were free and clear. 

The blood traitors were a mixed bunch — some were pardoned, some were imprisoned, but throughout it all, they were all treated with a modicum of respect. The same could not be said for the half-bloods, and woe betide anyone who treated a Muggle-born as anything more than dirt on the bottom of their shoe. 

The teachers and members of the Order of the Phoenix had been taken somewhere separate but it still left some 75 students, parents, and Hogsmeade residents in the dank Hogwarts dungeon - half-blood or Muggle-born all.

They seemed to be split into three groups. The old, injured, or underage  captives were sent off together three days after the battle. It was suspected that they were being sent to the new ‘Hunting Lodges’ where they would be killed for sport by purebloods and Death Eaters alike. 

The young but inconsequential were sent off about a week after the battle. Their fate had all but been confirmed by a rather smug Rookwood welcoming them to the ‘Labour camps of the future’. Hermione knew from Muggle history what a ‘labour camp’ truly meant, but it rolled off her shoulders like water off a duck’s back, her brain cocooning itself in a blanket of dissociation. It did seem almost poetic in a twisted way that the pureblooded Death Eaters would choose a Muggle form of entrapment for those of Muggle descent. 

The majority of her classmates were being sold at a public auction; it had been emblazoned on the front cover of the Daily Prophet the day Dolohov entered the dungeon to escort the students. The group swayed disproportionately towards the female students and Hermione waited for the sinking feeling to land in her stomach - but the feeling never came. Instead she watched as the people she had lived and studied with most of her teenage years were led away - praying that her darkest suspicions wouldn’t become their reality but certain that they would. 

Apparently Dolohov couldn’t leave without a parting shot. “My famous four. When you get where you’re going you’ll wish we chose you for the camps. Toodles.” With that he turned on his heels, and swept from the dungeon, smirking as he did so. The heavy door banged shut behind him trapping the remaining four students, Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and, of course, Hermione Jean Granger, with only each other and their thoughts.

Hermione sat and contemplated everything for a long time that day. Staring up at the well oiled chains that had been retrieved from Filch’s office and hung from the dungeon’s stone wall - a warning to any that would rebel during their captivity. She thought about her probable fate, and the fate of those around her. Public execution was unlikely, not only did it have more of a chance of rekindling the embers of the rebellion but they would have done it days after the battle not a week. Plus she was sure that Voldemort wouldn’t want to give them a swift death - during an active war, sure, but they were in the adjustment period now and he could take his time to really make them suffer.

Time seemed to slip. The lack of natural light interfered with her circadian rhythm and she wasn’t sure if she had been dreaming of a quick death for ten minutes or an hour. It was only the tally marks scratched into the wall with a rogue nail that let her know they had just entered day ten. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley had begun keeping track of the Death Eater’s shift change the day they landed in the Dungeon but when he was led away on day 7 he had clasped Dean’s hand before he left. This in itself was unusual as Justin and Dean hadn’t been close as far as Hermione knew but as the door shut behind the group Dean opened his hand to show the vail resting on his palm. Dean had then continued to diligently track the changing of the guards as if it was the most important mission of his life. 

Hermione spent her time categorising why each of her classmates had ended up where they had. She was obvious; brains of her trio, most famous Muggleborn of her age, and destroyer of the Locket Horcrux. Dean was also fairly obvious, he had been in the Malfoy’s cellar with Luna and broke out of it. He had made himself too well known to get an easy death. As for Susan…well, not only was she a member of the DA but her aunt being head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement probably didn’t help either. She had a little more difficulty placing Hannah. Then she remembered that Hannah was manning one of the secret tunnels and likely came face to face with a Death Eater and judging by the fact she was still alive, she most probably won. Death Eaters weren’t known for their forgiveness and so Hannah landed in the group right alongside them.

By the tenth day the four of them were in too much shock to speak - all lost in their own worst nightmares of what was to come. The two Hufflepuff girls sat in one corner cradling each other. Susan sniffled quietly as tears poured unabashedly down her face, while Hannah sat with her chin resting on Susan’s head. Her face remained expressionless but the tracks of long dried tears were still visible on her skin even in the low light of the dungeon.

Dean sat alone, glassy eyed and shell shocked. It struck Hermione that she hadn’t seen Seamus Finnigan since the end of the battle. She absentmindedly wondered how the boy would manage without his best friend but when her mind automatically moved to think of Harry and Ron she stopped that thought in its tracks. 

Too painful.

Too emotional.

Disassociation.

Depersonalization. 

Derealization. 

Hermione had maintained her emotionless facade for each of the ten days of captivity. An act of self preservation. Her mind had cocooned her in layers of apathy; she hadn’t cried, screamed, or begged - she simply existed. Taking each step as she reached it. Carefully filing away each thought that could bring her pain internally while externally maintaining a shell of calm composure.

She was deep within her detached dreamland when the distinctive click of the dungeon’s lock rang through the stone chamber. She turned her head just in time to see the door swing open.

Alecto Carrow walked through the door, all long limbs, blonde hair and beauty. The woman had always walked with an air of importance, a sort of natural dominance, but since their unequivocal victory over the fighters of Hogwarts she was now downright, intolerably cocky. 

Crabbe Snr, who had been on duty until this point, took one look at Alecto and scarpered from the room, tripping over his own robe in his haste. The blonde only scoffed, brushed the dust from her robe and closed the door behind her. 

What struck Hermione as odd about the image of the female Carrow twin was the copy of Hogwarts: A History within Alecto’s hands, but she decided not to bring attention to herself and instead she assumed the reason would be explained soon enough - or she would be dead and would no longer care. Mostly, she just wanted to lose herself among the book’s pages. But she dared not even dream of such a thing. Not now. Not with the world the way it was. Now all she could hope for was a quick death. 

Alecto stopped between the door to the dungeon and the thick metal bars of their cell. She visually inspected the four Hogwarts students, drinking them in with her eyes as a sneer ruined what could have been a perfectly beautiful face. As her eyes landed on Susan, she rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“Oh do stop snivelling, half breed…or don’t.” She shrugged. “I would be more than happy to give you something to cry about.” A cold smile broke onto her face as she slid her wand carefully from the sleeve of her robe. 

Hermione knew that Susan had lived through the Carrows’ ‘Dark Arts’ classes. She suspected Susan had been put under the Cruciatus Curse by Alecto’s cruel wand before. But when Susan sat up like she had been shot and wiped the tears from her eyes, the hypothesis became not just plausible but probable.

“Much better,” Alecto cooed sarcastically. “See, isn’t it better when we all act like grown ups.” Her voice was condescending and cold - it spoke of dangers to come.

Alecto then calmly set the book down on a small wooden stool that usually occupied their guard and then - before anyone could so much as breathe - she spun on her heels and cried, “Crucio!”

Susan screamed, convulsing in pain as the curse fired through her body.  Hannah looked down at her flailing friend in horror. A helpless whimper escaped from between her lips, no doubt having realised that she couldn’t do anything for her friend without bringing the same fate down upon herself. She could only watch as still and as silent as she could manage. 

Somehow, in her fit, Susan had bitten down on her own tongue and blood began to pour from her open mouth. Her tongue lolled out and the scarlet liquid began to drip from the tip onto the floor. The group watched in shock - and in Alecto’s case sick satisfaction - as the blood began to pool against the worn stone. The smell of copper permeated the air and Hannah’s hand shot to her mouth as if was going to be sick.

“Stop, please!” shouted Dean as he valiantly jumped to his feet. 

Alecto’s eyes snapped to Dean, holding the glint of a predator within them, and all while maintaining the spell held on Susan.

“Why?” she asked, her head titling like a curious labrador. “Do you want a turn instead?” She carefully finished her spell on Susan, then brought her wand to point squarely at Dean’s chest. 

Dean froze. He didn’t say it but his face broadcasted his feelings about the situation. No, he definitely would not like to take a turn. The two stared at each other for two beats of Hermione’s heart, Dean the rabbit in the headlights, Alecto the oncoming car. Until, after Hermione’s third heart beat, he slowly and cautiously sank back to the floor. He calmly retreated back to his corner, pressing himself back against the wall - never once taking his eyes from Alecto. Likewise, Alecto’s wand followed him the whole way.

Then the Death Eater turned her eyes towards the only person to remain silent throughout the display; Hermione herself.

“Now Mudblood, I expected you to intervene when people are in pain. Do you care for House Elves and Goblins more than your school friends? Or is it simply Miss Bones that you despise?” 

Hermione cleared her throat, silently wished she had water for her parched throat, and then finally looked up at the older witch.  

“We lost, you won,” she said plainly. “Most of my friends have been sent to be worked or hunted to death, and I’m sure there is much worse in store for us. I suspect we will be enduring a Cruciatus at breakfast, a Stinging Jinx at lunch, and an Entrail-Expelling Curse before dinner. Me intervening on this single occasion will not prevent any future punishment; in fact, it is likely to just encourage more violence against the pair of us instead.”

Alecto raised one eyebrow inquisitively. She had been told the Mudblood was a jumped-up, self righteous little thing, too similar to the halfbreed Potter and blood traitor Weasley to exist in the new world. But apparently the witch was clever enough to know the truth about their future or she suspected at least.

“Very good, Mudblood. Very good.” Alecto sounded genuinely impressed, which in and of itself was terrifying. She maintained eye contact with the bushy haired brunette for a beat, the room so silent you could have heard a pin drop, then she turned to face the rest of the captives with a sadistic smile plastered across her face. 

“Your friend here is right. Much worse is coming for you four in particular. Now… I’m going to unlock your cell, and we are all going to use this portkey to move to our next location. If any of you try to make a run for it, the Cruciatus Curse will not be the only unforgivable curse used today. Do you understand?” Her voice was low and threatening. All of the students understood the threat behind her words and they each nodded their heads solemnly. 

Alecto unlocked the cell door with her wand, stepped inside, and then floated the copy of Hogwarts: A History from the stool onto the stone floor of the cell.

“Well... everybody hands in,” She said expectantly. “Surely in your years here they have at least taught you what a Portkey is? Everybody. Touch. The. Book!”

Each of the students swiftly rolled onto their knees and gingerly placed a finger on a corner of the book. Alecto, who wouldn’t be seen dead kneeling, simply placed the tip of her shoe on the book; her heel directly on the back of Hannah’s hand. The girl cried out but wisely made no move to protest against the action.

“In three, two-”

They were pulled away, the magic of the portkey keeping them stuck like glue as they span through space. Hermione had never liked traveling by portkey but it was definitely better than traveling by floo. She was just glad that she didn’t have any food in her stomach.

Finally, they were released from the book and immediately began to hurtle towards the ground. Without their wands, the Hogwarts students were falling uncontrollably, and starting to panic. With no way to soften their landing it was going to hurt. 

In comparison, Alecto simply drifted down from above them, watching gleefully to see who would have the worst landing. 

The students were getting closer and closer to the ground, all but one of them screaming their terror into the air. Hermione, however, was silent. Until, with just a metre or so to go, Hermione screamed, “Arresto Momentum,” and the four students instantly stopped in mid air.

The wandless magic had clearly taken a lot out of the witch, as a single second later they all hit the floor with a bump. But it was a drastically less painful landing than it could have been. 

Alecto landed softly next to them, one eyebrow raised. “Impressive wandless magic, Mudblood. Such a shame it was wasted on you,” she said with a sugary sweet sarcastic sympathy. 

“Anyway,” she gestured with one hand towards Malfoy Manor’s looming shadow. “Welcome to your new home, well for the next ten minutes or so. After that?” She shrugged dismissively, at the same time her eyes closed slightly and she pursed her lips. “Who knows,” she said almost whimsically, as if they were about to go on some epic adventure and not walking to their doom. There was more to Alecto’s tone, though; layered under the words was a sense of triumphant joy with just an edge of a threat. Alecto clearly knew exactly what they were heading into, the reason for it, and the probable outcome of their visit - but she wasn’t likely to share that with teenage delinquents.

Hermione looked up at the oppressive facade of Malfoy Manor. Unlike her last visit to the mansion when she had been forcibly brought to the cursed place, this time they had landed within the gates, mere feet from the imposing double front doors. They were clearly expected.

She inspected the property cynically. Of all the places she could have been brought to, of course it was the ancestral home of Draco Malfoy - and the location of her recent abuse from Bellatrix Lestrange, to boot.

As the five travellers entered the large entrance hall, Alecto’s brother, Amycus, stood waiting for them. With a smile, he took his sister’s arm.

“Ah, my sweet sister, I have been waiting for you,” he said in a voice far too seductive to be comfortably heard between siblings. 

“Not long I hope, brother; after all, the Portkey was used precisely on time,” Alecto all-but-purred back. 

“Be that as it may. Our guests are expected in the main hall.” 

With that the siblings set off, arm in arm, leaving the four teenagers with no choice but to follow. They could have lingered in the entrance hall, but who knew which of the unforgivable curses they would encounter if they did, and that discounted all the spells that should be categorised as ‘unforgivable’ but due to bureaucratic incompetence remained perfectly legal. All that was to say…the four of them moved down the corridor at a brisk pace. 

Hermione felt the scar on her arm tingle, as memories of the last time she was in this house flashed before her eyes; Bellatrix’s brutal torture, their daring escape, and Dobby’s sacrifice. She felt her composure slipping as the memories tugged at her self control, but once again, she took a deep breath and pushed the memories down, filing them to be dealt with when her life was no longer in danger.

Amycus knocked on a door just off the main hallway, and a voice from inside answered, “Come in.” 

Hermione sighed - the voice sounded suspiciously like Lucius Malfoy. 

‘No point dilly dallying now,’ she thought. Then took one more steady breath, and, with a bravery that wasn’t truly her own, she stepped through the door ahead of her peers.

The Manor’s drawing room was exactly as she remembered, a near-black wooden floor flanked on all sides by white marble pillars. The wood panelled walls remained the same, and the colossal fireplace, although now containing no fire, still remained the room’s focal point. The chandelier clearly had yet to be fixed, as the once bright room was now lit by various candles, leaving the far end of the room in almost complete darkness. 

The biggest difference was the small wooden stage that had been constructed just beside the main doorway; it was crudely built and had clearly been erected in a hurry, but it looked solid enough. The item that stood upon the dais had clearly been made by more careful hands than the hastily constructed stage upon which it stood. An intricately carved lectern, covered by filigree, intricate flowers, and even a lifelike portrait of a man who had to be an ancestor of the Malfoy line. Like Magical portraits, the wooden carvings moved although the wizard wouldn't, or couldn't, speak. Behind the lectern stood Lucius Malfoy in robes of deep navy, trimmed with a bright silver that shone so brightly in the dim light that it might have been real silver; knowing the Malfoys it was more likely solid platinum.

Winning the war had done wonders for the man. His terror had been palpable the last time Hermione had entered this room but now it was replaced with a calm control, an almost-smugness. This was a man who knew that he would always come out on top, even if the circumstances looked dire. His blonde hair was once more perfectly styled, there was no trace of stubble upon his face, and the red rings that had lined his eyes only weeks before had been replaced by perfect skin as pale as alabaster. He even had a brand new wand held within his grasp.

The other unmissable difference between this time and the last was the sheer amount of people. Last time she was here, there had only been the Malfoys, Lestrange, and a few snatchers but now, the hall was filled with Death Eaters. There must have been around 50 in total, which was the largest gathering of Death Eaters she had seen outside of the Battle of Hogwarts.  She recognised the Malfoys - obviously - but also Dolohov, Rookwood, Crabbe Snr, and Macnair - the others were unknown to her. 

The various villains and vermin of the Dark Lord’s hordes lounged, maskless, around the large hall. Some sat at the long, banquet style table, others standing in small huddles; a few over-inebriated Death Eaters were simply lying on the floor half unconscious. But Hermione knew there were many more that she couldn’t see due to the low light of the room, but she felt their presence keenly; not only could she hear the murmurs of voices, but the air buzzed with their magic.  

Lucius waved his wand at a gavel, which in turn thudded against the lectern; this triggered Dean to be unceremoniously pushed towards the stage from behind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you lot 1. It is an 18 year old male, Half breed, Gryffindor. I will start the bidding at ten Galleons.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped through the floor as realisation dawned upon her. This was an auction, and they were the lots.

Bids, however, never came for Dean. The room remained nearly silent - or as silent as a room crammed with half drunk Death Eaters could be. Finally, after a few moments, Fenrir Greyback raised his hand, and with a sigh said, “I’ll take it.”

Dean looked first at Fenrir, then to Lucius, and finally at the floor. They all knew what being purchased by Fenrir Grwyback meant; he would be becoming a werewolf, or be eaten by one. He could have fought, but wandless and outnumbered, he never stood a chance. So instead, he simply accepted his fate. Hermione hoped Greyback would eat him quickly.

A masked Death Eater lacky came from the side of the room, clicked a metal collar around Dean’s neck, and handed the connected chain to Fenrir.

The werewolf leaned menacingly into Dean’s personal space, took a deep sniff, and then pulled back with a sadistic glint in his eye. “It has been too long since I ruined a half-breed. Ha!” he guffawed, clearly laughing at Dean's expense. “Maybe you’ll survive long enough to become my type of half breed.” He chuckled to himself, a deep animalistic sound, and then strode out of the room dragging Dean after him by his neck.

Just as Lucius opened his mouth to announce the next lot, Alecto walked onto the stage and whispered into his ear. Malfoy looked mildly annoyed with whatever she was telling him but quickly regained his composed facade.

“Lot 2 will be a pair.” He then added under his breath, “seeing as we can’t separate these two, or they go hysterical.” 

The pair were pushed onto the stage, still clinging to each other; looking for all intent and purposes like a pair of leaves on a branch quivering in a storm’s wind. 
Lucius gave a nearly imperceptible eye roll, took a breath, and continued on with his spiel. 

“Lot 2 is a pair. Both are 18 year old female, halfbreed, Hufflepuff. Of course, as there are two of them, I am expecting at least double the individual asking price for a female. So we shall start the bidding at 25 Galleons.”

The bidding for the girls climbed fast, starting at 25 Galleons but soon rising up to 200. By this point the bidding had slowed, and Lucius was holding off for one last bid before he pounded the gavel. 

This final bid came from the Carrow siblings… in unison.

“222 Galleons from us two for those two.” The creepy monotone delivery was in stark contrast to their previous communication thus far. It sent a flutter of images through Hermione’s mind of each set of twins she had ever seen in a horror movie. It clearly wasn’t just Hermione that was unnerved by the strange duet as even a few of the Death Eaters got cold shivers down their spines. 

No one else seemed to want the cost, as no further bids came.  Hermione pondered if it also had something to do with standing against the Carrow twins and their apparent strange fascination with 2s. 

“Lot 2 sold to the Carrow twins for 222 Galleons,” Lucius announced into the uncomfortable quiet of the room and a flick of his wand sent the gavel pounding a beat against the lectern. 

The girls looked terrified, and Susan started to cry again. Alecto raised her wand, pointed it at Susan, and growled, “I thought we covered what I thought of crying?” 

Susan instantly stopped her wailing although she couldn’t stop the tears from silently streaming from her eyes, or the hiccups that took the place of her bawling. Hannah simply looked vacant, a real life representation of ‘the lights are on but nobody’s home’. She followed where she was led without complaint or commentary - or apparently even awareness. 

After the thick metal collars were placed upon the new slaves’ throats, they were quickly led out the same door through which Dean had disappeared. It closed with a bang and Hermione was keenly aware she was now alone, facing down a room of Death Eaters. But she held her nerve; simply tucked a stray hair behind her ear, straightened her skirt, and then looked up at Lucius expectantly.

This seemed to surprise the elder Malfoy; he had heard far too much about the brazen young witch from his son. The Mudblood who gave as good as she got, and, on one occasion, had even physically assaulted the aforementioned son. This calm witch, who apparently accepted her predicament, was not what he expected at all. He cleared his throat and tried to clear his head.

“And lot 3. Hermione Jean Granger herself. I’m sure you all know, but…it is customary. Lot 3 is female, 18 years old, Gryffindor, Mudblood. Miss Granger was a member of the terrorist organisations; The Golden trio, Dumbledore’s Army, and The Order of The Phoenix. It is said that she is the brightest witch of her age, although as she is a Mudblood, this is likely propaganda. Of course, for a member of the golden three, we are asking for a considerable donation to our Dark Lord. We will be starting at 400 Galleons.”

Shouts came from every direction as the Death Eaters clamoured over each other, all desperate to get their hands on the golden Mudblood. The price increased rapidly, quickly surpassing a thousand Galleons, but the bidding ground to a halt when a sultry - almost bored - voice from the shadowy back of the room called, “Two thousand Galleons.” 

There was a moment of silence, then a few mutters of, “too rich for my blood,” “I wouldn’t pay that much for a Mudblood… even if it is Granger,” and, “those lot have more money than sense."

Hermione felt strangely pleased with herself, and resolutely thought, ‘if I can be tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, I can survive anything this person throws at me’. 

But as the crowds parted to allow her new master to move towards the stage, Hermione’s protective shell of tranquillity shattered. Her breath caught in her throat, and something feral tried to climb out from inside her in her sheer terror at facing her new owner.  

The person who had just bought her, who had paid well above the odds for her, had finally stepped into the light.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione turned to Lucius in terror, sank to her knees, and began to beg for her life.

“Mr Malfoy, no! Please, no! Anyone but her… I’m begging you, anyone but her. I...I could serve you. I could work with your house elves or in your garden or…” Bellatrix was growing closer now and Hermione’s usual keen intellect was failing to provide an appropriate argument for why Lucius should keep her.  “Just please, please not her!”

She had only ever begged once before, in this very room, and that experience with the dark witch had nearly killed her. Hermione knew this time there would be no one to rescue her; no Luna in the basement, no Griphook to corroborate her story, and no Dobby snapping in to whisk them away. She would be left with Bellatrix until her heart gave out or until Bellatrix got bored and killed her - whatever came first. 

Lucius kicked Hermione away from his feet, looking for all intents and purposes like he had been touched by the human embodiment of grime. 

He straightened his robe, looked straight at his sister-in-law, and said, “My darling Bella; she’s all yours.”

Bellatrix looked her brother in law up and down, her top lip curling in disgust. Then thanked him, despite the act of doing so looking like it pained her.

Once more the masked wizards attached the metal collar to the slave’s neck. Once more the chain was handed to the new owner. But this time there was no silent and defeated slave; Hermione fought with everything she had. She pulled, screamed, and sent wandless curses flying at her new mistress. It was, of course, useless. Even without her wand in hand,  Bellatrix could have easily brushed Hermione’s spells aside; but with her wand in hand the curses did nearly nothing to the older witch. Instead, she just gave a little wiggle of pleasure as the remnants of Hermione’s spells traced the topography of her body.

"Oh, tickles! Didn't know you had a thing for tickling, Granger, but, just so you know, I'm not into Knismolagnia."

Eventually, bored of her Mudblood’s screams, Bellatrix sent a sleeping spell towards her new pet. Hermione felt her eyes grow heavy, and - though she fought hard - she fell into a deep sleep. 

Chapter Text

Hermione was woken by a feeling of being watched and despite her best efforts, it was proving difficult to ignore. In her just-woken haze she wondered if she was doing something embarrassing like drooling and that was why one of the Gryffindor girls was watching her. She prayed she hadn’t been caught sucking her thumb in her sleep again; that had taken months to die down in the rumour mill.

She allowed herself another moment of blissful ignorance but she knew she couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer. She rubbed the sleep from the corner of her eyes and allowed her eyes to slowly flutter open.

She was hit by multiple realisations at once. She wasn’t in her dorm room - she wasn’t even at Hogwarts ! Instead she was lying on the thinnest excuse for a mattress that she had ever seen, on the floor of a large, dank cell. 

As her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight she resigned herself to the fact she was still in a dungeon. Now one might think that one dungeon is like another but after spending the last ten days in an overcrowded cell within Hogwarts, Hermione knew that one dungeon is not like every other. Hogwarts dungeons hadn’t been used in decades, if not centuries, and smelled of rot and urine. The only thing which pierced the silence was the relentless dripping of water, a sound which had compounded until it felt like it had punctured clear through her skull.

By comparison the cell she currently lay in was almost homely. The stones were clean, maybe even freshly scrubbed if Hermione was right in her assumptions. The mattress might have been the worst example she had ever seen but at least she had a mattress, she even had a lumpy off-yellow pillow. The bars were a shining silver, no hint of corrosion or rust to be seen and it didn’t smell like someone had recently died there. Luxury. 

As her brain caught up to her body, her memory slotted back into place , and most poignant she remembered the final moments before she succumbed to the sleeping spell. She was now owned by one Madam Bellatrix Lestrange - the very same woman that, Hermione now realised, was staring down at her from outside the cell with an intensity that bordered on insanity. 

Somehow Bellatrix was seated on a stone shelf far higher than Hermione thought possible to clamber onto, especially in those heeled boots that Lestrange wore. She sat with one foot pulled up on the ledge with her arms wound around her bent knee and her chin resting atop her joined hands, her other leg dangling freely off the edge of the shelf. She looked almost like an eagle keeping watch from on high - either that or a teenage boy up to something he shouldn't be. 

“Good morning, pet,” The villainess cooed with faux affection. “Sleep well?”

Hermione had no idea the appropriate etiquette when it came to addressing one’s owner - this was an unprecedented situation after all. So she simply looked at the floor and muttered, “I was under a sleeping spell - of course I slept well.”

Bellatrix released a single barking laugh. “Ha! Your words have bite, Mudblood, but your inability to look me in the eyes doesn’t back it up.” 

Hermione bristled at the words and her Gryffindor's bravery surged in response. She refused to let herself be branded a coward after everything she had been through. She lifted her head and stared daggers at the woman. Despite herself, she couldn’t deny there was a hypnotic quality to the woman’s dark eyes. Perhaps it was that this woman was undeniably a predator, and as her prey Hermione must keep observing her to ensure she was kept at a safe distance…or maybe it was just that Hermione was a sucker for a nice pair of eyes and, despite everything, she had to admit that Bellatrix did have beautiful eyes - albeit with a manic gleam within them. 

“That’s better,” Lestrange praised. “Now. Come here and let me see you.”

The hysteria that had appeared at the auction reared its head once more and Hermione found herself creeping towards a breakdown. 

"Please, please don't make me do this," she begged, her throat threatening to close in her panic. Then, as if a switch had been flipped within her mind, it ended. Her mind cleared, and her throat relaxed. She quirked her brow towards her hairline in challenge. "You can't,” she said with a smile. “You can't make me do anything. I refuse!"

A red painted lip twisted into a slow, sadistic smile. “On the contrary, dear one , I can make you do anything .” Her voice was low and measured but retained the feline threat of a jaguar. 

“I can make you do it with pain.” The curved wand came within view, twirling in an almost-mesmerising way between lithe fingers - fingers with talons of jet black polish. 

“Or I can make you do it with an Imperius.” The wand stopped its dance, coming instead to rest in her upturned palm, tip pointing directly at Hermione. 

“But…” The wand was moving again, this time coming to rest clasped between Bellatrix’s hands, tip pointed to the floor. “I’m betting you don’t want to experience that on your first day. So I say again… come here, and let me look at you.” It was a command, yes, but not one uttered with a domineering tone. Not a demand, no, more a calm instruction, a change to see reason… albeit with just a hint of a threat.

In response; Hermione took another of her steadying deep breaths, carefully got to her feet, and cautiously walked towards Bellatrix. When she reached the cell door Bellatrix raised her wand and the bars between them dissipated into the air as if they had been made of smoke turned solid. Not even for a second did Hermione think of running; she knew it would be a waste of brain power to even consider the notion - she wouldn’t make it past the staircase.

As she crossed the narrowing distance between herself and the dark witch, the weight of the anticipation somehow seemed to stretch the distance like a never ending corridor in a dream - each step took her physically closer but mentally further away from the waiting witch. 

She had a strange realisation as she crossed the liminal space. She was more scared to face Lestrange than she had ever been of Voldemort. At least with the ‘Dark Lord’ she had been promised a quick death; he wasn’t one to play with his food. But Bellatrix? Their first meeting at Malfoy Manor had been a lesson in the depths of depravity that a human soul could reach, of how much pain one person could inflict upon another, and of just how little Hermione’s life meant to Bellatrix.

She didn’t know what her future here would look like but she was sure of one thing - whatever it was would introduce her to a whole new circle of hell, one that she had never experienced before. 

Yet, still she moved across the warping space towards Bellatrix.

“There’s a good Mudblood,” Bellatrix all-but-purred. “If you can listen and obey me, then we will get along perfectly.” Her words sounded sincere and despite the bias from previous experience Hermione found herself believing the dark witch.

“I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to.” 

This declaration shocked the young Gryffindor, but it also helped her keep one foot moving in front of the other; Bellatrix wouldn’t hurt her unless she gave her reason to. ‘ Good to know…if she’s telling the truth’ , she thought.

Once more the cruel smile appeared upon Bellatrix’s plump lips as she hopped down from her perch and onto the floor - landing spectacularly gracefully considering she was in heeled boots.

“Or maybe,” said the dark witch, her voice a schadenfreudian fantasy in motion, “I just wanted you to come closer so that I got a better view.” The curved wand once more pointed at Hermione as the curse was screamed with vitriol. “Crucio!”

Hermione dropped like a dead weight; her head made a sickening crack as it snapped against the stone floor and she screamed her throat raw as she thrashed atop the damp brickwork. 

The pain was just as bad as she remembered it:

White hot pokers caressed every inch of her flesh.
Her bones snapped into pieces only to reform and break again.
Each joint popped from its socket as if she was pulled taut on a wrack. 

The pain was all psychosomatic, of course, but Bellatrix didn’t need to injure her to hurt her. A Muggle hospital may not be able to diagnose the root cause of the issue but the pain was as real to Hermione as the injuries themselves would be.

After what felt like forever, but was actually no more than a few seconds, Bellatrix lifted her wand and the pain dissipated completely. The dark witch then released an honest to god squeal of delight, followed immediately by her signature cackle. 

The sound alone filled Hermione with a righteous anger and, being a Gryffindor, she could wield it well. It was a bad decision, and she knew it, but after ten days of imprisonment she was fed up with holding her tongue. Hermione’s self control had snapped.

“You psycho! You actually enjoy seeing people in pain, don’t you? I don’t know if you were dropped on your head as a child, but there is something seriously wrong with you!”

Bellatrix pouted, in an act far too immature for her advancing years, then spoke in the baby voice she had become known for. “Oh, she wants to play, little bitty bratty Muddy!!”

Just as quickly as the juvenile facade appeared it disappeared. Her lip curled into a snarl and her eyes became as hard as stone. “Bad decision, Granger, very bad decision. Imperio!”

The fury that had consumed Hermione melted away and instead she felt herself wrapped in a warm cloak of calm. For the first time in a long time she felt genuinely content and happy. She closed her eyes and sank into the feeling of safety and security. But she recognised this feeling, remembered it somehow, and a voice, a very very faint voice, urged her to fight it.

‘ Don’t give in. Don’t let her have power over your mind. Fight her, Hermione!’

‘But why? It doesn’t hurt anymore,’ Hermione thought back dreamily.

‘ Because, brainbox, you know what this is and that it will cause nothing but trouble. We practised this with Moody, you can break free of her control. ’

A sultry voice joined the fray, whispering gentle encouragement. ‘ Just give in, pet. Such a clever girl. You know it will hurt less this way. Just let me take the reins. ’

‘Yes…hurt less,’ Hermione replied, lulled by the velvet brush of the new voice.

‘No! Fight it!’ cried the voice of her subconscious, a voice that grew dimmer with each word.

‘ Let me take it from here, sweetling. It won’t hurt any longer. No grief, no pain, only pleasure. ’

‘Please,’ keened Hermione and the protesting voice was silenced once more.

‘Open your eyes,’ the soothing voice commanded and Hermione obeyed.

Bellatrix had crossed the remaining distance between them and now loomed before her, mere inches away, so close that Hermione could touch her if she wanted to. 

“Now, Muddy… I do not want to keep you in this condition. It is no fun for you, and it is certainly no fun for me.” 

Lestrange’s voice was like a gentle lullaby to Hermione - soothing and calm. She knew everything would be okay; all she had to do was follow instructions and all would be well.  

“But for now…” 

The sharp edge of Bellatrix’s fingernail scratched under Hermione’s chin, directing her to gaze into the dark pools that were Bellatrix’s eyes. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat and she briefly wondered if this was how sailors felt before navigating their boats into the shallows at the whims of the Sirens.

“Come to me, Mudslut. Kneel at my feet.”

Hermione instantly, unquestioningly did as she was told and sank to the floor in front of Bellatrix.

“Very good,” Lestrange praised, her voice sounding like honey to a spell-drunk Hermione. “Now, knees further apart.” 

Hermione compiled, spreading her legs obscenely wide, watching carefully for any hint of approval in the witch’s face.

“That’s it; show me why I bought you. I want you with your hands on your knees, palms facing up and most importantly keep your eyes on the floor. You will not look at me unless I tell you.”

Bellatrix looked down at the young witch below her; the picture of virginal innocence. She noted that Hermione had changed a lot since their first meeting in the department of mysteries. Even then the girl was not a ‘child,’ aged just 16 but with the skill and aptitude of a much older witch. 

Now she was a woman, nearly 19 and ripe for the picking. Not only had the war forced her to mature mentally but she now looked like a woman; the angular line of her jaw, the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts.

‘You’re no better than our father,’ a voice in Bella’s mind said.

‘Oh really,’ she drawled, ‘and why is that?’

‘ Because he married us off to the highest bidder and yet you still bought her! ’

‘It’s not the same. She is nothing but scum. I was a Lady of the most ancient and noble house of Black, eldest daughter of Cygus and Druella Black, oldest pureblood wizarding family in the United Kingdoms. She deserves it, she’s just a Mudblood.’

‘And we were just a woman ,’ the voice needled.

Bella scoffed and pushed the arguing voice within her mind aside; she had better things to do than argue with her inner child about the ethics of slavery. 

“Very good, Mudslut,” she praised. “You are to kneel like this whenever you see me from now on, unless you are given instructions to the contrary. But for now,” she paused for a moment, raised one eyebrow almost as if in challenge, then continued. “Kiss my boot.”

She held out one beautiful black ankle boot - all swooping lines and cloth-top buttons. The boot was burnished to a smooth finish, the subtle shine reflecting the dancing light of the candles. Hermione, still spell-drunk with Bellatrix’s voice whispering encouragement within her mind - well, she had no other desire than to taste the leather on her tongue.

Placing her weight on her hands, she dipped her head and placed a kiss to the pointed tip of the boot and a pleased rumble emanated from her chest in response. The leather felt waxy against her tongue, and the dust that clung to the polished surface gave it an earthy note, but altogether it didn't really taste like much. The most poignant thing for Hermione was the pleasant silver-grey and blood-red glow that seemed to surround her body but simultaneously appeared within her own mind. It felt like the sound of Bellatrix’s voice, that calming but fiery control that she was wielding with the spell. It felt like the sound of her praise.

“There's a good little Muddy, such a very good girl,” Bellatrix crooned, her throat already thick with desire.

Hermione was wrong, it felt like a diluted version of her praise - the real thing was so much better. Hearing the praise caused something within Hermione’s chest to relax, something that had been wound tight for as long as she could remember. The words caressed her skin like the warm embrace of slipping into a bath; safe, warm, and content. She continued to pepper kisses across the boot for an indeterminate amount of time - then Bellatrix lifted the curse. 

An indignant shriek escaped Hermione as she retained full possession of your faculties - this sent Bellatrix into a cackle of glee. The Gryffindor spat the lingering taste of leather and shoe polish from her mouth out onto the floor  - which apparently was just too much as the dark witch fell about laughing. But the longer Bellatrix’s mockery continued the more the younger witch’s blood began to boil. 

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to berate her captor - milliseconds from sending her words flying - a stark thought brought her plans to a screeching halt. If she argued, Bellatrix would undoubtedly just force her to do something infinitely more humiliating.

She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, a rat in a trap, a Mudblood in a pureblood world. She had no choice. So, instead, she bit back her retort. Settled back on her knees with her butt resting on her heels. Carefully placed her hands on her knees, palms up, and dutifully looked down at the floor. All the while silently cursing her owner to the deepest level of hell.

Bellatrix slowly circled the witch, admiring her impressive memory and specificity at replicating what she had just been taught. The girl was capable of further arching her back and truly sinking into her hips but overall her posture wasn’t horrendous - at the very least it was correctable.

“What a good little Mudpup. So cute, trying to please her mistress.” 

Bellatrix allowed her nails to slide through Hermione’s hair and gently scratched at her scalp. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth as she watched the Mudblood’s eyes close in pleasure. 

“Are you hoping if you’re good I won’t make you kiss my boots again?”

She then removed her hand, stepped behind the girl and bent down to bring her lips to Hermione’s ear.

“Or are you hoping that I will let you kiss them again?” she purred, her voice itself almost attempting to seduce the kneeling witch.

What surprised the dark witch - and Hermione for that matter - was the deep flush that chased its way across Hermione’s body. It started on her face but quickly migrated across her neck and chest until her entire upper body was tinged pink. 

Bellatrix thought, ‘well that was unexpected, but a welcome surprise. Perhaps this won’t take as long as I thought.’

Everything within Bellatrix screamed at her to take the witch then and there on the cold stone floor. She wanted to rip the disgusting uniform from her body, to grasp a fistfull of bushy hair, and take her from behind like a bitch in heat. The girl’s cries would echo around the space as she fought to contain the sounds of pleasure that Bella could coax from her. 

But then she remembered that the girl had been sitting in a dungeon for the past ten days and touching her before she had bathed didn’t appeal…. Plus she had a plan. And despite being renowned for doing things just because, she had promised herself she would play the long game for this prize. 

Bellatrix jumped into Hermione’s mind, eager to gain new information from the girl herself.

Hermione’s thought process however, was far from delighted. ‘Why do I want to do that again? She can’t be right. No…No. It must just be the lingering effects of the spell. It’s just the spell.’

‘ But it didn’t feel like that after Moody did it ,’ rationalised the voice of Hermione’s subconscious.

Hermione faltered, her thoughts stuttering to a stop. ‘ Well he… I…’

Bellatrix finally lost her battle to retain her laughter and her cackle rang throughout the dungeon. Watching the Mudblood fighting with her own mind about her desires was proving to be the best entertainment since the battle of Hogwarts. The dark witch took a step back and, with an almost disinterested wave of her hand, the bars of the cell rematerialised.

“I’ll leave you to think on it. I’m done with you today,” Bellatrix said dismissively. “I might come and see you again tomorrow, but if I hear a peep from you tonight...” She didn’t need to finish the warning: Hermione could read the subtext. 

“If you try to escape, cry, or keep me up in any way tonight, I will lock these dungeons and leave you to rot . Do you understand?” Each word was venom coated in saccharine sweetness, the threat irrefutable.

Hermione nodded her understanding but terror kept her rooted to the spot; she didn’t want to risk triggering Lestrange’s ire. Instead, she listened to the ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’ of heeled boots against the stone floor until finally, with an audible click, the dungeon door locked, leaving Hermione alone once more. 

Trembling, she slumped sideways until she was sitting on her butt with her knees pulled up to her chest. The forced calm that she had been clinging to had left the room with Bellatrix and icy dread began to spread through her body once more. 

She had been in Lestrange’s presence for scantly more than five minutes and she had already suffered two thirds of the Unforgivable Curses. The reality of her situation hit her like a slap to the face. 

‘ She couldn’t do me a favour and use the lethal one and end this…’ Hermione grumbled to herself. ‘ She had to make it as painful and humiliating as she could. ’

She had forgotten just how painful the Cruciatus curse was: she rationalised it was her brain trying to relieve her of the worst of the trauma, but being put under its potent barbarism once again brought it all flooding back. Upon reflection, however, she decided that she held a deeper hatred for the Imperius curse

The Cruciatus Curse hurt with an unimaginable pain, but once the spell was lifted the pain was gone. It left no lasting impact upon the body. Though the mental strain of dealing with torture didn’t dissipate so easily. 

But the Imperius curse had left her feeling violated. The sanctity of her mind intruded upon. If Hermione Granger valued one thing above all else was her mind, her cleverness, her brain’s complete control over her body. Now? Someone else had literally controlled her actions and that thought alone made her skin crawl.

But the worst part of the whole encounter was the lingering guilt and so much disgust towards herself. She had kissed the dark witch’s boots. The woman had tortured her and her friends, killed Sirius, made baby Neville an orphan-by-proxy, and Hermione felt sick to her stomach about the whole situation. But the cause of that guilt and the fear she betrayed her friends that burrowed beneath her skin stemmed from more than the act of kneeling itself.

There was a part of herself that had enjoyed it in some twisted way. It had sent a thrill down her spine and a tingling in her stomach - a tingling that had turned to lead in Bellatrix’s absence. She vowed to do everything within her power to ensure she never experienced the complicated emotions of the Imperius curse ever again. 

The enjoyment of the act wasn’t a complete surprise to the young bookworm. She had, after all, had a thing for authority figures. The earliest crush she could remember was her maths teacher in her last year of primary school, but she was quickly beaten out of the top spot by McGonagall the year after, and of course Gilderoy Lockhart had charmed his way into her heart for a very brief portion of her second year at Hogwarts. 

But despite all that she never would have thought she possessed the ability to be turned on by being tortured and humiliated by the Dark Lord’s right hand, the selfsame woman that had carved into her flesh only weeks before, cursing the wound to never heal, leaving her branded a Mudblood for all she came across. 

As her calm facade slipped from her fragile grip, she dashed away the tear that was attempting to form in her eye, refusing to allow herself to break - not yet. She knew if she allowed herself to continue to ruminate on the issue that she would drive herself mad - and she was not inclined help her captor out on that front.

So instead, she walked back towards the thing that just about qualified as a mattress, lay down, and tried to think of ways to keep busy that didn’t involve spiraling in a quick descent to insanity.

She took stock of her situation - no wand, no books, no library, and she wasn’t even wearing her own clothes! She had been thrown a spare uniform at some point during her stay in the Hogwarts dungeons when the guard decided to round up and burn all the muggle clothes. She was relieved that they hadn’t been left naked in the cold stone chamber but still these clothes didn’t fit her very well and she missed the comfort of her worn-in jeans. She could still feel the wind chill against her bare skin from her tumble through the air all those hours ago with the portkey.

That was it! They had taken her wand but they hadn’t put any containment on her innate magic. She had managed to wandlessly cast Arresto Momentum so maybe she could manage other spells wandlessly. She had mastered a few wandless spells at school, where she was well fed, safe and comfortable, although she had never really tested them in the field, but having saved her classmates from turning into human pancakes…well she had hope. She refused to linger on the belief that more complex magic could be produced in life or death situations - it simply wasn’t helpful right now. Plus she was cold and dreadfully bored: she had nothing to lose from trying. 

Her first thought was to attempt her beloved Bluebells Flames, if she managed it she could stay warm without risk of being burned. She had never tried to produce the small blue flames wandlessly but she could cast the spell wordlessly and had done so for many years now. She crossed her fingers that her familiarity with the spell would assist her with her wandless attempt.

They had been taught back in first year that the wand and incantation don’t make the magic, that is pulled from the casters innate magic, they simply give focus and clear direction for the user to channel their magic through. As witches got more comfortable with using magic they could remove the incantation and instead use their own focus to harness their magic; this usually started in sixth year but Hermione had been creating her Bluebell Flames nonverbally since the first year.

Some witches and wizards had mastered wandless magic but it was a rare and dangerous skill. Even casters such as Dumbledore, Voldemort, and even Bellatrix still preferred to use their wands for casting. Technically wandless magic wasn’t even taught at Hogwarts, but Hermione had ‘checked out’, that is to say stolen from the restricted section with the use of the invisibility cloak, a book on the skill from Hogwarts library during her sixth year. Well, what did anyone expect her to do while everyone else was taking their first jelly-legged steps into nonverbal magic?

She had only really mastered one wandless spell but honestly it was the most important in her mind - Accio Wand. It had proven itself invaluable during the Battle of Hogwarts. She had stopped using the incantation to cast the pretty blue flames pretty early on in her first year but it seemed logical to use it now. If she couldn’t use her wand to channel her magic then using the spell to direct her magic was the next best thing.

“Caeruleus Campana Flammae!” Nothing.  

She rolled her shoulders, shook out her arms. “Come on Granger, you’ve done this a thousand times…just do it without a wand.”

It took over an hour of trial and error to produce a flicker of flames but that was all she needed to affirm her determination. She could do this and she would do it! 

She had quickly discovered that without her wand she had to become more physical, using her body as a conduit. She started by tracing the wand movement with her wrist, then her arm, but it was when she stood and moved her hips with the movement that the sparks began to appear. 

She continued experimenting until she was practically dancing around her cell but finally, finally, she conjured the bright blue flames. She scooped the flames into her palm - grateful that the bluebell flames wouldn’t harm the charmer - and held them close to her heart. She was grateful for the heat and relieved to know that she hadn’t just wasted an hour and a half of her time - not that there was anything else to do in the dungeon.

She placed the flames near the centre of her cell, just far enough away from her mattress that it couldn’t accidentally set it alight - the flames could still burn material afterall. She wished she had her small glass jar to contain the flame in but for now she was relieved to have the warmth. 

Upon looking at the mattress in question it became abundantly clear that it too needed attention. She was tired from the last hour of attempted casting but the flames flickering before her sparked her resolution. She moved once more, swaying her body and feeling the magic caress her skin as it moved through her - repeating the charm until she got it right.

“Molliare.”

A laugh of relief bubbled up from within her as the mattress before her puffed up to double its size. It had taken around 30 minutes this time round but she finally had a soft, warm, and relatively comfortable, place to sleep. If only she had been given something to eat then she could have had a relatively good night's sleep. Her body ached but her magical core was buzzing, vibrating, tingling under her skin. Usually after complex or traditionally difficult spells her magical core would feel depleted, as if the spell itself had sapped the very magic from within her, but this time it felt like she had become one with her magic working together instead of against each other. 

The lingering fear, however, was the small drainage hole in the corner of the cell. She suspected its use, and she would not allow herself to be debased like that - even if she did desperately need to use the bathroom. At least at Hogwarts the Death Eaters had escorted them to the bathrooms in small groups; she felt like a toddler being walked to the toilet by her teacher…but at least it involved a stall and real toilet paper.

Almost as if the thought itself had triggered the occurrence, a small pop signalled a house-elf Apparating into her cell. She was not dressed in filthy rags like most house-elves Hermione had seen. Instead her outfit was spotless - definitely made from a tea towel, but spotless nonetheless. Somewhere in the back of Hermione’s mind a voice quipped that Lestrange treated her elf better than she treated people. 

The house-elf placed a small bowl of some kind of stew and an equally small cup of water, both of which looked huge in her tiny hands, on the floor in front of Hermione. Her stomach growled non the less, and if she had been hydrated enough to drool she would have.

The elf straightened up and then began to speak in a raspy but unusually high voice, even for a house-elf. “Mistress told Leesey ensure prisoner use restroom. Leesey must ask prisoner not escape. Mistress would punish Leesey…” Then added almost as an afterthought, “and prisoner.”

Not escape? At this point she would do cartwheels, eat a red hot chilli pepper, and get an answer wrong on a test if necessary. She was desperate for a toilet - one that wasn’t a hole in the floor - she couldn’t even consider escape. Plus if she tried to run, the food before her would surely disappear and that thought pained her nearly as much as the hunger pangs themselves.

She eagerly nodded her agreement to the elf’s terms and the elf clicked her fingers causing both the gate to the cell and the main dungeon  to open. 

“This way, following Leesey.” 

Hermione got to her feet and followed the elf out of the cell - now glaringly aware of the fullness of her bladder. While she had been busy she had been blissfully - or at least willfully - ignorant, but since the idea of a bathroom had been presented it was as if all the liquid in her body suddenly made its way to her bladder like a tidal wave. Each step up on the staircase was a lesson in bladder control as she squeezed her thighs together and prayed she made it to the bathroom in one piece. She had been humiliated enough today without wetting herself thank you very much.

Luckily, it turned out the bathroom was just outside the dungeon door -clearly placed there for the Dungeon Masters of times gone by - but Hermione was relieved to know she would at least have a shred of human decency aimed towards her - even if it was just not peeing down a drain.

Once she had been returned to her room - feeling about ten pounds lighter - she all but ran back to her cell, threw herself down on the mattress, and practically inhaled the food. It wasn’t much, a meagre portion of a plain vegetable stew, but after ten days of surviving on the Death Eaters’ leftovers and nine months living off mushrooms and the occasional fish…well the stew felt like a feast. 

She was also logical enough to know that, after so many days without proper nutrition, if she ate too much right off the bat that she could make herself ill. So, despite the fact she wasn’t quite full, she was content. 

She carefully sipped at the glass of water, until that too had been finished. Then, as she gave a loud yawn, she realised - tired, fed, semi-warm, and comfortable she may actually be able to sleep. The food had warmed her in a way that the fire never could and despite the fact that she was laying down to sleep in a dungeon owned by the Bellatrix Lestrange she felt more relaxed than she had since the Battle of Hogwarts. 

“Leesey will leave now. If prisoner needs restroom during the night, call,  and Leesey will come,” the elf said in a very formal tone but one that held just an edge of care.

“Thank you for everything, Leesey,” Hermione replied, grateful but sleepy.

Leesey bristled slightly, unaccustomed to hearing praise from prisoners but still, she bowed slightly and with a pop she disappeared.

Hermione, however, was asleep before the elf had even left the room.

Chapter Text

“Wakey wakey, little witch.” The words, whispered directly into Hermione’s ear, combined with the way the dark curls tickled her check, quickly woke the younger witch from her slumber. 

As she opened her eyes - noticeably quicker than she had the previous morning -  all she could see were the top of her captor’s dark curls. In her surprise at the witch's close proximity, she sat up like a shot. Bellatrix had been expecting it and moved with her, though still narrowly avoiding being hit by Hermione’s head.

Having only woken up in the dungeon twice, Hermione didn’t intrinsically know where she was upon waking yet - not the way she did at Hogwarts. It would still take time for her to become accustomed to this new way of living. Still her heart wasn’t beating quite as fast as it had the day before and that in and of itself was progress. 

Bellatrix took a step back, carefully observing her new toy; half of her wished she would drop to her knees in submission, the other hoped for the exact opposite. If the younger witch did drop to her knees it would indicate that breaking her in would be a simpler task than Bellatrix expected. However, if she instead released her sharp tongue upon Bellatrix again…well, punishing the thing for disobedience would be just as much fun. 

She was nearly 100% sure of the outcome but she had vowed to herself she would not influence the witch in either direction - if only because it couldn’t work as an appropriate litmus test if the results were biased. To Bella’s utter surprise - and only slight annoyance - the witch before her rolled off the mattress and knelt with perfect poise.

“Well, well, Mudbaby. Looks like you are just as quick at learning as I was told.”

Bella watched the girl for a moment more before huffing out a breath in annoyance. “I’m going to level with you, I did not expect this.”   She gestured towards the kneeling figure, her hand erratically waggled up and down as if the movement itself could communicate what her words had left out. “You have rendered my previous plans useless.” 

She began to circle the bookworm, a near perfect replica of her steps the night before, inspecting her as if she were a very interesting bit of dirt on her shoe. 

“I mean…I could still Crucio you.. You know, just for the fun of it. But you’ve taken all the sparkle out of it,” she said with a pout, crossing her arms across her chest and looking the perfect image of a petulant teenager. 

Then her mood changed on a dime, the disappointment replaced by an optimistic excitement. “Oh well, I’m sure I can think of something else. In the meantime though…” 

Her voice took on a near perfect replication of McGonagall - tone, accent, even the pursed lips were perfectly replicated. “Please explain to me, Miss Granger, how you have produced, not only a fire, but what appears to be an entirely new bed… without a wand?”

Hermione began to lift her head to answer but stopped at the last second. After a lifetime of making eye contact during conversations, breaking that habit was proving surprisingly difficult.

“I used wandless magic. It took me about two hours but it stopped me being bored and I managed to make my cell warm and a bit more comfortable and,” she was rambling.

Bellatrix’s hand moved like a striking snake, grasping the girl’s chin between her fingers. She applied just enough pressure to tilt the younger girl’s eye line to align with her. The thing looked like a startled bird, eyes wide and watery, her pulse jumping underneath Bella’s hand. The girl was filled with so much rebellion, so much bravado but beneath it all - fear. Unadulterated fear. And that fear fed the beast that lived within Bella. A beast that demanded to be feared, worshipped and revered.

Hermione had thought telling the truth would save her, but, from the feral look in Lestrange’s eyes…clearly not. The dark witch began to speak once more but she sounded sane . Her tone was quiet, controlled, and the threat, without the usual theatricalities, chilled Hermione to the bone. An insane Bellatrix Lestrange was predictable. A sane Bellatrix Lestrange? Not so much. 

“Do not lie to me, Mudblood. How did you acquire these things? Did my house-elf extend too much hospitality?”

“No, no I promise!” she pleaded, terrified but still more scared for the elf’s welfare than her own.“I did it myself; I used wandless magic. I wouldn’t lie to you…” Her words became a sardonic laugh. “I’m not stupid.” Then, in a voice encapsulated with defeated sincerity, she added. “Plus I’m sure you have some way of knowing if I’m lying.”

Bellatrix paused and carefully considered her captive for a moment. She released the mudblood’s chin and wrapped her hand around its throat instead - the pressure a threat in and of itself.

“I will believe you… but only because, in a once in a lifetime event, you are correct. I would know if you were lying.”

A moment later a smile broke onto her face and she subsequently released Hermione’s throat. The young witch couldn’t believe her eyes when the woman began to jump up and down in childlike glee, her hands producing a flurry of clapping and her eyes alight with excitement. 

“I’ve got a game for us to play, Muddy! Wait here.” 

She sprinted through a door at the far side of the dungeon that opened up into a combined potionstore room and wine cellar. It was the perfect temperature below ground to preserve both the wine and the potions…and to keep prisoners just a little too cold to be comfortable. 

Bellatrix spotted the potion she was looking for in quick order, despite the fact the vial was nearly as small as a thimble. She stepped back into the dungeon, pleased to see that the girl was still kneeling where she left it. Then, flicking her wand from its holster and into her hand, she conjured a small table, two chairs, and two empty goblets to appear in the cell.

“Come, Muddy, sit with me. Let’s at least pretend you can be civilised.” 

Hermione rose to her feet, bristling with irritation but refusing to rise to the bait. She sat herself on the closest chair, although she felt rather uncomfortable with the whole thing; she half expected Bellatrix to transfigure the chair once she sat on it - perhaps into a dog bed or if she was feeling particularly evil a cage. 

Bellatrix likewise lowered herself onto the remaining chair, although she made the whole affair look more graceful than Hermione ever could have managed. She crossed her legs at the knees and tucked her toes behind her calf, giving her legs the impression of two entwined serpents. Her curved wand twirled between her fingers and Hermione struggled to draw her eyes away from its arching tip. 

“We are going to play a game, Mudslut . It is called two lies and a truth. I am sure you are not quite dim-witted enough to misunderstand but, for ease, I shall explain.” 

Bella leant forwards, resting her elbows against the table, and setting her chin against her entwined fingers - staring so intently at her victim that she almost felt she could see into the young witch’s soul. 

“We will each state two lies and, of course, one truth. I will guess which of your statements I believe to be the truth and, if I guess correctly, then you must take a sip of this,” she held up the small bottle she had collected earlier. “This, pet, is Veritaserum. A most powerful truth potion indeed. Once the potion takes effect you will answer six questions of my choosing. Then you will guess which of my statements is the truth and if somehow you guess correctly then I will answer one question of your choice.”

Hermione took a breath, ready to complain about the injustice but an image from the night before flickered into her mind. She didn’t wish to end up kissing those leather boots again. So, instead, she flushed pink and held her tongue...again. 

Bellatrix, however, correctly guessed Hermione’s unvoiced question. “Why do I get six questions and you get one?” 

There was no malice behind her words, in fact she explained it calmly and semi-rationally. “Simple. I am the Mistress, and you are the slave.” 

Her voice took on an almost self sacrificing lilt, speaking as if she were doing Hermione a kindness for choice of rules. “But if you take issue with that arrangement then I don’t have to reward you with a question; I could simply punish you if you get it wrong. So do be a dear and withhold your complaints.”

Once more her mood flipped; she sat up straight and pointed her wand directly at Hermione’s heart. “Get thinking, pet,” the words were almost hissed this time, a clear warning to comply. 

Hermione nodded stiffly and rifled through her brain for something to tell the dark witch. Ideally something that wouldn’t leave her on the back foot, embarrassed, or exposed. She felt her face flush a deep maroon as she absentmindedly produced exactly the wrong kind of thought. 

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow but did not push the issue, which came as a great surprise to Hermione, but she didn’t want to push her luck. 

She tried valiantly to push the thought from her mind but the more she tried not to think of it the clearer the image became in her mind - a scene that had infected her dreams and plagued her waking thoughts. It hadn’t been a long dream but the scene had repeated on a loop the entire time she had slept.

Hermione stood beside a plush bed, larger than any she had ever seen. She stared down at a version of herself, lying flat across the black silk sheets. 

Her hands were tied above her head and not a single piece of clothing remained on her body. At the time, Hermione had been aware she was dreaming - had even remembered the term ‘lucid dreaming’ - but, despite that clarity, she still had no control over how her dream had progressed.

She watched her dream self look down between her parted thighs; the dark witch looked straight back at her, a wicked grin spread across her face. Both Hermiones watched in shock as Bellatrix’s hand made its way slowly towards the version tied to the bed. The taloned hand landed on her knee, but quickly began to slide up Hermione’s thigh. 

Soon Lestrange’s knuckles brushed softly through trimmed curls and both Hermiones gasped at the bolt of pleasure that shot through them at the touch. The voyeuristic Hermione brought her hand between her thighs, as if checking that there wasn’t actually something brushing against her - there wasn’t.

Spurred on by the gasp, the exploring fingers grazed against Hermione’s clit, causing her spine to arch. 

Hermione shuddered as the feeling mirrored in her own body and she watched intently to see what happened next.

“Hmm,” Bellatrix hummed in a satisfied manner. “That’s it,” she cooed. “Such a good girl.” She brought her fingers to her mouth, making a show of swirling her tongue around the digits. Then she positioned her fingers between Hermione’s thighs once more. The eye contact between the two was electric; the house could have been set aflame around them yet still they would only have eyes for each other. 

Despite her reservations about the dark witch, she had to admit the words had an effect. Desire pooled low in her tummy and she gripped the edges of her skirt between her fingers in an attempt to keep her hands to herself. 

With one quick thrust both fingers were enveloped in Hermione’s slick warmth. The young bookworm groaned, then began worrying her lip between her teeth. 

Likewise a similar sound was pulled from Hermione’s lips as her knees buckled just slightly. 

“Don’t bite your lip!” Lestrange warned. “Or I’ll bite it for you, but I'll make it bleed,” she continued, eyes blown wide with arousal. 

“Fuuuck!” Hermione moaned as she released her lip. “Please,” she begged helplessly.

The standing Hermione reached out to the wall behind her for support. She had never heard herself sound so wanton, the sound of her own cries made her clench around nothing, whilst somehow still feeling the phantom fingers within her.

“What do you want, pet?” The enchantress asked, her fingers motionless within her young lover. 

“Please!” Hermione tried again, this time desperate. 

One perfectly manicured black eyebrow arched towards crazed curls. 

Hermione relented instantly. “Please fuck me!” 

“With pleasure,” came the gleefully satisfied reply. 

The fingers within Hermione began to move. There was no buildup, no time to get accustomed to the feeling; instead, they moved frantically. At the deepest point of each thrust, the fingers pressed against Hermione’s G spot, and at the shallowest point, a thumb traced a rough circle against her clit. 

Hermione let out a keening sound, as her breath became shallow. She could feel the fabric of her bra scratch against her taut nipples and fought valiantly to ignore the effect the scene before her had on her body.

It was a combination that both Hermiones were folly to fight against and the sounds that fell from their lips were damn near sinful.  

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” she cried, fighting hard not to close her eyes. 

“God. Oh. Flip. Merlin !” 

“That’s it, Muddy, let me hear you. Let everyone hear exactly what you let me do to you,” the voice was a perfect blend of mocking and victorious; matched with the degrading words it was exactly what Hermione needed to hear.

“I’m… I’m… fuck … I’m gonna,” Hermione stuttered, fighting hard for each word.

“No. No. No. Oh God! Ohhhhhh,” she mewled, head thrown back in pleasure.

“Oh, I know,” came the domineering response. 

Bellatrix brought her other hand between Hermione’s legs and began to draw consistent circles across her clit with two fingers. Just as Hermione’s breath started to stutter, Bella gripped the bundle of nerves between her nails and pinched hard.

“ MISTRESS! AH, FUCK! YES!” Hermione wailed as she hurtled into her climax. 

“Oh sweet mother of…” Hermione’s eyes closed and she released a near-silent scream of pleasure as she too came spectacularly.

And then the dream ended. 

Hermione had never been instructed to call her ‘Mistress’ but Bellatrix had referred to herself as such. It was nothing but an educated guess that the title would please the older woman; and despite her better judgement, she did want to please the older woman. With the sound of her own voice screaming the honorific still ringing in her ears, she threw caution to the wind. “I believe I am prepared, Mistress.”

One manicured brow quirked towards Bellatrix’s hairline and a subtle pout gave way to a smirk that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “Well, well, well, it would appear that little Muddy does know how to address her betters. Who knew?”

The dark witch tilted her head forward, eyes peeking out beneath the brow-darkened stare as a manic and yet childlike smile sparked to life on her face. It gave her an intimidating and almost unsettling appearance, and yet it spoke of nothing but control and authority. Hermione found the look altogether ill-boding but also…sexy as hell. “Say it again,” Bellatrix challenged. 

A blush tinged Hermione’s cheeks pink; somehow, repeating the moniker was harder than when she had first uttered it. But the butterflies in her stomach weren’t from nerves. Something inside the young bookworm wanted to call the dark witch ‘Mistress,’ - wanted everything that came with the title. Hermione knew she should be afraid for her life. After all, this woman had tortured her, tortured the Longbottoms into madness , killed Sirius, Dobby, and her own niece Tonks, plus countless other atrocities - too many to even think about. But somehow none of that mattered. 

She rationalised it was survival instincts, keeping her captor happy and content to protect her own life - placating the dark enchantress only to save herself from a worse fate. And yet…when Bellatrix looked at her with a hunger unlike any that had ever been shown towards her, a look that said she wanted to possess, consume, and claim the girl, it filled Hermione with a longing that she didn’t want to think too hard about. 

“Yes, Mistress,” she replied dutifully, forcing herself to ignore the way her gut twisted in pleasure as she said it. 

Bellatrix hummed, her eyes closing in pleasure and her nostrils flared in triumph. Then she opened her eyes, fixing Hermione with a look that could melt steel. “Such a good girl,” she cooed. “You might survive till the end of the week after all. Now… game. You can go first.” 

Hermione nodded and schooled her face into what she hoped was impassive but the truth was that the words had the same effect on her as they had in the dream. She could feel the dampness in her underwear and the fluttering in her stomach. She could try to deny it all she wanted but her body betrayed her. She wanted the witch in a way that wasn’t logical and it certainly didn’t say much for her self preservation. But she couldn’t linger too long on the thought, she had a game to play.

“1. I received an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on my potions O.W.L. 2. I had a rabbit called Belle growing up. 3. I am gifted in divination.”

“Oh, interesting, interesting. 1. I set my dorm on fire in 5th year. 2. I received 11 ‘Outstanding’ on my N.E.W.T.s. And 3. I tortured my first human in my 2nd year. Shall we deliberate?” she asked. Hermione nodded her agreement. 

Hermione and Bellatrix both let the statements replay in their minds, weighing up the probability of each statement against how willing the other was to reveal information about themselves. Eventually Hermione was down to a 50/50. She knew Bellatrix had received 12 outstanding Newts, as it was her who held the current Hogwarts record that Hermione had wanted to beat. The other two would simply be guesses. 

She thought it sounded much more plausible for Bellatrix to have set her dorm on fire; after all, Seamus had done the same on more than one occasion and she hoped with all her heart that the witch before her hadn’t started torturing others at 12. But, she also knew this witch wanted her to lose and that in itself was as much of a clue as anything else. 

“Mistress? I think I have an answer.”

“We shall see, pet, we shall see. I hope for your sake that you’re right but it is going to be so delicious when you fail. Give me your answer. Which do you think was the truth?”

“I think… I think that you started torturing in your second year.” The young witch held her breath, and hoped she was right. Although, she was quietly confident that she had worked out the right answer; after all, she had beaten Snape’s logic puzzle in first year. 

“Consider me impressed, Muddy. I have to admit I never expected to actually have to answer a question myself. But an agreement is an agreement and you shall get your question. But first…my turn. I think that you are much too smart, and detail oriented, to have allowed yourself to receive anything less than an ‘Outstanding’ on your OWLs.”

Despite coming from the dark witch, the praise made Hermione’s chest swell with pride and a small smile to twist the corner of her lip. Maybe she really was the world’s biggest teacher's pet after all. But the lingering resentment of her abysmal DADA O.W.L. result still lingered in the furthest corners of her mind. 

“Know-it-alls and Divination do not often go together, Divination is not something you can learn from a book. I also do not believe that you and that drunkard Trelawney would ever see eye to eye. I never had her myself but I think you would have a better chance at learning from Binns than from her…and he’s been dead for a century.” 

Hermione found herself strangely mesmerised as Lestrange talked; she was animated and her hands moved nearly constantly as she explained her reasoning. It was almost like she was seeing another side to the Bellatrix - the school aged Bellatrix perhaps.

“I also fail to see why you would tell me that your childhood pet and I shared a name… It would not curry my favour, nor impress me - true or not. In fact, if it was a lie I might think you were likening me to a bunny rabbit,” her nose scrunched up as if she was smelling something rather unpleasant, “which I emphatically deny...so logically, in respect to your survival, this must be the truth.”

Hermione nodded, equal parts impressed and apprehensive. The dark witch had gotten a crystal clear read on her and done so with a frightening quickness. If she had been nervous before for the questions she would have to answer, now she was petrified. She knew the answers she was now beholden to would be of a much more specific and personal manner then she had expected moments ago. Bellatrix’s critical thinking surpassed even Hermione’s high expectations of the previous brightest witch. 

Bellatrix herself looked like the cat that caught the canary, apparently so excited to have won their game that she had forgotten that she had also lost. With a victorious wave of her wand, the two glasses filled with a sparkling amber liquid. She popped the cork on the vial of Veritaserum and carefully poured a single drop into Hermione’s glass. 

“Drink up, Muddy, I’m so very excited to hear your dirty little secrets.” 

Hermione took a deep breath, then looked down at her glass with determination. She waited a single heartbeat and then grasping the glass stem she knocked back the bubbly liquid, pleased to recognise the comforting taste of Butterbeer. 

“Let us begin,” Bellatrix whispered sultrily - a wicked glint appearing in her eyes. 

“Question one. When you blushed so beautifully a few minutes ago…what were you thinking about?”

Hermione swallowed thickly. She knew she was royally fucked before she even opened her mouth. The Veritaserum was already coursing through her body and she knew she had no chance to fight against it.

“I…” The moment of hesitation was the last she would experience for at least the next ten minutes, maybe even the next ten hours depending on how potently Bellatrix has brewed the potion. 

“I had a dream last night - about you and me. We were in bed together, I was tied to the headboard and you made me orgasm.”

The words spilled out of her mouth before she had consciously allowed them to, each word adding to her mortification. A blush of deep shame appeared on her face and finally understood just how potent Veritaserum was. 

Bellatrix’s eyebrows raised in curiosity. ‘ This really could be a lot simpler than I expected ,’ she thought. It had only been three days, two unforgivable curses, and one drop of Veritaserum and the girl was practically ready to fall into her bed, but not yet. Patience would lead to a more fulfilling outcome long term - even if the idea of waiting made Bella want to curse every living soul within a 100 mile radius. 

“Oh. Little Mudblood’s having lesbian fantasies about the big bad death eater? Your mind is as filthy as your blood, Mudslut.” She smiled coldly. “Don’t worry I’m sure we can make use of those dreams, my dear,” she assured Hermione but each word was more patronising than the last. 

Hermione wasn’t worrying about her dreams going unfulfilled, she was worried about them being overused and exploited. Not that it mattered, her free will had been checked at the door and she didn’t think she would be getting it back any time soon.

“Question two, on the theme of your beautiful blushes… you turned a delightful shade of pink when I suggested that you enjoyed kissing my boots. Did you enjoy it?”

Hermione wished she could sink through the floor as her mouth opened and said, “Yes, I did.”

“Oh, you are such a good girl,” she mocked. “Aww, did you get your perfect prefect panties wet for me?” she probed. There was a cruel smile on her lips as she watched as Hermione’s blush traversed her skin. 

Once more the answer slipped from between Hermione’s lips before she could stop them. But unlike the last two questions she added a caveat that she definitely hadn’t been planning on saying; It seemed the longer the Veritaserum was in her system the stronger it became - and the less she was able to keep her thoughts to herself. “Yes, a bit like now, Mistress.”

Bellatrix cackled. Standing from her seat, she once again circled her prey. “You really are a little teacher’s pet!” She smiled as she watched as her words brought goose bumps to Hermione’s skin.

“Tell me, little witch, - question four - would you be a good little whore for your mistress if in return I gave you my praise and affirmations?” 

Hermione clamped her hand to her mouth to stop the words but even through her fingers it was easily interpreted. “Yes. I want to please you. I would do nearly anything if you asked it of me.”

Bella could have jumped for joy - she nearly did - the witch she wanted to break was apparently halfway there. The girl was not only coercible but willing ! It felt nearly too good to be true. But Bella had learned never to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“What a perfect little pet. Let me think…” She tapped her finger against her chin almost contemplatively.  “Oh I know! At night, when you thought everyone was asleep, and you closed the curtains of your doom room bed, slipped your hand beneath the covers and touched yourself…did you think of me? Me, pinning you to the floor of Malfoy Manor. Me, marking you as my own.” 

Her words were a sinful whisper, giving voice to the darkest desires that Hermione had tried to deny even to herself. Somehow Bellatrix knew exactly what questions to ask to most embarrass her - knew just how she ticked.

By now Hermione knew it was useless to stop the inevitable and simply answered as if on auto pilot. “Yes, Mistress.” Her voice was monotonous and emotionless as she sank into her shame.

Hermione swore she would take the Crucio a thousand times - take it for hours on end - take it and be grateful. The Imperio had been bad enough, Bellatrix had assumed she had enjoyed kissing her boots but was not sure. Now? Now the Veritaserum had revealed all her secrets. Every single one of them. She knew going forward, that there was no way she would be able to stop the sexual nature this relationship was taking. And there was still one question left with which Bellatrix could further crack her open to inspect her squishy insides.

A cruel smile appeared on Bellatrix’s face but excitement burned behind her eyes and Hermione’s heart almost froze in her chest from the fear but her adrenaline kept it beating.

“Now, Miss Granger, before I let you ask your question. I believe I have just one left. I guess I better make it a good one.”

She walked back around to face Hermione, before draping herself against the table, resting her chin on her hand and staring dark orbs directly into Hermione’s hazel ones. “Are you a virgin?”

Hermione hung her head, unable to admit the words whilst still looking into those bottomless eyes. She whispered. “Yes.”

“Lucky me!” Bellatrix squealed. “It’s like Yule in July! What a lucky witch I am!” She sat herself back on her chair, taking a deep sip of her own Butterbeer in celebration.

She suddenly became business-like. “Now, pet, it is time for you to ask your question. Remember you only have one.” She even held up one finger to emphasise her point. “So make it count! I promise I will answer honestly. After all, you have spilled all of your secrets…” She smirked.

Hermione thought for a moment, a thousand questions floating round her head, none exactly what she wanted to know. But she took a steadying breath, looked into those dark orbs which flickered with intrigue and asked the only question that she needed but feared the answer to. “Is there any way I can earn my freedom?”

Bellatrix pulled a small blade from her cleavage and Hermione thought she had asked the wrong question and was about to be shown just how thoroughly she was owned. However, it appeared that this was just an absent-minded habit and the dark witch began picking the dirt from under her nails with the blade.

“I’m afraid, Muddy, that those chances are slim to none. You may, however, earn my favour and be allowed free reign of the house. If you listen to my instructions, and follow them without question, then I see no reason that you cannot regain some of your personal freedoms as the years go by. But no, little witch, you will never be free.”

Hermione nodded soberly. At least now she knew the full breadth of the situation. It wasn’t the answer she had wanted but it was something tangible. She had felt adrift in the open sea, tossed and pulled by the ebb and flow of the current but Bellatrix had thrown her a lifeline. She just needed to decide if she was brave enough to take it. 

Pulled from everything she had ever known. Each tether connecting her to her life severed. Each comfort she had relied upon ripped from her hands. Without friends, family, teachers, or even books to rely on. What did she have left to anchor her?

Who was 'The Brightest Witch of her age' without education?

Who was 'The Golden Girl' without Harry Potter?

Who was 'Hermione Granger' when all she loved had burnt to ash?

She may be on her own in the world of her enemies but she didn’t have to be alone. She could allow herself to grasp the opportunity she had been given with both hands…at least until a better one came along. 

She would be Hermione ‘Muddy’ Granger, Bellatrix’s perfect plaything. She would be amenable to all interactions, obey every command. She would be perfect. She wouldn’t fight. It was going to happen either way, but maybe she could earn small amounts of freedom and with that, some small amounts of her old self, and all she had to do was play along in Bellatrix’s games. And if she was honest with herself, the idea wasn’t putting her off as much as it really should be.  

Bellatrix had observed the other witch throughout her silence. The girl was thinking so hard that Bella could almost see the cogs turning in her mind. Her brows had knit together and there was a furrow between them that Bella wanted to trace with her tongue. She looked almost like she had been put under a Petrificus Totalus. The only signs of life were the miniscule twitch of the tip of her right index finger against her thigh and her eyes flickering from left to right - although Bella suspected she didn’t see anything at all, too lost in thought. Then all at once she came back to life. There was presence in her eyes again, and her chest began to rise and fall normally with her breath. 

“I never truly thought I could gain my freedom, but I had to ask. Thank you for your honesty. I will do all I can to earn your trust and your respect, Mistress.” 

The girl looked defeated but behind her eyes the determination that burned there had changed, changing from a flame into an inferno and Bella knew that not only was her girl going to survive, but she was going to thrive. She just needed a little more breaking in first. 

“Mudblood, I am going to say something. It isn’t technically a question so I think you should be able to refrain from speaking. I was only promised six questions so in the interest of playing by the rules of my game… If you choose not to answer, I will leave you for the night and I will not push you further. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress, I understand,” Hermione replied automatically, while her brain buzzed as it tried to predict what was about to happen. 

“You have been a very good, Mudslut. I would like to reward you. Based on your answers I believe a good choice would be by letting you kiss my boots.”

The blush that had begun to ebb returned with fervour and a fire began in Hermione’s belly. She hated to admit it but she wanted that. She wanted a reward for having done a good job. And, despite it all, she had gotten a thrill from the degradation of the action. The actual leather against her tongue had been surprisingly neutral for the witch, but the societal implications? The hierarchy of it all? That had an impact. 

But would that be setting a bad precedent for herself going forwards? Was she submitting herself too easily? She had decided to follow all commands but this wasn’t a command. Was accepting this out of personal desire rather than strictly survival? Hermione sat overthinking for a long moment, weighing up her desire to drop to her knees against the debt she owed to her friends. 

The thing stayed silent for so long that Bellatrix took her silence as refusal. She stood from the table, and began to move towards the door. Their game was over - for today at least.

“I will leave you be. Good night, little witch.”

The flash of disappointment on those aristocratic features made Hermione’s stomach twist with guilt. It was too much. She had been clinging to the disappointment she imagined her friends would feel if they knew of her coalescence to her situation, but the live and in person disappointment before her tipped the scales for Hermione. Tears pricked behind her eyes and she threw herself on the floor at Bella’s feet, legs apart, palms up, head down. The perfect image of a good submissive.

“No wait!” she cried. “I wasn’t saying no! I was deciding.” With a sardonic laugh she continued. “I was having an argument within my own head.” 

“And you waited until I was leaving to make the decision?” Bellatrix asked, her arms crossing over her chest, and one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised.

“Please, please let me do it, Mistress. Please…. I can’t bear to disappoint anyone.” The last sentence came out with a slight sob.

The admission stopped Bella in her tracks. The girl was visibly upset about the thought of upsetting her, of disappointing her. ‘Interesting’.

“Very well.” Bellatrix replied, her tone clipped but victory sparking in her heart. She walked slowly back towards the table, her hips swinging with every step. She didn’t need to rush - she had won. The Mudblood was following the plan perfectly, even if she didn’t know it yet. She pulled the chair away from the table, and sank down onto it. 

“Come to me,” she instructed, her voice low and almost silky smooth.

Hermione knew already that she would be expected to crawl, knew it without having to be reminded. She brushed her hands off on her skirt in a nervous fashion and then began to move on hands and knees towards her Mistress. She kept her eyes cast down even when she reached Bellatrix’s feet.

“Look at me,” came the command. 

As if Hermione could ever disobey that command. Bellatrix had the most beautiful eyes. Her iris was nearly the same jet black of her pupils - nearly but not quite. Instead they were the colour of a rich dark chocolate, a colour that shifted depending on the light and Hermione had been fascinated by her eyes since they had stared her down at Malfoy Manor. But it was not the colour of Lestrange’s eyes that held her captive, it was the intensity. They say the eyes are the window to the soul and Bellatrix’s eyes were intelligent, all consuming - alive .

Bellatrix gripped Hermione’s chin between her thumb and index finger, but her nails didn’t dig in this time which Hermione was grateful for. Instead the contact felt more grounding. There was still an underlying threat to the contact - there always was - but the overwhelming current stemmed from comfort, protection, pride. 

“You have done well, my little bookworm. You have made me proud tonight, and for that you will get your reward.”

Bellatrix slowly lifted the layers of her skirts, revealing calf-high leather boots with more buttons than Hermione could count. Then the skirts kept moving, lifting higher, exposing toned, stocking clad legs and powerful milk-pale thighs. Hermione watched enraptured as the skirts were lifted enough for her to see a pair of black lace underwear which left little to the imagination. 

Hermione gasped, her eyes fixed to the damp spot of the lace, right above Bellatrix’s core. Her body reacted in turn, her stomach twisting itself into knots and the dampness in her own underwear increasing. All the while her thoughts screamed at her to resist. 

‘ Shit, shit, shit! This is going to really land me in trouble now. ’

But then, she rationalised, what more trouble could she really get herself in? She was already kneeling, legs spread, staring at the underwear of the Dark Lord’s most faithful. She might as well enjoy it, instead of keeping herself in a state of perpetual guilt and fear of judgement from people who might already be dead.

“Eyes on me, pet,” Bellatrix chuckled.  The sound was rich and dark, it dripped down Hermione’s throat like honey - syrupy sweet with just a hint of smokey pine.

“You may begin as you wish, Muddy. You will maintain eye contact; the moment you drop your gaze I will leave.” It was clear in her voice there would be no leeway on this instruction.

Hermione swallowed. Blinked twice. Set her eye line on Bellatrix and released a shaky breath. Using her peripheral vision she reached for the leather clad foot and gently lifted it to her lip. She placed a kiss to the tip of the boot, and then followed it up with a slow brush of her tongue. Her skin began to heat up, the humiliation of the situation scratching an itch she never knew needed scratching.

Her enjoyment didn’t come from a foot or boot fetish. No, instead it stemmed from the position of absolute submission. There was a small part of Hermione that wanted to be treated as less than human, as nothing but a tool for someone else’s pleasure, and it was finally happening - albeit in a less consensual way than she had ever desired. 

Perhaps it was years of bullying and being looked down at because of her parentage, or maybe it was simply just because it was hot. She had snuck muggle smut into Hogwarts, after all, enchanting the covers to appear as something much less scandalous - most often Hogwarts: A History. The books she chose were always dark romances of abduction, mob bosses, or power imbalances - things she had fantasised about but had never truly wanted to become true. 

Still, she had been trying to find herself someone even a little kinky in the wizarding world from the moment she had come of age - turns out who she was looking for worked for the dark side the whole time. If only Bellatrix would hold her after their encounters, or did anything other than leave her shivering on the dungeon floor. Still, Bellatrix was the closest thing to a friend she had now, Harry was dead, and Ron… She didn’t want to think about Ron. 

The situation had almost allowed Hermione to fall into a contemplative calm, viewing her situation not through a lense of anxiety but more a logical consideration of her situation. The languid movement of her tongue across the leather allowed her to fall away from herself and into the furthest reaches of her mind. Her body, however, still knew exactly what was happening, even if Hermione herself wasn’t consciously aware of it. Hermione was wet, and the longer she lathed the leather with her tongue the wetter she became. It was only when the ache in her core demanded attention that Hermione began to reconnect with her body. Her hips began to grind towards the floor, seeking relief but she found no resistance, nothing to soothe the ache. 

Bellatrix eyed the young witch below her with awe. Here was the straight laced, buttoned up know-it-all, literally grinding on the floor at her feet. It was a beautiful sight to behold and Bellatrix felt her own underwear dampen further, her arousal spilling onto the tops of her thighs.

“That’s a good pup. You look so pretty like this - so wet that you can’t even think straight. If only I gave you something to grind against, you might just burst into flames at my feet. Don’t worry, sweet girl, I’ll take care of you. Poor little mindless slut - has to follow instructions even if it means degrading yourself in the process. Oh, the things I could do to you.”

Hermione groaned - fighting hard to keep her eyes trained on the ones staring intently back down at her. She was so turned on that it was nearly painful, her pulse rushed through her clit with every beat as if her very heart was trying to direct her to the area in need of attention. 

It was as if Lestrange had somehow triggered every neuron responsible for pleasure to fire within her brain. Her skin tingled. Her muscled clenches. And a cold sweat had accumulated on her back. 

“Merlin, look at you!” Bellatrix cackled. “So desperate for me to make that ache go away - to touch you. I could make you cum so beautifully for me. But I won’t. Why would I debase myself like that? Especially, when you’re humping the air like some animal in heat.” Her lips twisted in disgust but then softened as if she had just thought of a new idea. 

She leant forwards, placing her right elbow against the closest knee, then folded her hand over, and rested her chin on the back of her hand. She looked down at the witch before her - the witch still valiantly maintaining eye contact - and considered her for a moment. 

““Will you permit me to cast one more spell on you? It will hurt a little...but consider it an experiment of sorts. I have a hypothesis that I cannot confirm without more evidentiary support. If my suspicions are correct then you will enjoy the process. Since you are so… inexperienced ,” her tongue curled around the word in a way that made it clear Hermione’s inexperience was nothing but a turn on to the dark witch. “I will ask your permission, just this once.” 

Hermione released the boot from her mouth, and dumbly stared up at the dark witch. At this point, she literally had nothing to lose. If she said no the witch would probably curse her instead, and make it really hurt. At least this way it would only hurt ‘a little’. Plus, she had just decided to agree to any and all requests from Bellatrix; repersonification was on the line and Hermione wanted out of the dungeon desperately…she was bored if nothing else. She swallowed once, then looked back up at Bellatrix and nodded her consent. 

“Hmmmm, Bellatrix hummed, “good girl.” 

She let her skirts drop from where they had bunched around her waist, standing gracefully as she did so, and moved towards the empty space on the other side of the cell. 

“Listen carefully, pet. Lie down on your back with your eyes closed.” Her voice had taken on a soft edge, almost hypnotic, and it was a stark but welcome change. Hermione rolled from her knees onto her back and lay flat on the floor with her hands resting atop her stomach. 

“Now, I want you to take a series of deep breaths. Allow them to relax your body; I want you to find ‘zen’. Then, when you are ready, simply nod your head and I will begin. It will hurt, but, I promise, it will not hurt as much as you expect.” 

Her heels clicked against the stone floor as she moved closer, and though her eyes were closed Hermione knew the witch was now standing directly beside her. 

“When the pain starts I want you to open your eyes and look only at me. I want you to watch my face. Here is what I want you to remind yourself if it is getting too much: it gives me great pleasure to cause you pain. I expect you to take everything I give you, because it pleases me, and that should please you. Do you understand?” 

The air was charged, and this experiment felt like a tipping point in their relationship - the most important step in their relationship so far. 

“I understand,” Hermione confirmed. Her heart pounded out a rhythm in her chest, but she still kept her eyes closed, blindly trusting the dark witch despite their past.    

“Now, breathe ,” Bellatrix instructed in an elongated whisper.

They remained like that for a long time, both simply breathing together as they tried to control their matching heart rates. As time passed, Hermione relaxed - although it was only due to the concentrated effort to body scan, forcibly tensing and then relaxing each section of her body at a time - her heart slowed to a normal rhythm, and her breathing evened out too. With an awkward smile, she spoke. “I’m ready now.”

“Good.” Bellatrix nodded sharply. “Remember, once the spell is cast I want you to hold eye contact with me. I want to hurt you, muddy, and I want you to let me. Use that to guide your thoughts through the pain. Deep breath, and… C rucio !”

In the split second before the spell hit her, Hermione was crushed. The fragile trust they had begun to form was broken in an instant. Bellatrix said it would hurt ‘a little’, but each and every time she had been put under the brutal force of this spell before, it had been pure agony - pain like she had never even imagined before.

But her thoughts of betrayal lasted just as long as it took the spell to actually hit her. It hurt, yes, but it was not the all consuming, burning agony that she had expected. In fact it flirted with the definition of the word ‘pain’ ; it was closer to - but not quite - pleasure - certainly closer than Hermione had ever thought possible from the spell. To her great surprise it was pushing her further into a realm of pleasure than it was a realm of pain. She knew she had been wound up by the deadly combination of humiliation and praise from Bella, but she hadn’t realised just how close to the edge she was. 

Then Hermione remembered to open her eyes. Her eyelids snapped open to be greeted by two black holes staring back at her. Bellatrix’s pupils had nearly completely taken over her eyes, two coal black pools of desire, vindictive pleasure, and control. Hermione felt pulled towards them, the inescapable gravity of Bellatrix’s gaze demanding that Hermione submit everything she had, everything she was, everything she would ever be, all to feed the beast that was never satisfied. A beast who wanted more. More. More. 

Bellatrix drank Hermione in like a fine wine, savouring the flavour of her pleasure on her tongue, punctuated by the peppery taste of her pain. The complete submission in her eyes, the hitch in her breath, and the delightful little noises that slipped from pink lips unnoticed - Bellatrix was enraptured. So completely taken by the Mudblood's stoic endurance that she didn’t notice as in the furthest corners of her heart, through twisting corridors and secret passageways, a door long since locked, barred and padlocked shut, unlocked with a click. The padlock remained in place, the wooden beams still firmly nailed across the doorway, but the lock of the door itself had shifted, the long thought rusted out lock sliding open was surprising ease. 

Bellatrix figured it wouldn’t take very much to send the Muddygirl spiralling into oblivion. So making sure she contained the spell at its current level - after all it would be a shame to ruin all the works she had put in, purely because she hit the witch with too much pain - she slowly crouched down beside Hermione’s head.

With her non-wand hand she cupped the girl’s breast, squeezing it gently and feeling as a taut nipple grazed her palm even through her clothes. The mewl from the creature was almost pitiful, and Bellatrix wanted more. She sharply tweaked the bud between her fingers and relished in the accompanying cry of not-quite-pleasure-not-quite-pain from the girl. 

She gently brushed a damn curl from the thing’s fevered cheek, tucking it behind her ear in an action almost affectionate. Then she whispered. 

“Come for me, little witch.”

Hermione was undone. Her whole body tensed, her mouth open slightly, eyes shut tight, as an orgasm wracked through her body. Her muscles clenched, and her word went dark, but there was no denying the sheer waves of pleasure that crested over her body - forcing her to obey, to feel, to cum. She was blinded by the pleasure. Completely at Bellatrix’s mercy. If the witch had wanted to kill her then and there there would have been nothing Hermione could do to fight back. And yet no harm came to her.

Finally, the spell let up, and Hermione flopped lifelessly against the stones with a smile plastered to her face. After a moment, she opened her eyes. She had expected to find the dark witch standing there, staring down at her with a malignant intensity. Instead, she sat up to find that Bellatrix was nowhere to be seen. The chairs and table had vanished, and she was once again locked in her cell, alone. 

Chapter Text

The rest of the day was uneventful. Leesey brought her small but regular amounts of food and water, and escorted her to the bathroom a few times, but there was no sign of the dark witch. Hermione refused to think too hard about her own response to the witch’s absence. 

She had only been in her orbit directly for two days, but already she looked up expectantly each time there was a sound from outside the door. And yet, despite Hermione’s desire to see the other witch, the dungeon’s heavy wooden door had remained firmly closed. She knew enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that it could happen quickly, but she doubted it could happen quite this quickly.

Hermione had thought about the Dark witch a lot in her hours alone - too much. She hadn’t cried for her friends. She hadn’t even thought of them. Processing grief was a task to be undertaken at the end of a war, and though the battle for Wizarding Britain may have concluded, Hermione’s personal war was far from over. She couldn’t think of those precious few survivors like her who had been sold, hunted or worse; it was simply too much for a mind that was already threatening to fracture.

Instead, she tried to imagine how the world would run now that the dark were in charge. Would there still be a ministry? Or would the country fall into lawlessness?  Would Voldemort be Minister for Magic, or some other newly created position of ultimate power? Would anyone fight for the rights of Muggleborns, Elves, and other magical creatures and beings? Or would they be further suppressed and controlled? Could that suppression even lead to revolution?

The longer she thought, the further away the answers seemed to be. She simply didn’t have enough data to come to a logical conclusion. So, after hours of ruminating on the current state of the world outside her cage, her thoughts turned introspective, and she finally took stock of exactly what had happened inside her prison. 

On reflection, she had to admit she had been treated with much more dignity than she would have expected. Her keeper was decidedly saner than the woman she had met all those years ago in the Department of Mysteries. Stranger still was the difference between the Lestrange from just over a month ago at Malfoy Manor and the Lestrange she was with now at… 

‘Huh, ’ she thought. ‘I don’t actually know where I am. I would assume Black Manor, but… she hasn’t mentioned it - not even once in passing.’ She added her current location to the list of things she wanted to ask the dark witch.

The witch she had interacted with over the past two days was a far cry from the deranged, sadistic witch she had been taught to fear. She still enjoyed inflicting pain and humiliation on people, obviously, that hadn’t changed, but she also had a kind of childlike wonderment that endeared her to Hermione. 

Hermione liked the back-and-forth, the pressure to find the right words, to say the right thing - she enjoyed dancing in the delicate balance between defiance and placation. She liked the way her heart raced with apprehension, fear, and excitement with every interaction. If she were honest, after seven years of fighting beside Harry, she had developed a taste for adrenaline; it made her feel alive in ways that getting full marks on an essay couldn’t quite compete with.

She liked the subtle - and sometimes not so subtle - way that Bellatrix maintained her control of a situation, the quiet but careful domination that seemed to run straight through her very core. And Bellatrix’s mind was beautiful, constantly whirring and strategising, always five steps ahead. 

And that wasn’t the only difference; physically, the end of the war had been kind to the Bellatrix. Before, her appearance worked as a warning; anyone who saw her knew to get out of her way, the feral way she presented kept people at arm’s length. But now the dark circles around her eyes had faded, her once-wild curls had been somewhat tamed, and now fell in defined curls, albeit still wild and unruly. Even her nails, once chipped and filthy, were now perfectly maintained and polished. The most significant transformation, however, was in her teeth. Once rotten, with a smell so foul it was a torture unto itself, they now shone pearly white and perfect. 

In a like-for-like comparison to her last encounter with the witch, this time had been much more palatable. During her capture at Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix had used the Cruciatus Curse on her so many times that Hermione had lost count. Her best recollection, combined with Fleur’s assessment of her injuries, had produced an estimation of ten times within the space of around ten minutes. Add to that a healthy dose of slaps and scratches from the witch, and it had already been a life-altering experience. But Bellatrix had gone further still; she had carved ‘Mudblood’ into Hermione’s arm with a cursed blade, leaving a cut that still hadn’t truly healed in the month since the torture. As things currently stood, in the past 2 days, Bellatrix had used the Cruciatus Curse twice, the Imperius Curse once, and asked Hermione to drink Veritaserum.

‘So why,’ Hermione thought, ‘is she treating me so well? Well, by her terribly low standards, at least.’ 

She couldn’t figure it out. Only three Unforgivable Curses in close to 48 hours, and, despite her unwillingness to admit it, the second use of the Cruciatus Curse couldn’t exactly be called ‘abuse’ in any way. She had reached climax from a Cruciatus Curse. She had orgasmed because of an Unforgivable Curse, performed on her by the Dark Lord’s right hand - and she had liked it. The curse had been consensual, and no matter how she tried to frame it in her mind, Hermione was forced to admit that the experience had overall been positive.  

Just a few weeks ago she had been Hermione Granger - Harry Potter’s best friend, a member of the Golden Trio, and a figurehead of the side of the light. 

Her future had seemed so obvious. They would win the war, followed by a series of celebratory ceremonies, an Order of Merlin First Class for Harry and at least a second class for her and Ron. She would probably get a job in the Ministry, where she would rage against the archaic rules that the Ministry would refuse to change. Then, as time went on, she would marry Ron and have a brood of redheaded children. 

There were so many things she had envisioned - expected - for her life, so many things that now would never be. There was, however, a growing part of Hermione that wasn’t disappointed. She had always known she was worth more than just the wife of Ronald Weasley - a man who got a headache if he thought about first-year homework for too long. She knew that she deserved a partner who could, at least, understand the basic laws of magic. But it had felt so impossible to break free from that, after a while, she had given up hope. 

And now here she had a beautiful dark witch, who was clever, quick-witted, and in tune with her inherent magic. A witch who was willing to do so many unspeakable things to her… Eager to do unspeakable things to her.

Frankly, Hermione knew she should be more distressed by the entire situation, but something had broken in her mind at Malfoy Manor, and it hadn’t yet glued itself back together again. But that detachment actually gave her the ability to think more rationally about the entire situation. And yet, a battle kept raging on in her mind between what she wanted and what she had thought she had to settle for. 

Realising she wouldn’t be getting anywhere with her current train of thought - well, not without more information from the dark witch - she decided to lie down and have a nap. She figured she could probably use as much sleep as she could get, given her current circumstances, and she wanted to be awake when Bellatrix next came for a visit. 

As she closed her eyes, she had to admit…her life since the battle had been much more exciting than being the mother of Ron’s children could ever have been.

Early the next morning, Bellatrix kicked open the solid wooden door in front of her, revealing the dungeon below. The thing was unfortunately awake this time - a pity; Bella loved to wake the Mudblood from her dreams into her nightmare. Nevertheless, she could still make the pathetic thing scream for her, and that was some consolation. 

“Mudblood!” she yelled, her voice a shrill echo against the always-damp stone stairs that led down into the dungeon.

She grasped the brass handrail tightly, well aware of how uncomfortable falling - or being thrown - down this particular set of stairs could be. The bruises and breaks that the steps had inflicted upon her may have faded, but her caution while using this particular set of stairs never would.

Bella watched as Hermione clambered off her mattress and rolled onto her knees. The young witch was trembling, and each click of Bella’s boots against the stone floor made the girl flinch almost imperceptibly - almost . But battle-hardened Bella couldn’t help but spot the flinching and began to tread with heavier steps, thrilled when the sound echoed around the small space like a concerto of her power.

Knowing the bookworm could hardly see anything with her head cast down the way it was, she purposefully remained outside of that field of view. Let the Mudblood stay in the dark for all she cared. She watched as goosebumps appeared across the creature’s skin - though through fear or anticipation, Bella wasn’t sure. 

“Someone’s eager today, you practically Apperated onto your knees,” she sneered derisively at the girl, loving the way the girl’s skin coloured from embarrassment. ‘ I wonder if she’s wet already? Just how little does it take to get the girl off,’ she laughed within her own mind. 

Despite the girl being unable to see her, Bella made a show of cleaning the dirt from under her nails - casually, so as to appear unaffected by their interaction. The truth was, of course, that each interaction with the witch made her skin prickle and created an unignorable throbbing in her core. Every single time she had left the witch in the dungeon, it had only been minutes before Bella was lying in her bed with her fingers buried within herself, thoughts of the brunette flickering through her mind. But, it wouldn’t do to tell the witch that. 

Chasing the thought from her mind, she began to speak once more, her words purposefully insincere. “I was only coming down here because I was bored, and already you are giving me such good entertainment. But I think we can do better than this…. Incarcerous !” 

She cackled as ropes appeared from the end of her wand and began to wind their way around Hermione’s body. 

“Ahh!” Hermione screamed as, with a further flick of Bellatrix’s wand, she was suspended, held flush against the wall, with each of her limbs pulled in a different direction by the ropes. The spell had also put her directly at Bellatrix’s eye line. 

“Hello, pet,” Bellatrix smirked as she observed her handiwork.

The rope coiled around her victim, surrounding her body and pressing her breasts up in a crude kind of chest harness. Seeing the witch strung up was nearly too much for Bella to bear, but she was determined not to break her toy - not yet, at least. 

“What are you doing?!” Hermione asked, looking down at her bound form.

Bellatrix ignored the sensations in her own body and continued with her performance, her voice innocent in a way that could only be subterfuge. “And here was me thinking you might enjoy it. I’m only here to ask you about Gringotts.” 

Her voice dropped, a rasp appearing that hadn’t been there before. “But…if you’re going to submit so beautifully…” One taloned nail scratched down Hermione’s face, meandered across her lip, and pulled the plump flesh down slightly as it continued its path down her chin. 

“Well, what’s a witch to think, except that she is wanted?” She placed a chaste kiss to the soft skin of the girl’s neck and then whispered hotly into her ear. “Am I wanted, Muddy?” 

With a subtle wave of her wand, she cast a wordless Legilimens, knowing the words would affect the young witch one way or the other - she just didn’t know which. She slipped into Hermione’s mind silently. She had become so used to sneaking around in other people’s minds that she was rarely ever caught, but the Mudblood had been unexpectedly perceptive, so she trod especially carefully. 

She focused on the current train of thought - its mind was spinning; thoughts flip-flopped between terror and arousal, with errant threads of betrayal and loss woven between the more preeminent streams of consciousness. It appeared that even she didn’t know if she wanted the dark witch, but the thought was becoming more and more amenable to her as the days went on and right now - with her neck still tingling from the kiss - that thought was sounding particularly appealing.

With a smirk, Bella leaned forward and trapped Hermione’s earlobe between her teeth - biting just enough to send a shiver down the bookworm’s spine. She released the flesh with a wet pop and spoke once more, her voice a low growl, almost hungry in its intensity.

“I could make you feel so good - things you never even knew were possible. I could make your body sing for me, Muddy. It would be exquisite.” 

The warm breath and honeyed words were doing more for Hermione than she cared to admit, and she subconsciously rolled her head to the side, giving Bella further access. Access that the dark witch took quick advantage of. She peppered Hermione’s neck with kisses, interspersed with the occasional bite to see how the witch reacted. The girl’s skin tasted musky and overwhelmingly salty - though after being on the run and nearly two weeks in a dungeon, she wasn’t surprised - but Bellatrix had never been put off by a bit of dirt. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Mudblood’s face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open slightly, as she panted and gasped with each brush of lips and teeth. The girl’s thoughts rushed through her mind, a mix of relief, desire, and fear. 

‘It won’t be long before she begs to be mine, completely,’ Bella thought to herself. ‘ And how delicious it will be.’ 

Bellatrix lifted her head up again as she spoke once more, so close that her lips brushed against the shell of its ear as she spoke. “I asked you a question, Muddy. Am I wanted?” she husked seductively, a fraction of her own arousal spilling out into her tone. 

Hermione was lost in the sensations she was feeling, as she didn’t even open her eyes to whisper back, her need evident in the desperation that clung to the single syllable. “Yes.” 

It wasn’t much, and yet it was enough to give Bella hope, but she knew she couldn’t push too far. She may be wanted, but not enough to actually take the witch, to kiss her, to consume her. So with herculean effort, Bella pulled back, extracting herself from the girl’s mind at the same time.

“How nice,” she said, as if commenting on the weather, her voice showed no hint of how the previous encounter had affected her. “Now, will you give me what I want?” she asked, matter-of-factly. 

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, as if she had just realised the rug had been pulled out from under her. Confusion was written across her face, and perhaps even a flicker of disappointment. “I… What do you want?” 

“I told you: I want you to tell me about Gringotts.” With a wave of her wand, a chair arrived in the cell just in time for her bum to land on it as she sat. “So.. speak, Muddy.”

“Gringotts?” Hermione said with a frown. “You want me to tell you about Gringotts?”

“Has someone gone into your brain and turned it into mush? Yes, Gringotts - tell me about it.”

“Erm, well, okay. It’s the wizarding bank that-”

“I know that!” Bella interrupted, frustrated that the cleverclogs hadn’t grasped the context clues. “I obviously know about Gringotts. What I don’t know…is how you got into my vault. I want the whole story, from start to finish.”

“Oh. That…that makes more sense,” she breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought you had lost the plot for a second, and I was very worried for my safety.”

“You would be more worried about your safety if I had gone mad than now?” Bellatrix asked suspiciously. 

“Well…yeah. I mean, you want to hurt me - I know that - but you aren’t out of control, you hurt me for specific reasons…even if that reason is that you just want to hurt me. I think if you had lost your mind, well, you might just hurt me and never stop until I was dead. I…I don’t think you want me dead.” 

“Oh no, Muddy, I can think of so many more exciting things to do with you than kill you. I can also think of so many cheaper Mudbloods to buy if I just wanted to kill them. So I suppose you are correct, if I were less sane than I am now, it probably wouldn’t end well for you.” 

“Just checking…if I tell you what happened, exactly how it happened, you won’t hurt me…will you?” Hermione asked, her eyes as wide as saucers. 

“The puppy dog eyes won’t help you, puppy…but no, I guess if you tell me everything, then I won’t hurt you,” she huffed. “But keep it concise, I get bored easily, and I wouldn’t want to hurt you just to speed you up,” she added with a wicked grin.

“Noted,” Hermione replied with a nod. 

She took a breath, a small smile appearing on her face. “Well, after your er… exuberant reaction to seeing the Sword of Gryffindor during our time at Malfoy Manor, it was obvious that there was something in your vault that was more important to you than the sword itself - and certainly more important than your gold. The only logical conclusion was that you held a Horcrux, which, of course, you did.” 

Hermione strained against her bonds slightly, clearly trying to release the tension around her limbs, but as soon as she did, the ropes visibly tightened. “Can you…loosen them a bit?” she asked, with a pleading look. 

Bella rolled her eyes. “Fine. But keep talking.” She flicked her wand, nonchalantly, towards Hermione and the biting rope released slightly. 

“Thank you. So we knew we had to get into your vault. But we were undesirables number one through three at the time, so just walking in wasn’t going to go very well.” 

The girl paused, then looked at Bellatrix intently as if trying to ascertain her mood, or perhaps weighing up if she was more likely to be put under an Unforgivable Curse if she continued speaking or if she stopped. She apparently decided it was safer to talk as she licked her lips and then continued with her story.

“What we did have was your wand, and one of your hairs, luckily enough - very convenient. So, the logical solution was to Polyjuice as you.” While Hermione couldn’t move, somehow the shrug was clear as day in her voice. 

“ You ? Polyjuiced as me ? Oh, I’d have paid to see that,” Bella laughed, not the usual cackle she was famous for, but a deep rumble that emanated from somewhere in her chest.  

“The Polyjuice had my identity covered, but we still had to get Harry, Ron, and Griphook in somehow . Although Ron was easy enough, a couple of Glamour Charms, and we were done. But we didn’t think you would go into Gringotts with two bodyguards and a goblin.” 

She looked at Bellatrix as if asking for confirmation. Bellatrix simply raised an eyebrow. When Hermione didn’t back down, Bellatrix rolled her eyes but complied. 

“No, pet, I wouldn’t go to the bank with two bodyguards, let alone a goblin !” She grimaced. 

Hermione nodded her head in thanks. “Right. So Harry and Griphook went under the cloak. Harry had an invisibility cloak, if you didn’t know,” she explained helpfully. 

“Oh, I know,” Bella countered. She knew she should stop there, but she couldn’t help twisting the knife just a little. “We found it in his pocket when we searched his corpse. The Dark Lord has made great use of it.” 

Hermione froze, and Bella had to see the results of her meddling. She stepped back into the thing’s mind as easily as stepping through a door and viewed the images in her subconscious like the moving portraits in the portrait hall. 

An image of Voldemort wearing Harry’s cloak was the main subject of the girl’s focus, accompanied by a feeling of revulsion. But Bella was shocked once more when her pet forced it down - all her revulsion, anger, and pain, pressed firmly until it slipped into a drawer within her mind that was promptly closed and locked shut. Bella pulled out again, impressed beyond measure at her pet’s ability. 

“Ahem, anyway. Harry wore the cloak with Griphook on his back.” Hermione continued, but her voice had lost something; it was more robotic, less alive somehow, as if the part of herself that she had locked away had taken her personality with it.

“Things went wrong nearly instantly. The goblin behind the counter, Bogrod, asked for my - your - wand as identification. None of us had ever been asked to show a wand before, so we knew something was wrong. Harry hit him with an Imperio, but then Travers came butting in. He also got put under an Imperius.” 

“Potty used an unforgivable?” 

Hermione nodded - a small smile twisting in the corner of her lip.

“And it worked?”

Hermione nodded again, a smile beginning to twist at the corner of her lips.

“Huh! Apparently, my lesson on Unforgivables did work after all. I wonder if he ever managed a successful Crucio before he died?” Bella pondered. 

“He did, actually. Hit your friend Amycus with it,” Hermione rebuffed, almost proud of her friend’s twisted achievement.

“He did?” Bella asked, surprised.

“He did,” Hermione’s response was definitely verging on smug now. “Amycus spat at McGonagall - that was never going to go very well.” 

“Huh! How about that?” Bella was genuinely impressed that the ‘Golden Boy’ had ticked off two of the three Unforgivable Curses - impressed, but extremely surprised. “Follows that he’d do it for that old biddy though.” Hermione bristled, but Bella continued. “I mean…his name might as well be Harry ‘mummy-Issues’ Potter, at this rate.”

“Anyway,” Hermione said, expertly changing the direction of the conversation to avoid losing her temper, “somehow Bogrod managed to shake his superior, we left Travers in a corner somewhere, and then we were back on our way towards your vault.”

“Did you enjoy the cart ride? I used to love it; I still do. Especially with how deep our vault was.”

“I was never really a fan of rollercoasters, honestly.”

“What’s a rollercoaster?” Bella asked, her head tilting like an intrigued Labrador. 

“Do you guys not…? Essentially, a rollercoaster is like the bank cart, except it’s designed to be entertainment more than transport.” 

“Muggles have created things like that?” The scepticism clear in her voice.

“Oh yeah, thousands of them, and Muggles don’t have magic to keep them safe, so they have to rely on belts holding them to their seat,” she explained. 

“Muggles are insane,” Bellatrix said flatly. “But enough about Muggles. Continue.” 

“Right, yes. We were nearly there, but we went through this giant waterfall, and everything was gone . The cloak was still with us, of course - that thing was damn near indestructible - but the Glamour, the effects of the Polyjuice Potion, even the Incarserus on Bogrod was gone. We knew we didn’t have much time after that,” Hermione continued with a bone-tired sigh.

“Triggered the guards?” Bella asked, already guessing where the story was going next. 

“Yep,” She said dejectedly, popping the p. “On top of it all, the cart kicked us out! Luckily, the waterfall didn’t prevent us from placing any new spells. So we quickly got Bogrod back under Imperius and continued with the plan. Past the dragon with the Clankers, and then only your vault to go. Although, when we got to your vault and got in with no problems, I was a little…” She froze, eyes wide for a moment before she schooled her expression to one of utter calm. “Um, anyway…” Hermione tried to quickly brush over what she hadn’t said, but Bella was having none of it. 

“No, no, no. This is going to be good. Out with it, Muddy! You were a little…?” she prompted.

Hermione sighed, then closed her eyes. She looked as if she expected her next words to hurt, or that they would cause her to be hurt in retaliation at the very least. 

“I was a little…disappointed that you didn’t have any of your own wards on your vault, like something blood based. I had expected to have been barred in some way; frankly, I expected to start bleeding from some unknown wound. But all three of us got in just fine.”

“Oh dear, is little Muddy disappointed in me?” she cooed sarcastically with a pout.  “Did I not live up to her expectations of excellence? My vault did have blood wards, but the bloody goblins,” she screamed, “insisted on removing them when they added their stupid, ineffective ‘Anti-theft Charms’.” 

She huffed a breath from between her teeth, grasping to the fraying strands of her self-control. After a moment, she continued. “Apparently, five dead goblins are too many… who knew?” She shrugged. “But my lord insisted I follow all requests where they pertained to the safety of the cup, so I dissolved the wards.”

Bella smiled cruelly, revealing her perfect pearly whites in a way that was nothing but predatory. “If it makes you feel better, my wards are once more in place over my vault. If you tried it again, you would have found yourself dangling upside down as the blood slowly drained from your body from roughly a thousand cuts.” 

Bella let herself become lost in the image, imagining such dirty blood draining onto the bank’s marble floor. When she could take no more, and wanted nothing more than to make the girl scream  - in pleasure or pain, she didn’t much care anymore - she stopped. Shook her head. And continued in a dark and threatening tone. “So, perhaps,” she spat, “be grateful those filthy goblins insisted I remove them.“

“I.. um,” Hermione blustered, clearly searching for words.  

“And before you start thinking that my wards are lacking, please know that if you ever attempt to leave this place without my permission via any means, I will know. Regardless of whether you try to run, Disapparate, Floo, or even if you surprise us all and get on a broomstick, you will not be leaving. And, instead, you will find yourself,” she smiled darkly, “transported to my bedchambers. Naked as the day you were born and tied to my headboard. All without me lifting a finger. So, for your own sake, don’t try to run.” She warned as her eyes flashed dangerously. 

Hermione flushed red. The image of herself tied to the dark witch’s headboard had her thinking all kinds of jumbled thoughts - thoughts that she really didn’t want to pick through at that moment. Bella, who had jumped into Hermione’s head the moment she blushed, was impressed. The thoughts and images were so perverse that even she had to give the Mudblood credit. She was even more impressed when it forcibly ignored the images that plagued its conscious mind and continued telling the story.

“The Geminus and Flagrante Curses did give us some trouble, though. Those burns were agony! Luckily, nothing that a quick healing spell and some Dittany couldn’t fix, but at the time… ouch . Once we had the cup, we realised we had new problems. Griphook took the sword from us and then turned tail and ran. He called us thieves as if he hadn’t helped us break in!” she huffed, the hair blowing a stray curl from her forehead. 

“Can never trust a beast, pet, especially ones with magic - can’t be trusted,” Bella explained as if it was obvious. Hermione had been stupid to trust a goblin after all, and she was going to tell her as much. 

Hermione, however, shrugged it off, unwilling to engage the witch in the argument that would have ensued. “And then Harry had the hare-brained idea to free the dragon. It was the most idiotic idea any of us had ever had, but, hell , it worked! We climbed onto its back, and, with a little prompting, she began to climb, then fly. And soon we were speeding towards the ceiling, torching anyone in our path. And then we were free. We rode the dragon until we saw a lake, it seemed like our best exit strategy, so we jumped.” 

Hermione laughed as if she still didn’t quite believe what had happened, “We jumped off a flying dragon into a lake! But yeah, after that we headed to Hogsmeade, and, well, I’m sure you know what happened from there.” She blew out a breath, relieved to have got to the end of the story.

“I always thought riding the dragon was embellished. I never, truly, expected you to have ridden off on her! Impressive, Muddy, impressive. I am…strangely grateful. Not for breaking into my vault, I paid dearly for that, and I will be extracting every ounce of my pain back from your flesh. Do not misunderstand,” she threatened menacingly.  “But,” she softened, “I had dreamed of freeing that dragon since I was a girl. Many simply thought her a myth, but with a vault as old as ours, we knew. I watched over the years as fresh scars appeared across her wings, her face, her legs. The method behind those Clankers is…”

“Barbaric,” said Hermione, as Bella continued at the same time. “Barbaric.”

Both paused for a long moment; their eye contact almost crackled from its intensity. Bella observed the bookworm quizzically, as a new memorandum of understanding settled between them. 

“Quite,” Bella continued with a stiff nod of her head.

“They put her down in the vault when I was a girl; I was six or seven at best recollection. She was beautiful, still just a baby really, but already she towered over us all. I watched for nearly 40 years as they tortured her. I watched as her scales lost their colour, as her wings became scarred and torn, and her scales began to peel. 40 years and never allowed to fly, could you imagine it? Born with wings but caged, never able to soar. At least, until some little gnat comes to free you.”

Bella sighed and looked at Hermione with a softness that hadn’t crossed her features in many moons. “I related to that dragon more than I think anyone knew. I know what it was like to be caged for someone else’s protection. Throughout my entire life, I was groomed to be a great witch, and don’t mistake me, Muddy, I am a great witch. Deadly and beautiful in a perfect package. Who cares if she had a few scars? It’s for her own good after all. Train her, condition her with pain, teach her how she should behave, whom she should burn, and from whom she should cower. I am exactly who I was raised to be… except maybe lacking an heir or two.” 

“I…” Hermione started.

“Don’t,” Bellatrix snapped. She could feel her iron-like grasp on her emotions slipping, and she couldn’t allow something as insignificant as a Mudblood to break her. 

The two remained in silence for a long moment, both seeing the other in a new light but not truly ready to trust their own perception - not just yet.

But Hermione wasn’t one to let an opportunity for communication and understanding pass her by. “Why do I feel like the cage you’re talking about wasn’t Azkaban?”

Bella sighed, the weariness of the last few decades landing on her shoulder, but tension still rolled off her in waves. “Because it wasn’t, pet. Azkaban was just the latest in a long line of cages. At first, it was this house, the boundary wards kept us locked up tightly. Believe me, whatever my wards could do to you is kind in comparison to my Father’s. We were only ever allowed out with a chaperone: Mother, Aunt Wallburger, or another respected family member. Then my  Marriage became my cage - sold from my Father’s protection into my husband’s. There was no love lost between us, but still, appropriate etiquette must be upheld.”

Bellatrix became silent. Despite her best efforts, images of her wedding night pierced through her carefully maintained barriers. White lace torn and bloody. Her hands pinned above her head not only by magic but her marriage vows. The overwhelming nausea as she felt him inside her. The all-consuming self-hatred and disgust as she lay in bed alone, used, bloody, and broken. The way her body had ached for the days that followed. The fear that his seed had taken root. The terror when she saw the blood and knew she would have to go through it all over again. 

She shook her head, attempting to physically shake the thoughts from her mind. Instead, focusing on the image of her husband’s body - broken and bloody - lying in the rubble beneath the covered bridge with his head no longer attached to his body. 

‘You’re safe, girl. We stopped him. He can’t hurt us now. Father’s dead. He’s dead. We’re safe.’

“Father’s dead. He’s dead. We’re safe,” Bella whispered, hoping that the girl hadn’t noticed. 

“Father’s dead. He’s dead. We’re safe,” she repeated, feeling the tension leaving her posture. 

“Father’s dead. He’s dead. We’re safe,” she whispered once more, blinking back into the real world. 

She looked up at the girl, praying there wouldn’t be pity in her eyes. There wasn’t - only intrigue and possibly worry, but no pity. It was a refreshing change, and one that had the instant effect of putting Bellatrix at ease despite her years of detachment.

She ran her hands through her hair, nervously raking her fingers through the curls. She then softly stroked her palm across her jaw in a soothing manner, then, with a sad smile, she spoke. 

“I bore the scars of my prisons long before I ever stepped foot in Azkaban, pet.”

“I didn’t know,” Hermione whispered.

“How could you, pet? Purebloods don’t exactly broadcast their shame. Couldn’t have that soft touch Dippet learning that old Cygnus threw his daughter in a cage if she didn’t use the right fork at dinner.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. “This was your cage…” 

“Don’t be silly, Muddy. This dungeon has been here since Black Manor was built, and I’m not that old. However, yes, I have spent a night or two within its bars.” Bella made a point of staring intently at her nails, once again picking at non-existent dirt from beneath their length.

“That’s totally barbaric,” she uttered barely above a whisper.  

“Don’t be ridiculous. I needed to be taught appropriate manners. How else would I learn? He was only being a responsible parent.” She looked back at her captive, hoping that the girl would understand now that it was all just a part of pure-blood culture.

“Do you lock yourself in a cage if you can’t master a spell on the first try?”

That pulled her up short. “Of course not,” Bella huffed.

“Do you lock yourself in a cage if you fail in a mission for your Lord?” Hermione asked softly, not accusatory or judgmental, just a question that she hoped would lead Bellatrix to a realisation of her own making. 

“Don’t have to, he sees that I am appropriately punished for my failings,” Bella said with a pout.  

“My parents never locked me in a cage or punished me with violence. I think I turned out alright.” She shrugged.  

“Don’t lecture me about how your pathetic Muggle parents chose to drag you up, filth! I don’t need advice from you ! You’ve still ended up trapped in this cage just as much as I am!” Bella’s hands curled into fists at her sides, the tension visible not just in her arms but her entire posture - she practically vibrated with the bottled-up energy. 

Hermione was just surprised she hadn’t been cursed yet, but she refused to back down on a matter like this. “I’m not meaning to lecture you. I’m sorry. But…everything you hoped for that dragon? It should have been yours. Not every pureblood family locks their child in the dungeon.” 

With a blink, she found herself nose to nose with the frustrating bookwork with no recollection of how she got there. “And not every pureblood family deserves the title of the Sacred 28!” Bellatrix snapped. 

“What about your nephew?” Hermione asked, her face as passive as she could make it. 

“I…that’s…different. He’s different.” Bella ran out of steam at the realisation. Of course they wouldn’t lock Draco in a cage. She wouldn’t even dream of it. So, why did she think it was acceptable for her to be treated that way? She turned away, unable to look the Mudblood in the eye. She wanted to sink her teeth into its flesh and watch as its blood emptied onto the dungeon floor. She wanted to flay the skin from its body. She wanted the thing to hold her. 

“Even I know they would never lock Draco in a cage, at least not a physical one.” Hermione knew if she further suggested the Dark Mark was a prison of its own, she wouldn’t get another word out. She had to choose her battles.  

Bellatrix turned on a dime, her hair whipping through the air as she turned. “Draco is the heir apparent for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy!” 

“So why was Sirius treated the way he was?”

“Filthy blood traitor! He was rotten, and Aunt Wallburga knew it. We just didn’t see it yet.” But Siri hadn’t seemed bad; they had been friends once. How had Aunt Wullburga known he was bad? Bella could never tell, or at least not when they were children. 

“And Regulus?” 

It felt like a cold bucket of water thrown over her. The rage disappeared, replaced instead with a pain long since forgotten. A deep gnawing pain that clawed at her and threatened to crumble the fragile control she had left.  

Bella dashed a tear from her eye, staring at it like she was either confused or offended by its presence. “Regardless: thank you for freeing her, it meant more to me than you could have imagined.” Bella stood up from her chair and walked over to Hermione once more.

“You don’t have to change the subject. It’s not as if I can tell anyone,” Hermione shrugged.

“I know, pet.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled and caused a second tear to spill from her eye. “But that isn’t something I can risk. Bellatrix Black doesn’t cry. Bellatrix Black doesn’t show weakness.”

“Admitting what happened to you isn’t a weakness. And Black? Not Lestrange?” 

She turned from the girl, unable to look at her sickly sweet understanding smile. “I killed him.” She said it flatly, with not a shred of emotion released. Then, before the girl could prod further, she turned to face her and then clarified. “I killed him on purpose.” 

A shadow seemed to fall over the girl’s face, a sadness appearing in her eyes that Bella hadn’t ever seen before. “Boyfriends are never quite what they’re cracked up to be, are they?” She laughed, humorously. 

Bella dropped back unceremoniously onto the chair, tucking one leg under her and pulling the other up onto the chair until she was practically twisted like a pretzel. 

“Husband, in my case, but I agree with the sentiments. I was never much for men at all, least of all permanently and magically tied to a man. Enough to make you sick.” She spat, her spittle landing on the floor in the corner of the dungeon. 

“I think everyone just…assumed I’d marry Ron. That he was everything I could have wanted from my life.” She said with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Can’t have had it so bad? He’s barely of age, a blood traitor, and definitely not rich enough to be anything but a soft touch,” she laughed. “Did they ever manage to rebuild that old…cattle barn, was it?

Hermione snorted. “If anything, the reality is worse. It’s an old pigsty.”

Bella pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, be still my beating heart, how could a woman fail to fall for a man whose ancestral home is a pigsty?” 

The Muddy giggled, and Bella’s heart clenched - the sound was like tinkling bells, something far too pure and good to be tied up in her mess.

“Rather a pigsty than Grimmauld Place though, honestly. The Houseelf heads just don’t do it for me… no offence.”

“None taken. Aunt Walburga could never quite let go of Elladora’s legacy. Still, I’d rather have stayed at Grimmauld Place over Lestrange Manor,” she added darkly. 

She had intended to leave it there, but the silent curiosity from the girl was too much to ignore. She looked at its face; so open, so kind, so willing to help - even if the person it wanted to help had literally tortured her.  

“Fuck it, in for a Knut in for a Galleon,” she muttered under her breath.  

“What?” The thing asked. 

Bella sighed, flicked her eyes to the heavens for a moment, then fixed the thing with a stony stare. “Okay, pet, in the name of ‘building relationships’ or whatever bullshit your friends like to spout, I’m going to tell you some shit. Got it?”

“Er.. yes?” 

“I’m not gonna make it pretty. Can you handle it?” If she was going to finally say aloud the things that she had experienced, then she wanted to say it to someone who could take it with a good British stiff upper lip. She certainly didn’t want to interrupt her story to comfort some pathetically snivelling, crying brat!

“I lived through a war, I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” the thing said with a laugh. 

Bella laughed sardonically. “I’ve been a part of two wars, pet, and I’d take at least 3 more if it meant I had never gone to Lestrange Manor.”

“Oh.” Her smile faded as she realised this was beyond anything she had experienced before.

“Do you know anything about magical marriage contracts, pet?”

“I know they were commonplace a hundred or so years ago and that the wives usually found themselves bound by barbarically strict rules. But nothing in depth or comprehensive. There was a shockingly small amount of information in the Hogwarts library.” 

“They are still commonplace within many high-profile pureblood families. Even Molly Weasley is bound to one, albeit not as restricting as many that I have heard of. What other reason would you have to remain a homemaker while her family could barely scrape two knuts together? She can’t. She isn’t allowed a profession. Her only responsibility was to birth and rear children. The only reason she managed to sneak into the Order of the Burning Chickens is because it wasn’t a job; she didn’t get paid, it was simply...a hobby.” 

“She never said...” 

“Well, she couldn’t, could she? Binding magical agreement. I doubt any of her children even knew. I only know about it because I am now the acting Head of the Black Family, and as such, I have access to all contracts and documentation relating to Black family members. Arthur Weasley is a Black by blood; his mother was Cedrella Black. She may have been blasted from the family tapestry, but she was still my grandfather’s cousin - Black by blood. It’s a tenuous link if you ask me, but the Family Magic still recognised it.” 

“I knew Molly was related to the Black Family…but I never knew about Arthur.”

“Ha! Molly Prewett related to the Black Family? Don’t make me laugh, Muddy. Molly’s uncle married Lucretia Black, but no Black Blood runs through her veins. I shudder to think!” 

“I think we’ve got off topic somehow,” the girl laughed, that melodic sound that tugged at Bella’s very being. 

“We have. So, all that to say, I was placed under a rather strict marriage contract. My Lord promised me he would ensure there was no consummation clause within the contract. Unfortunately, he was unable to get the contract amended in time.” 

Bella felt that familiar acid bile of betrayal bubble up her throat. She could still recall the way her stomach had dropped out from under her when she realised the consummation clause was indeed still in her now-signed contract. The explanations: lack of time, the complications of manipulating such delicate magic, and the precedence that had been given to ensuring she remained a fighting member of the Death Eaters. She spotted the creature staring at her with silent concern and quickly shook herself out of her rumination. 

“He did ensure that I was still free to join his ranks, however, and that was the important bit.” 

“But he promised. Why would you still follow him as your Lord if-”

“BECAUSE HE IS THE CHILD OF MAGIC HERSELF! THE ONLY TRUE AND PURE HEIR TO SALAZAR SLYTHERIN AND RULER OF MAGICAL BRITAIN.” She screeched as she flung herself towards the ungrateful wretch. Her curved wand had somehow appeared in her hand with its tip pressed delightfully against the thing’s carotid artery. “I would never think so highly of myself as to think that the details of my affairs are more important than my Lord’s plans for the world,” she hissed, droplets of spittle flying at Hermione’s cheek as she did so. 

“I wasn’t doubting your devotion,” Hermione replied calmly. She had promised she could handle this conversation, and she would. “I was merely asking you to help me understand, from your perspective, why you chose to keep following him despite your contract not being amended as you had hoped. I wasn’t suggesting you shouldn’t, I have no right to an opinion on the matter, right?” 

Bella paused. The thing was correct. It had no right to an opinion, but she had gone this far, so she might as well explain her situation. 

“Because, consummation clause or not, I still had more freedom than most, and I ensured my sister’s protection.  Andromeda was far away from the pureblood world by then, but my marriage assured that she was left alone. It also assured that Narcissa wouldn’t marry until she was of age, which subsequently gave me sufficient time to carefully influence the clauses within her marriage contract.” 

“You sacrificed everything for your sisters?” 

“Of course. They are the only people I truly know I love.” 

They were both quiet for a long time, but neither of them seemed to be particularly keen to break the not-quite-comfortable but certainly not uneasy silence that had fallen between them. Bellatrix hadn’t moved from her place pressed up against the Mudblood, but her wand hand had relaxed some. She found herself enraptured by the many shades of brown and gold that flecked the girl’s eyes; she had never noticed just how multifaceted they were. 

“I erased my parents’ memories of me,” Hermione whispered, finally breaking the silence. “I knew they wouldn’t be safe if the war truly broke out, so I removed myself from the equation, or I guess removed them from the equation. I sent them away, I don’t even know where they are or what names they go by now - but they are safe.” 

“Then you understand why I did what I did.” 

“I think I do,” she replied earnestly. 

Bella nodded tersely, turned on her heels, and made her way back to her chair, tucking her wand back into her sleeve as she did so. She took a moment to compose herself, deciding if she wanted to reveal the darkest depths of her trauma to this nit. But she had gone this far; she might as well get it all off her chest. It wasn’t as if the girl would be able to tell anyone about it after all. 

“The clause within the contract stated that I was to submit myself to the marital act whenever required until I conceived a Lestrange Heir. What the contract failed to mention, however, was which Lestrange Heir.”

“No,” Hermione whispered in horror as realisation dawned on her.

“Yes. As I’m sure you know by now, interbreeding and incest are not exactly rare within pureblood families. It’s considered the ‘pure way.’ A pureblood teenager couldn’t possibly be seen cavorting with someone other than their intended. We were to have no flirtation or fraternisation. But what is not widely publicised is the way in which that status is maintained. If a young man wanted to ‘sow his wild oats’ as it were, he would do so with an older member of his own family, much easier to ensure the appropriate contraception charms were in place, and if anything failed…well, the woman was already wed and no one would ask questions. As for the girl, it’s safer not to take on the risk of pregnancy at all. The women of the family were equally responsible for the sexual appetite of the girls and they were for the boys.

“What is even less well known is what had been termed 'Polyheir Breeding.' The pureblood families, the truly pureblood families, were dying out. Interbreeding with filthy blood, infertility, and war didn’t help the matter. Instead of spreading and growing like the family trees had done in the century before, they were now shrinking. Some branches ended completely without an heir. So a decision was made. The male members of a family would all try to impregnate the new bride. Most often, the practice was restricted to the husband’s brothers, but in some cases, the parameters were broadened to include fathers, uncles, and cousins. I was lucky in a way. I only had to handle Rodolphus and Rabastan.” 

“You slept with both of them?” 

“Not like I had much choice, pet. It was written plainly and signed in my own hand. If I disobeyed, I would be…dissevered from my magic.”

“They wanted to take your magic away?” 

“Quite. Some would call it archaic - Barbaric if you ask me.”

“I can understand that. I’ve spent years being told I’m not worthy of magic, that I should have it taken from me. That if they knew how, they would drain every drop of magical blood from my body. I’m sorry that it isn’t mutually exclusive to Muggle-borns. Opposite sides of the war or not, no one should have to feel like that.” 

Bella was struck once again by the girl’s extraordinary ability for compassion. It wasn’t pity, it wasn’t condescension or platitude, it was genuine compassion. She had thought such compassion was a myth. Sure, Dumblefuck claimed to be compassionate, empathetic, even kind, but that care only went as far as the people who were useful to him, the people he deemed worthy, the people who believed what he believed. 

This girl had been captured, tortured, enslaved, belittled, scarred, cursed, and more, yet she still had it in her heart to be kind and considerate to her abuser. 

Inexplicable, and yet somehow predictably, deep in Bella’s heart, through secret doors and winding passageways, a door recently unlocked but barred and padlocked began to shift. The iron nails that held the heavy wooden beams to the door frame began to fall to the floor - one by one. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. 

Bella moved toward her captive with considered steps. Her approach was cautious as if approaching a skittish cat. But the skittish cat in this situation wasn’t the Mudblood, no, the Mudblood was a fierce lion as befitting her house. It was Bella who inhabited the role of the cat. A tiny black kitten, with little white paws and a pink smudge on her nose, small and scared but with her fur puffed out in a show of strength, her tiny teeth barred and her claws extended and ready to strike. 

Gone were the confident caresses and teasing words. She felt raw, exposed, vulnerable. But for once, she didn’t run from it. She allowed herself a single moment to bask in the feeling of being cared about. She reached out tentatively, catching one of the creature’s mused curls and tucking it behind her ear carefully. She allowed her hand to stay where it was, gently cupping the girl’s cheek. 

“For what it’s worth, pet, I think Magic blessed you for a reason. I’ve seen what you can manage with and without a wand. You make much better use of it than some others that I know.” 

“I…thank you,” the girl replied with wonder, clearly not expecting such tenderness. 

Bella placed a gentle kiss against her hair and rested their foreheads together. It felt dangerous, forbidden even, to be so close to the Mudblood, to feel the warmth of her breath against her lips, to drown in her eyes. She knew that if she didn’t end this quickly, she never would. 

“I’m sorry you won’t remember this, pet, but I can’t have you thinking I’ve gone soft.” She produced her wand from voluptuous sleeves, and Hermione started to struggle against her restraints. 

“What? No! You can’t!” Hermione cried, tears now brimming in her eyes. She began to struggle harder, fighting tooth and nail to free herself from her bindings. They had made so many steps towards understanding each other, and she didn’t want it to be taken away from her. 

A final tear rolled down Bella’s cheek, and she gave Hermione a sad but accepting smile. “Vulnerability is weakness, pet, and weakness means death. These fanciful moments of ‘ real human connection ’ are just that, fanciful. One cannot build a life around such nonsense. I’m sorry, Hermione, in another life, maybe we could… But we can’t. I’m sorry, pet. Obliviate.” 

Hermione’s face turned slack, the light died behind her eyes, and Bella lost control of her composure. A broken sob burst from within her as tears began to flow freely from her eyes. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t appropriate behaviour for a Black. But it was happening. Her vision blurred, and her nose got stuffy. Somewhere deep inside of her, something was screaming. She felt cracked open, as if her very heart was on display and begging to be plucked from her chest. 

It hurt; she had forgotten just how much it hurt to remember. She had pushed everything down for so long, finding release by inflicting her pain on others. It helped, for a moment. Killing helped for longer. That pain spread like a sickness through the victim’s friends and family. That pain would dig its claws into their siblings, their parents, their lover - sink its claws so deep within them that it would fester until it left them a shell of who they were, and so the pain lived on. But it was never enough. Somehow, someway, the pain would always make itself known in Bella’s heart again. She had once believed that her heart was black, burned out like charcoal, but charcoal couldn’t bleed, couldn’t feel. If you apply too much pressure to coal, it crumbles. Bella hadn’t been allowed to crumble. She had to endure. That was how she knew her heart must be made of flesh and blood, for surely only flesh and blood could hold pain like memories within itself. 

“Fucking Hell, Black, Pull yourself together,” Bella admonished herself. She dashed the tears from her eyes and, in a rather unladylike manner, sniffed the snot back up into her nose.

It was only years of training that had ensured her spell had continued through her tears. She quickly checked how things were progressing, and when she was satisfied that she hadn’t yet turned the girl into a mindless blob, she took a seat to wait for the remaining memories of their conversation to leave. 

When Bella finally released the spell, the girl fell into a restful sleep. Bella blew out a breath and then forced herself to relax slightly. She removed the ropes, carefully lowering Hermione onto her mattress with a well-placed Leviosa. But the weight of her betrayal weighed heavily on her heart. She brushed it away as she did with most emotions, and began her path back towards the dungeon door. 

“In another life, my pet,” she whispered wistfully before walking briskly from the room, locking the door behind her.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat atop her mattress, with her back resting against the cold stone wall, and her eyes closed tightly against the light. Her fingers absentmindedly combed through the knots in her hair, attempting to tackle some of the matting that had developed over the past few weeks.

It wasn’t going well. 

There was a loud crack as Bellatrix popped into existence in front of her. 

Hermione shrieked, jolted, and accidentally yanked her hair in response. 

She grumbled wordlessly and rubbed the sore spot on her scalp, but didn’t make any steps to move from her current position - she simply didn’t have the mental energy to force herself to kneel right now.  

“Morning, Muddy!” Bellatrix called in her characteristic sing-song voice, although it lacked the usual taunting edge. “I’ve got a present for you! Eyes closed, hands out,” Bellatrix instructed, giddily.

Hermione instinctively distrusted this gift. One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but if that horse has an AK-47 on its back, a kukri strapped to its foreleg, a Bowie knife strapped to its hind leg, and a bandolier of bullets strapped to its chest…well, then you might be a little cautious. 

“And what… is the present?” Hermione asked nervously, already dubious of this show of kindness, but she also didn’t want to push the witch. She had a pounding headache, although she was unsure of the source of the pain, and, really, she just wanted to lie back down on her bed and sleep the day away. 

Bellatrix dramatically rolled her eyes. “It’s a surprise… obviously . Now, do as you are told.” Her tone became sharper, and Hermione quickly got the message that today was not the day to mess with the witch - even if everything within her begged her to just lie back down. So, against her own wishes, she rolled onto her knees, closed her eyes, and held up her hands towards Bellatrix.

A weighty wooden frame was thrust into her hands, and she could feel the magic within it tickling her fingertips. A muffled grunting confirmed her suspicion that what she was holding was a portrait. She silently prayed to anyone listening that it wasn’t Dumbledore; she couldn’t meet his knowing stare over his half-moon spectacles, knowing that they had let him down. He had put so much trust in them, and they had failed in their mission. 

“Open your eyes then, Muddy. He’s been dying to talk to you!” Bellatrix’s cackle confirmed that this ‘present’ was going to be anything but fun.

Hermione forced her eyes to obey, and slowly her lids crept open. She didn’t need to see more than the thin sliver of messy hair her mostly closed eyelids offered her to know that this was not Dumbledore, and, in fact, Dumbledore would have been a thousand times better than this. 

“Well? Don’t be rude, Muddy. Say hello to your little friend.” Hermione didn’t need to look at the witch to know her lips had twisted into a cruel smirk.

Hermione simply remained staring down at Harry’s portrait, accurate down to the flecks of gold around his pupil, a gag placed firmly between his teeth. She gripped the frame tightly within her fingers, the grooves of the intricate carving pressing into her fingertips. Her heart began to race, her skin turned clammy, and she felt like the world was spinning. 

The world around her began to warp and shift; the sour taste that coated her unbrushed teeth grew fouler. The walls began to close in on her, and even the damp smell of the mildew and the rich earthy scent of the stones became stronger. It was as if every one of her senses were being attacked all at once, despite her focus narrowing in on the painting before her. 

Her mind was running a mile a minute, trying to figure out the probability of this being a legitimate portrait, if it was even factually possible, or if it was some form of elaborate trickery. Then, secondary to that, were the plans to protect the portrait from whatever nefarious plans Bellatrix had in store for it. 

“I said ‘say hello’, Muddy,” Bellatrix ground out, the tip of her wand pressing into Hermione’s cheek - a warning. 

“Hello Harry,” she croaked out, swallowing past her now parched throat. 

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, not yet, not in front of Harry. She imagined her hands wrapping around the emotions that were bubbling up within her, tightening her grip on them, and then cramming them back deep inside herself. Her visualisation was so strong that she could almost feel the phantom hands. 

Free of the worst of her emotions, she could breathe again, and her thoughts began to arrange themselves from the jumbled mess they had been, a plan forming in her mind.

1. Assess if this was a real portrait of Harry
2. If it was, was it worth the risk to her own life to protect a mere shadow of her former friend? Or would it be kinder for him to avoid watching the wizarding world’s downfall?
3. If the decision was to protect the portrait, how would one go about it?

The painted Harry thrashed within the frame. Now that her eyes weren’t blurred from tears, she could see the thick chains that looped his body. Hermione didn’t even know it was possible to bind and gag a portrait - it would have been handy back at Grimmauld Place - but faced with visual proof, she had to accept it was possible. Although she had placed a blindfold on Phineas Nigellus Black’s portrait, surely the magic couldn’t be much different. 

“What have you done to him?” she asked, not thinking about the possible consequences from the clearly incensed witch.

“Oh, you mean my impressive painted restraints?” Bellatrix looked away from Hermione, flicked her wand, and once again summoned the table and chairs from two days prior. She sat herself down, carelessly arranged her skirts, and then finally looked back at her captive.

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have seen anything like that before; I doubt you’ve even seen many magical paintings outside of Hogwarts, Muddy. Well, besides the one of my great-great-grandad that you carried around with you. I will hand it to you, though; you really pissed him off with that blindfold of yours.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You knew about-” 

“Don’t be dim, pet!” Bellatrix cut her off. “Of course, we knew! You were carrying a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, the clue is in the name…Black. Grandad Phineas may have been headmaster of Hogwarts, but if you truly thought you had his loyalty just because he helped you once or twice, then you are less intelligent than I thought.” 

“Well, no, but-”

“But nothing.” She cut Hermione off again, clearly exacerbated by the bookworm. “That portrait lived in Grimmauld Place well before your lot turned it into the headquarters for The Order of the Fiery Chickens. It was all too easy for him to pass information to me from his portrait at Black Manor. He helped you only when not helping would have looked suspicious. Did you never wonder why your well-laid plans always went wrong? We knew of your vigil over the Department of Mysteries. We knew when Potter was being moved. We knew you were staying at my dear departed cousin’s house. I’ll admit you were quicker than we expected at the Ministry, but Yaxley had one job and he completed it. He didn’t have to capture you; simply ensure that you could only use apparition to escape. From there, all he had to do was hitch a ride inside the Fidelius charm, and you so graciously let him come along.”

“You… weren’t trying to catch us?” The reality hit her like a ton of bricks; each and every one of their carefully laid plans had been doomed before they even began. 

“Of course not. The probability of catching you in the middle of the Ministry, filled with slow-minded people under the Imperius Curse, was never going to happen. Much easier to get you on the run, isolated and cut off from your resources. Plus, my lord’s name was taboo; it couldn’t break a Fidelius Charm, but it could break through your wards. It took six months - and believe me, Muddy, I don’t like waiting - but finally you slipped up and were promptly delivered to me tied up like a pretty. little. package.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, what to think, or what to do. She felt like the rug had been pulled out from under her all over again. This whole time, the Death Eaters had just been toying with them, knowing their every move before they took it. They had thought they were fighting a war, when in actuality they were just an annoying fly on the Death Eaters’ backs, worthy of a swat now and again, but never truly a threat. 

“Now, enough of this,” Bellatrix snapped. “I didn’t bring Mr Potter here to listen to us talk.” 

“Of course not,” Hermione mumbled.

“I brought Mr Potter here for a much more important reason. We are going to use him as a test for you.” Bellatrix smiled, but no kindness showed behind her eyes; instead, only a calculated cruelty. 

“A test?” 

“Yes. You tell me you can use wordless, wandless magic, and I want to see it.” 

“What has that got to do with Harry?” Hermione asked, confused but still skeptical.

“Well, I needed something for you to use those pretty bluebell flames on, of course,” Bellatrix explained as if it were obvious. “I thought to myself, 

‘Who could help Miss Granger with her academic studies?’ and then it hit me. Who better than your best friend, Harry James Potter? What are friends for if not to lend a hand? And he will burn ever so nicely. I wonder if his portrait will smell the same as his barbecued body did?”

“No,” Hermione uttered, desolate. Staring down at the panicked eyes of the boy who was as good as her brother. Tears once again threatened to steal her vision. “I can’t…” 

Then something inside her transmutated. Her fear and distress galvanised and formed the base for her to take her stand. She looked up at Bellatrix, rebellion strengthening her resolve, and declared her challenge. “I won’t!” 

“Oh, but you will.” Bellatrix clicked her fingers, and the bound body of Leesey the house-elf popped into view. “You burn the boy, or I get to burn the elf.” 

Bellatrix’s eyes shone with a manic glee that would have made most grown men piss themselves. Hermione should have been scared. She should have swallowed her pride and burned her friend’s portrait to save a life. She should have thrown herself at Bellatrix’s feet and begged for mercy. 

But she didn’t. 

Instead, she stood stock still as the indigent bubble that had been growing within her chest since her second year expanded once again, filling her until she felt she might break open. Then she looked at the broken eyes of the house elf, and the bubble popped.

Hermione clambered to her feet, anger burning behind her eyes and hatred churning in her stomach. “How dare you?” She spat incredulously. With a wave of her hands, the ropes fell from Leesey’s body, coiling into a neat pile on the stone floor. 

Bellatrix’s eyes widened, though from shock, anger, or excitement, Hermione didn’t know, nor did she care. Instead, she simply released the slew of thoughts that she had been keeping to herself all these years with vitriol.

“Just because you are from an ancient and noble family does not give you the right to burn house-elves for your amusement! Leesey is a person. Not a robot. Not a house cleaning spell. A person! She had wants and needs, desires and dreams, just like you do, and if you stopped for even one second to observe her instead of treating her like a belonging, then you would know that. I am sick and tired of pureblood witches and wizards treating house-elves like second-class citizens. Are you aware that house-elves can travel through anti-apparition wards?

They use wordless, wandless magic every. single. day. And yet no one thinks them powerful or talented for doing so. I realise now that I cannot convince them to give up their slavery, but that doesn’t mean that it is right! They serve without question; heck, they want to serve - they don’t need to be beaten! It just means it has been ingrained in them for so many generations that they couldn’t possibly want anything else for themselves, and that is wrong, it’s disgusting, it’s vile. I will not be part of it. Burn me if you like,” she shrugged, “One day you’re going to go too far and kill me anyway, might as well be now. But I will not hurt a house-elf, and I will not stand aside and watch you do so. Not now, not ever.”

As Hermione paused to suck in a greedy lungful of air, Bellatrix casually flicked her wand to summon her usual chair, carefully settled upon it, then gestured for Hermione to continue. 

“I thought you were the brightest witch of your age, Bellatrix. But you are just as blinded by your family’s prejudices as Draco was. Being rich doesn’t make you better than me. Being pureblood doesn’t make you more powerful. It just makes you a fascist. And do you know what the Muggles did to the last fascist dictator? They hunted him down until he killed himself, and we never let the world forget. So know this, Bellatrix, if the Muggles can defeat Hitler, then us Muggle-borns can defeat you, and on that day I will dance as you burn on your funeral pyre.” Hermione’s eyes were blazing, tension quivering in every muscle, and her breathing heavy. She stared down at the witch, silently daring her to challenge her. She felt like she could burn the world to ash, she could take on Bellatrix Lestrange…although that sentiment wouldn’t last long. 

“You silly, silly girl.” Bellatrix shook her head slowly, her eyes narrowing, and her mouth curling into a sneer. “You might have managed a few wandless spells, Granger, but you’re forgetting something very important. I still have my wand.” The dark witch’s voice was quiet, but menacingly so. It was clear that the witch was struggling to control herself, manifesting in her whispered words, which chilled Hermione to the bone.

Hermione blanched; in her righteous anger, she had forgotten the situation she currently found herself in. She wasn’t in the Gryffindor common room with her fellow students; she wasn’t even facing off against Draco in the Great Hall. She was caught and caged like an animal. She had no friends, no wand, and no way out. She was a rat in a trap, and Bellatrix was no ordinary tabby cat - she was a black jaguar, capable of swallowing Hermione in one big bite. 

The curved wand was in hand before Hermione even saw Bellatrix move. With a looping knot-like swish of her hand, thick cords shot out of her wand and wrapped themselves around Hermione. The painting dropped to the floor as the young girl found herself flipped upside down. 

The ropes held her securely to the ceiling even as her world was flipped on its head. Her hair cascaded towards the floor, and her skirt was not far behind, but with her arms bound such as they were, she couldn’t even cover her modesty. 

Bellatrix stalked towards her prey, her moves as sensual as the panther Hermione often compared her to, a broad smile showing her now blindingly white teeth. 

“I have been patient with you, Muddy. I have allowed you time to adapt. I have fed you, watered you, even kept the dungeon climate controlled so you didn’t freeze to death ,” she shouted. “But my patience has limits. And right now, little girl, you are testing those limits.” 

The witch reached out a pointed nail and scraped it harshly down Hermione’s cheek, drawing a raised red welt in its wake. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now, pet?” 

Hermione swallowed thickly, finally aware of just how much danger she had placed herself in. “No, mistress.” 

The cruel cackle reverberated around the room, seeming to come at Hermione from every direction. 

“Oooh, it’s mistress again now, is it? Realised you might have stepped a little too far out of your box? Too late now, Muddy. You brought this on yourself.” 

The crooked wand pointed directly at Hermione’s nose was menacing, but the unhinged grin that hovered behind it was what shook her to her core. She hadn’t seen the full extent of the madness that lay within the witch since Malfoy Manor, and she wasn’t keen to see it again so soon. 

With a wink, Bellatrix turned her wand on the elf, who, despite being unbound, hadn’t fled. In fact, Hermione noticed, she had been unusually still; not even blinking or wringing her hands from anxiety. But her observations were cut short when Bellatrix screamed out a curse. 

“CRUCIO!”

“NO! Leesey!” Hermione’s voice joined the cacophony that echoed around the dungeon.

The little elf’s body crumpled onto the floor, a silent scream etched on her face. Leesey’s back bowed, and her fingers scrabbled at the floor, but Bellatrix didn’t stop. 

Tears were falling from Hermione’s eyes now, trickling down her forehead and absorbing into her hair. Her vision blurred, and her world narrowed down to the fuzzy image of the elf.

“Please stop, please don’t hurt her!” She cried pitifully, knowing deep down that the witch likely wouldn’t relent. “Hurt me , kill me - not her, please.”

“No,” Bellatrix spat back. “ You did this to her. You made me hurt her. Let this be a lesson for you, Granger. Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to kiss my boot, you kiss my boots. And if I tell you to burn the elf…you burn. the. elf. Do you understand?” she hissed. 

“I won’t! I can’t!” Hermione shrieked back. Seeing the small creature writhing on the floor broke her heart for the hundredth time that year. Flashes of Dobby’s broken and bleeding body flickered before her eyes until she wasn’t sure if she was watching Leesey being tortured in the dungeon or Dobby bleeding out outside Shell Cottage. Bellatrix Lestrange had hurt both of them, yet it was still true that neither of them would have been hurt if it weren’t for Hermione’s influence on her actions. It was her fault.

“Your choice, not mine.” Bellatrix shrugged, still holding the spell on the elf. 

“Please stop, please,” she begged. “I can’t hurt her.”  

“Oh, boo fucking hoo. It’s an elf! Just an elf. But fine! You don’t want me to hurt it? Your wish is my command.” Bellatrix dropped into a low curtsey before Hermione, snatching the painting from the floor as she did so. “Goodbye, Potter. Incendio.” 

Her eyes illuminated orange as the flames shot from her wand like a striking snake, but the glee that burned behind her eyes met it in its ferocity. Fire licked at the frame of the portrait, quickly consuming the wood. The painted Harry, still gagged, scrambled to leave his frame, but clearly this was the only one in existence, as he was unable to escape the confines of the burning frame, instead bumping off the edge as if met by an invisible force field. 

“HARRY! NO! HARRY!” Tears fell so thick and fast that Hermione’s eyes blurred, as her desperate - but fruitless - attempts to save Harry went unnoticed. 

Bellatrix began to sing, sounding like a toddler at a carol concert for psychos. A cruel rendition of London Bridge that left Hermione sick to her stomach.

“Harry Potter’s burning down, burning down, burning down.

Harry Potter’s burning down, my dear Muddy.

Muddy’s trapped by iron bars, iron bars, iron bars.

Muddy’s trapped by iron bars by her lady.

Leesey’s back will bend and break, bend and break, bend and break.

Leesey’s back will bend and break ‘coz of Muddy.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow pants as she fought off the panic that surged through her body. She could barely see from her own tears, but she could still make out the undeniable orange and red of the fire that she knew was consuming the final earthly trace of her friend. 

The flames moved from the black splodge that Hermione could only assume was Bellatrix and onto the floor, clearly too hot to hold any longer, but as they fell, a new scream started. It was a high-pitched noise that hurt Hermione’s ears, and she knew it was Leesey. 

“Oh, silly me, didn’t see you there, Leesey. I would say I’m terribly sorry for burning you, but…that would be a lie.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione cried, desperate to bear the brunt of the pain for her friends - being unable to help them was nearly as painful as facing the flames herself. 

“Because you said no,” was the only reply. 

“So hurt me! Burn me! Not them! I did it!” 

“Well, I think it’s too late on the not-burning front…” The awkwardness in her voice was as fake as her master’s blood purity. “But I can hurt you if you want, pet,” she offered. “And since you asked so nicely… Crucio!” 

Hermione’s screams drowned out the piercing one of Leesey and the muffled one of Harry. Hermione knew she would never get used to the feeling of a full-force Cruciatus from this woman, and somehow knowing that she could change the intensity of her spell only made it sting all the more. But at least the pain in her body finally matched the pain in her mind. And she deserved to be punished; she knew that. Leesey had been hurt because of her, Harry had been hurt because of her , even Dobby had been hurt because of her. She would take her punishment, each and every lick of pain that the witch wanted to inflict, because deep down she knew that her suffering was justified. 

The dull throbbing behind her eyes ever since she woke up had now intensified - it felt like her skull was in a vice with someone methodically tightening the screw. The tender skin under her armpits from weeks without bathing, now burnt and stung like someone had poured acid on her skin. Every microscopic pain she had was intensified until she felt she might vomit from the overwhelming sensation of pain. On top of that were the feelings of hundreds of hypodermic needles piercing her skin, each of her joints being dislocated, and every bone broken, pinpricks of pain as every hair on her body was plucked out methodically. It was nothing short of physical and mental torture…and she welcomed it. Greeting each pain with thanks. Somehow, it hurt less to be tortured along with her friends than it did just to watch it happen.  She fought valiantly for each breath she took, forcing her eyes to remain open despite the near-blinding pain and the blurred vision from her tears. But she had to keep watching the flames; she couldn’t look away. 

Finally, after she screamed herself hoarse, the pain stopped. A gentle hand cupped her face, and a thumb swiped the tears from her eyes. Hermione knew the only person it could be before her vision cleared, but it was still a surprise to find Bellatrix Black staring down at her with something akin to fondness. Even more surprising still was, somehow, Hermione was rightside up again; she hadn’t noticed herself being flipped the second time. 

A kiss was placed on her forehead, as a gentle threat was whispered into her ear. “Do not disappoint me again, little witch. I won’t be so patient next time.” 

Hermione could do nothing but stare dead-eyed at the retreating figure of the witch. Her head was pounding, her throat raw, and her fingernails bled - presumably from scratching at her bindings. The room was just as it always had been, no embers of a burnt portrait or body of the tortured elf, only the unforgiving cold stone stared back at her once more. 

As soon as the lock clicked shut behind Bellatrix, Hermione felt herself carefully lowered to the floor. She curled up into a ball on her side, not even bothering to crawl the few feet to her mattress. Her tears continued to fall, hot and wet against her cheek, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered to the empty room. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this on my own.” 

With great effort, she grasped the edge of her blanket, pulled it over herself, and, not for the first time, wished things had gone differently in her life as she sobbed herself to sleep. 

As Bella left the dungeon, the moment the door closed behind her, she released the ropes around Hermione. She quickly skipped up the second flight of stairs, keen to get out of Hermione’s earshot.

“Leesey?” she called as she stepped out into the main corridor.

The elf popped into existence, completely unharmed. “Yes, Mistress.” 

“Send Gibrah to visit the Mudblood for the next few days. I may have used a decoy of you to play with her. Oh, and I want treacle pudding for dinner.” 

“Yes, my lady.” Leesey bowed, far too used to her mistress’s strange requests to even note them as strange anymore. 

“I’m going for a nap,” Bella announced. “Burning fake elves and portraits is hard work! Who knew?!” 

Chapter Text

“Where’s my favourite Muddykins?” Bellatrix called from behind the door, the glee evident in her voice already.

“Down here,” Hermione called back, her voice hollow.

Bellatrix pushed open the door and rested her hip against the door frame, with her arms folded under her ample chest. Hermione hated herself for noticing that the dark witch looked breathtaking; the soft glow of the candles on her face, the brighter light from the hallway backlighting her in an almost ethereal glow. But then the moving air from the door finally hit the candles down in the dungeon, and the erratic flickering across Bellatrix’s face became far too close to the flames from the night before. Hermione winced and wrapped her arms tighter around herself.​

The dark witch quirked an eyebrow. “Who said it was you?” She looked entirely like the cat that caught the canary.

Hermione groaned, rolling off her mattress and onto the floor, tearing her eyes from the image of Bellatrix on the stairs as she did so. “No one did. I just assumed,” she grumbled. As much as her heart rate spiked whenever the dark witch was close, right now all she wanted to do was go back to sleep. Maybe when she woke up again, she would find it had all been a nightmare.

“And what happens when we assume?” Bellatrix asked rhetorically. “It makes an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me.’” She paused for a second, though if it was to give her time to think or just for dramatic effect, Hermione wasn’t sure. “But, on this occasion, you were correct. You are the only mildly tolerable Mudblood I know.”

Bellatrix’s heels clip-clopped down the stairs in a way that made it sound like she was running or perhaps…skipping? Trust Bellatrix Lestrange to skip the day after killing her head elf. Thank Morganna that Leesey had been saved from the mortifying fate of being stuffed and mounted on the wall.

“Now, Mudpup, after yesterday’s appalling show, I have decided we need to improve your obedience. And it’s going to be such fun!” She announced gleefully.

Hermione could almost hear the dark glint in the other woman’s eyes, and she knew this was going to be bad…very bad. She should have known that her outburst the previous day would have further consequences. Although she wasn’t sure what could be worse than watching Leesey burn to ash with Harry’s portrait along with her.

All night, she had been plagued by nightmares; Heart-stopping images of Harry, engulfed in flames, and walking towards her as if unaffected by the fire. In his arms, he held the small, broken body of Leesey - limp and lifeless, yet alight from the same flames that engulfed Harry.​

She woke in a blind panic, her heart beating out a samba in her chest, and her skin doing its very best to turn her cell into a swimming pool. She tried to remember how the dream had ended, but it slipped from her mind like smoke, and the more she tried to grasp hold of the threads of memory, the quicker they dissipated. All she could remember clearly was the burning effigy that Harry and Leesey had become, and that it was all her fault.

Frankly, after that, she was too tired to care what happened to her today, and that in and of itself was dangerous. She was notorious for letting her mouth run away with her if she were tired or in pain. The boys had still never let her forget her infamous ‘killed - or worse, expelled’ comment in their first year. But in her defence, that was after a madcap adventure to duel Draco, where they ended up running from Filch, Peeves, and then Fluffy, the three-headed dog.

Now, her body ached from the previous day’s activities, and her headache was worse than ever - conditions nearly tailor-made to trigger her lack of forethought. She hoped that her mouth wouldn’t run away with her and get her in even more trouble than she was already in.

“Imperius or not, pet?” Bellatrix asked calmly. “Up to you. But if I have to spell you, it will end up worse for you in the long run. Although I don’t think you are going to be…hmm, let's say amenable to following these instructions,” she said conspiratorially, giving Hermione the barest hint at the severity of the coming discomfort.

Hermione thought for a moment. She had no idea what the witch planned, but their history suggested she would end up obeying anyway. Maybe, if she played along and did what Lestrange asked, the witch would go a bit easier on her. If not, Bellatrix could always cast the curse, and Hermione would dance like a marionette to her captor's dark demands.

With the echo of her nightmare fresh in her mind, she knew she couldn’t dare say no to the witch again, certainly not so soon after the events of the day before. Maybe if she did as she was told, Bellatrix wouldn’t harm anyone else. It was improbable, implausible, and frankly inconceivable, but she had to try.

She set her jaw and corrected her posture, drawing on a strength she wasn’t sure she had anymore.

“I’ll do it. No Imperius,” she said confidently, even though she felt anything but.

Bellatrix literally squealed in delight, and that was the moment Hermione knew she was royally fucked.

“Right, Muddy, off your knees. Go sit on your bed. Ha!” Bellatrix exclaimed, sounding like a lightbulb had just lit up in her mind. “Yes, be a good Mudpuppy, and go to your bed.” The cackle reverberated around the dungeon much the same as it had the day before, and a lead weight dropped into Hermione’s stomach. It was uncomfortable, and yet her skin prickled in a way she hadn’t been expecting. The air was loaded, although she wasn’t quite sure why. It certainly felt tense, but in a very different way than it had yesterday.

She sat cross-legged on top of her wool blanket, worrying the delicate skin at the corner of her thumbnail, the slight scratch of the coarse wool against her bare legs strangely grounding. She could feel the anticipation building within the room, already threatening to press the air from her lungs, but she refused to give Bellatrix the satisfaction of seeing her scared…again. She rolled her shoulders back, took a steadying breath, and then looked up at the gothic enigma above her.

Bellatrix pulled her wand from her untamed curls. With a flick, the bars melted into smoke, which she easily walked through; the smoke curled around her like oil on water, almost lost in the inky black mess of her curls. Then the smoke solidified behind her, once more forming the iron bars of her cage. But now the bars weren’t forming a barrier to keep them apart; no, now it was the cage that locked them together—the predator and the prey confined by the self-same bars. With a now-practised move, Bella simultaneously rotated her wand, and she sat down in midair; the chair materialised perfectly below her.

She watched Hermione for a long while, the tip of her crooked wand tapping against her lower lip. Hermione felt trapped in her gaze. Unwilling to maintain such intense eye contact and yet unable to break away. Bellatrix had a magnetism to her - terrifying, yes, and yet just being in her orbit seemed to amplify Hermione’s every move; her anger burned hotter, her fear bit sharper, and her skin tingled with anticipation. It also felt as if her intellect was waking from a long slumber. She had always been the brains of the trio; she loved Harry, and he was great in a crisis, but he wasn’t particularly intellectual. And as for Ron...well, the less said about him the better. Hermione herself had always found more stimulating conversation with her professors than with her peers. But Bellatrix not only matched her conversationally but challenged her. Hermione didn’t feel the need to limit her vocabulary, overly explain her observations, or back up her points with anything more than a book title. As a result, she craved these conversations, but then she hadn’t experienced anything like this since that one time she and McGonagall had spent a pleasant afternoon drinking tea, eating biscuits, and discussing the intricacies of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.

Bellatrix and McGonagall did have a fair number of similarities, although she was sure both would vehemently disagree. Both were the second-in-command of their respective sides, not only the highest-ranking woman within their armies but also the highest-ranking soldier outright. Both extremely talented witches in their respective fields, but with a depth of knowledge on a whole array of magical topics. Both brightest witches of their respective ages - although Hermione wondered how many years constituted an ‘age’ as there was a scant 16 years between McGonagall and Bellatrix, and only 28 years after Bellatrix came Hermione. Did 44 years really encompass 3 ‘ages’?

A voice in the back of her head decided to interject most unhelpfully.

‘Both have a habit of being unusually harsh to Longbottoms…”​

The thought had slipped through her carefully constructed mental partitions, burning hot and bright in her mind. The thoughts that were too dangerous or too painful to face were locked deep in the recesses of her mind, blocked from even herself, and yet the memory of McGonagall's treatment of Neville broke through like a particularly stubborn weed. She wanted to defend McGonagall, even from her own judgment, and yet she had banned Neville from Hogsmeade, given him detention, and worst of all, banned anyone from giving him the password to Gryffindor Tower. Poor Neville had even been forced to sleep in the corridor one terrible night, accidentally being the last Gryffindor back to the tower, and without the password, he had no other choice. It had been a decision by McGonagall that had needled Hermione ever since.​

‘And you have a crush on both of them,’ the voice snorted.

Hermione felt her cheeks flame, and a sick sort of dread began to form in her stomach.

Then Bellatrix, who had clearly observed whatever it was she had been watching for, pushed an errant curl behind her ear, leaned forward slightly, and then began to speak in a low but commanding voice.

“Now, we're going to see how many of my instructions you can follow. So…we’ll start with something easy. Stick out that pretty little tongue of yours. Open your mouth nice and wide, that’s it.”

Hermione, reluctantly, opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out, only a little bit at first, but, with Bellatrix’s encouragement, soon she had her mouth open wide and her tongue thrust outwards as far as it would go.

A pleased rumble emanated from the witch's chest. “That’s a good girl. It’s delightful when you follow instructions, Muddy,” Bellatrix praised.

“Thank you?” Hermione asked, sounding silly even to her own ears as she tried to speak with her tongue stuck out the way it was. But still, whilst she was unsure of exactly what she should say, she knew she had to say something, and ‘thank you’ seemed the right thing.

“Oh, she’s a polite little puppy too,” Bella asked with a raised brow. “Rub your tummy and pat your head.” The command was issued with no preamble. The tone made it clear that this was an instruction that would be followed, unless Hermione was ready to face the consequences of her refusal. The threat of which was still freshly imprinted upon her mind.

Hermione rolled her eyes but complied. She rubbed circles across her tummy and patted her head in turn, feeling, for all intents and purposes, like a performing monkey.

Bellatrix smiled, a crooked smirk that sent Hermione’s heart into a canter. “Now, I want you to run your fingers through your hair, scratch your nails against your scalp, and then pull,” Bellatrix instructed.

Hermione seriously doubted if that was even possible; her hair had been in its ponytail for nearly two weeks at this point, and whilst  she had been trying to keep it tangle-free with her fingers, there was only so much she could do. After a week under captivity, her hair had formed tangles too tight to unravel with just her fingers. But Bellatrix wouldn’t care for her excuses, and so Hermione lifted her hands to her head.

She pulled the overstretched bobble from her hair, slipping it over her wrist, and attempted to press her fingers through towards her scalp. She just about managed to scratch her nails against her scalp, as requested, and couldn’t help the soft groan that fell from her lips. Running her fingers through the rest of her hair, however, proved difficult. An inch or so away from her scalp, her fingers ground to a halt, caught behind the mat that had formed in her hair. She looked up at Bellatrix with pleading eyes, unsure how to proceed when her hair wasn’t cooperating.

The dark witch rolled her eyes, gave a frustrated sigh, and then pointed her wand at Hermione. “Enodare,” she muttered. The knots began to unravel themselves, leaving the honey locks soft and tangle-free.

Hermione’s fingers slipped through to the end of her hair, and she released a shocked giggle; knot-free hair was a luxury she had quickly come accustomed to being without, and the feeling of it felt as close to ecstasy as Hermione had found in this new existence, apart from when she had cum the other night… But she purposefully refused to think about that.

She looked up at the witch in bewilderment. “I…I knew you would help me.” It was a statement of amazement. Despite their previous interactions, the curses, cuts, and criticism, Hermione hadn’t expected anything but help when the witch had lifted her wand to her. She could have cursed her, shaved her bald, or any number of nasty things, but Hermione knew she wouldn’t hurt her, had faith that Bellatrix would not break the fragile trust they were building between them.

“You did?” Bellatrix asked, surprised and possibly a little offended.

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me,” she stuttered back, astonished that she had begun to predict the unpredictable witch in just 4 days.

“I should probably remedy that…” the dark witch grumbled. She rested her crooked wand against the dimple in her cheek and watched Hermione with a look of deep contemplation on her face. She watched for what felt like an age, until finally she continued. “But I won’t. We’re playing a game, and it would be cruel to change the rules midway through.”

“It would?” Hermione asked, confused but hopeful.

“Obviously, Muddy. What’s the fun in winning if you rig the game! Honestly.” She rolled her eyes.

“I…don’t know what to say now,” she laughed awkwardly.

“Who says you need to say anything?” Bellatrix asked, her head tilted sideways like an intrigued Labrador. “Why don’t we just keep playing?” she offered.

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it again. She opened it one more time, and then, with a shrug, she replied. “Okay.”

“Fantastic!” Bellatrix jumped to her feet. She grasped the back of the chair with one hand, picked it up, and swung it around her hip. As the chair's legs landed on the floor again, this time facing the opposite direction, Bellatrix sat back down, this time straddling the chair with her hands resting on the back of the chair. The entire thing was strangely impressive and a little bit hot.

She looked at Hermione as if she had just accepted a dare at a sleepover: excited, expectant, and just a little deviant. “Something harder?”

Hermione paused for a second, but she was never one to stand down for a challenge, and she certainly wasn’t going to fail a test. She nodded.

“Lie back against the pillow and close your eyes,” she instructed. “You can even get under the covers if it makes you feel better,” she drawled, her eyes flicking to the ceiling in an overdramatic roll.

Hermione knew as soon as the command came that this entire thing had been a setup for the true challenge; she had been caught like a rat in a trap, lured in by the promise of cheese. However, she still did as she was told - albeit taking the easier route of slipping beneath the protective shield the woollen blanket provided.

“Now, let’s see how brave this little lion is. I want you to put your hand under that blanket you’re hiding behind. I want you to slide it under the waistband of your skirt,” she paused, the weight of her words gathering within the room, “over your underwear, and let your hand just…rest there. Can you do that for me, Muddy?” Her voice took on a sweetness at the end, almost gentle in its questioning.

Hermione held still for a second, weighing up the pros and cons in her mind. She knew that touching her underwear wasn’t going to be the final command. There had to be more to this game that Bellatrix had started, and Hermione wasn’t sure if she really wanted to play. But then a voice, distinctly Hermione’s own, said. “Oh, just do it, you want to. She’s going to make you do it anyway if you say no. At least you can do it under the covers.”

With a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, Hermione slipped her hand beneath the blanket. Her fingers inched towards her waistband and slowly slid under the thick band. She bit down on her lip as she felt the tiny ribbon bow that seemed to exist on every pair of ladies' underwear in the entirety of the world for some unknown reason. Still, her hand slid lower. Finally, when the heel of her palm was resting against her pubic bone and her fingers were curled round between her thighs, she looked up at Bellatrix, hoping that she wouldn’t be expected to verbally acknowledge her completion of the challenge.

“Well done. Now, do you know where your clit is?”

Hermione, despite the current situation where the power swayed firmly in Bellatrix’s direction, raised her eyebrow in a look that clearly said, ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ The whole thing broke the tension that was cocooning them like a spider’s silk - whisper soft and as light as a feather but slowly but surely tightening around them.

“Okay, okay, just checking…Merlin. I wasn’t sure how much of a prude you were. For all I know, Muggles don’t teach you that touching your clit feels good,” she blustered. Though her facade was ruined by the smirk that twisted in the corner of her lip.

“Oh…well, they don’t really.” Hermione shrugged. “They teach us it exists in a scientific kinda sense, but they don’t really talk about it beyond it existing.”

“Next thing you’ll be telling me they don’t teach you… whatever the Muggle version of protection is!” Bellatrix laughed.

Hermione’s lip twisted into a grimace, she sucked her teeth for a moment, and then continued. “They do it for penises, but if there isn’t a penis involved, then you’re on your own.

“I’m sorry what!?!”

“Yeah…,” Hermione replied awkwardly. “I was 16 before I knew dental dams existed for more than just dental surgery.” At Bellatrix’s look of complete confusion, Hermione expanded. “That’s a barrier that muggles use during oral sex on a vagina.”

“At least we magic folk have proper sex education! We all knew the appropriate charms by 12 at the oldest, for all combinations of partners. I despair! See, this is why muggles need to be controlled, Muddy, they're breeding like rabbits and apparently don't know how to stop it!"

Throughout her ranting, Bellatrix had constantly fidgeted; her leg bounced up and down, her wand tip tapped rhythmically against her thigh, and her off hand moved frantically through the air. Despite that, Hermione didn’t feel threatened. There were similarities to the mad witch she had met in battle, but Bellatrix’s eyes weren’t bulging dramatically out of her head, and that made the whole thing all the more adorable to the bookworm.

“Adorable?! Where did that come from, Hermione? Bellatrix Lestrange is not adorable.” She shook her head to clear the thought from her mind as quickly as she could.

“Well, I mean, we’re definitely better at preventing unwanted babies than we are at protecting against sexually transmitted diseases,” Hermione grumbled.

“You…can pass on diseases…sexually?” Bella asked, astounded, as all expression dropped from her face.  

“Yeah. There are a few. AIDS is probably the best known in the muggle world, but it’s not the only one, not by far.”

“AIDS?”

“Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome,” Hermione parroted easily, having heard all about the AIDS epidemic on the evening news back at home. “It attacks the white blood cells, basically meaning that any other disease is nearly impossible to avoid. A lot of muggles died.”

“But that’s not a thing anymore, right? They figured out what it was and got rid of it?”

Hermione signed, as if a weight was settling on her shoulders. “You would think so. But no, there are even people who know they have an STD, and yet they still have unprotected sex with others. Although most of the people who pass them on simply didn’t know they had it in the first place,” she corrected.

Bellatrix jumped to her feet as if hit by lightning, all but cowering behind the chair. “You don’t have one, do you? Would you know? Or would you just drop down dead?”

“The chances are very, very low. I’ve never had sex, Bellatrix. I’ve never butchered meat or been around cattle. Risk factor-wise, I’m pretty safe.”

“Can we check? What if…” There was a fear in her eyes now, a fear that Hermione had never seen before.

“It should show on a diagnostic check. But honestly, you’ve probably got a higher risk than I do,” she laughed. “As much as I am loath to think about it, you’ve probably been around Muggles’ blood a lot more than I have.”

“What, do you think I bathe in blood? Because that’s definitely more fiction than fact, Muddy. WAIT! SHIT! I COULD GET IT FROM BLOOD?!”

“Yes, if you got some in a cut, or your eye, or if you… for example, licked the blood off a knife.”

Bellatrix blanched. Falling back onto the chair, she quickly ran a diagnostic charm over herself, the prognosis hanging in the air only showing the standard comments on her mental health and the slight weakness in her right ankle. She took a second to allow the relief to flow through her system, glad that she was facing away from Hermione.

She gave herself exactly 5 seconds, and then she turned her wand on Hermione, casting the same diagnostic charm that she had performed on herself. The floating diagnostic scroll revealed several things wrong with the witch. She was underweight, undernourished, dehydrated, she was showing signs of mental distress, and she had a low-grade headache as well. The last thing on the scroll was the scar on her arm that was, unsurprisingly, still cursed. However, no sign of an STD.

“Damn, I’m not in such great shape, am I?” Hermione laughed humourlessly.

“Not terribly so, no,” Bellatrix deadpanned.

“Could I, perhaps, have some extra water?” Hermione asked timidly, scared to push the witch after yesterday’s outburst.

“No.” Was the monotone answer from the witch. There was no hostility in the tone, no mirth or malice, simply a denial of the request. “And anyway, we’re busy. You can think of water later.”

This pulled Hermione up short; she had thought that, despite yesterday’s situation, they were getting along better overall. She didn’t think that asking for extra water was pushing the boundaries they had begun to feel out.

“Oh, I thought-”

“I’m sure you didn’t think at all, actually. I told you, Muddy, I don’t change the rules halfway through a game,” Bellatrix replied petulantly.  

“You did say that,” Hermione begrudgingly acquiesced.

“Now,” Bellatrix smirked, “we are going to give you a proper sexual education, show you exactly what a clitoris is for.”

Hermione huffed angrily. “I know what a cl-”

“Ah, ah, ah, little witchling, manners. I am, after all, offering you both a lesson and pleasure. I would have thought that would be right up your alley, brainbox,” she teased as she carefully placed her wand back into the holder up her sleeve.

“I…can’t come up with an adequate rebuttal that didn’t sound like I was being petty,” she admitted.

Bellatrix’s smile widened, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. “Good!”

Then her voice dropped, a weight of control slipping into her tone. “Now, you will follow my instructions. If you’re good, I might even get you some more water.”

The young witch nodded her consent, caught once more in the magnetism of the other witch’s dark eyes.

“Okay. Now, pet, I want you to slide your hand back out of your skirt. Slide it, slowly, but gently, up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, and up towards your throat.” Her words were gentle, soothing, and authoritative in equal measure. Hermione found herself almost hypnotised by the tone. She did as she had been instructed, slowly skirting just the tips of her fingers across her body. She was surprised by just how readily her nerve endings fired from the barest of touches, especially through her clothes, but with Bellatrix’s words and expectation adding weight to the movement, it almost felt like an electric current was following in the wake of her fingertips.

“That’s it. Beautiful,” Bellatrix praised huskily. “I want you to wrap your hand around your throat, don’t choke yourself, just feel your pulse beneath your fingers, the way it flutters and dances.”

Hermione followed the instruction, feeling her pulse jump against her fingers, and her heart rate was noticeably quicker than usual. The air was thick now, the tension pressing down upon them, as if the very walls of the dungeon were holding its breath.

“Take one finger, and run the very tip of it over the outline of your lips, across your nose, trace it up to your eyebrows, then follow your finger down your cheek. Truly appreciate each curve and line of your face, appraise it as if it were art, a sculpture perhaps.”

It tickled, but not in an unpleasant way. Had she ever given each individual part of her face this much attention before?  If she had known it could feel this soothing - this grounding - she might have done it more often. But her time alone had been limited and often dedicated to much more important things like reading, or the occasional orgasm just to keep things ticking over. She had never thought to spend her time touching her face or her neck, but she enjoyed the way her body was reacting, almost as if she herself was an instrument. Hermione could get her body to play a few tunes with enough motivation, but Bella could make a body sing.

“Now cradle your hand around your cheek and neck, allow yourself to feel the way your skin responds. Is your skin warm? Does it tingle beneath your palm?” Bellatrix’s eyes glittered as she watched a shiver track its way down Hermione’s spine. “You look ever so pretty when you follow my instructions, pet. So submissive. So good for me.”

Hermione’s eyes teared up. Something about the gentle words and the soft touches cracked her clean open, but in a way that didn’t feel raw or distressing. Though tears filled her eyes, she didn’t feel out of control. But more than that, she didn’t need the control; Bellatrix had the entire situation nestled in the palm of her hand, and Hermione was safe to let go. Everything would be alright if only she followed the instructions.

“Using your other hand, I want you to gently trail your finger up your side, follow the curve of your waist, and let your fingers graze over the swell of your breast. Once your nipples are hard, and they will be, I want you to brush your knuckles against them. Feel as they tighten and pucker, growing taut under your fingers.”

Hermione did as she was bidden, and brushed her fingers against her chest. She gasped softly as, even through the layers of fabric, she felt her nipples pucker exactly as Bellatrix had predicted. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her skin as adrenaline rushed through her system, and she could smell the faint, salty tang of it, mixed with the deep, coffee, pine, and cinnamon of Bellatrix’s scent. The scent surrounded her, almost as impactful as having the woman herself draped across her body, but without the comforting weight that she suspected would come with the latter. She closed her eyes, the sensory input simply too much, and instead allowed herself to get lost in Bellatrix's voice.

“Merlin,” Bellatrix groaned. “Such a good pet. Take your nipple between your fingers and pull.” The words were whispered like a promise - though of pain or pleasure, Hermione wasn’t sure.

She did her best to grip her nipple through the fabric of her shirt and bra, but she couldn’t find purchase. She groaned in disappointment and frustration, annoyed at herself that she couldn’t figure out a working solution. Her lower lip stuck out just slightly, a furrow forming in her brow, and she released little puffs of breath each time she failed.

Bellatrix chuckled. “You’re cute when you're angry, pet.” Then, pulling her wand from her sleeve, she cooed. “Don’t worry, little witch, I’ve got you.”

With a twirl of the curved wand, and a subtle flutter of magic, Hermione would have sworn that someone was pinching and pulling at her nipples. Of course, no one was touching her, but it felt like someone had slipped their hands under her clothes; she could even feel the sharp edge of fingernails.

“Oh god,” she moaned, unable to maintain her composure. She didn’t know what to do with her hand now, and allowed it to drop limply to her sides as she tried to absorb the feelings running through her body. There was, however, a voice in the back of her mind that was screaming that she was disappointing, that she had failed, that Bellatrix had gone silent because she hadn’t met her standards.

But Bellatrix didn’t soothe the obvious distress in the girl; instead, she left Hermione floundering within her own head. Perfectly happy to watch the girl struggle. Pleased, in fact, to see the girl’s pleasure awash with the telltale signs of anguish.

Finally, the silence was too much for Hermione. “Please tell me what to do!” she pleaded the older witch with tear-pricked eyes.

“Oh, Muddy, all you had to do was ask. Put that free hand back beneath the blanket. I want you to stroke the skin of your inner thighs, spread your legs if you have to, I don’t mind,” she purred lowly.

Hermione flushed; somehow, the act of spreading her legs was so much more embarrassing than fondling herself over her clothes had been. The act itself wasn’t inherently sexual, but somehow the implications of the act had the ability to send her blood boiling in embarrassment and desire.

“Ahh, is ikkle Muddy embawassed? Don’t worri,” she dropped the baby talk. “You won’t care in a few minutes when you’re cumming on your own fingers like a fucking desperate whore.” She smirked, her red lips curving into a self-satisfied smile that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine once more.

“You like that?” Bellatrix smirked, eyebrow arched.

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, her voice strangled by a wave of embarrassment and arousal. Heart pounding, she dropped her eye line, silently begging her reddening cheeks to speak for her. She slid her skirt up around her waist, hands trembling as she followed the humiliating command, fingers lingering with a needy anticipation on her thighs.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the dark witch laughed. “Oh, Muddy, if you like a bit of degradation, we’re going to get along swimmingly. Let us see just how swimmingly…” she added darkly. “I want you to slap your inner thighs. I’ll be nice, you don’t have to go as hard as you can. I will allow you to start lightly, and we will build it up together. But I want you to hit hard enough that I hear the slap. One on each thigh.”

Hermione allowed herself to stop thinking for once, to sink into each instruction, and allow the submission to wash over her like a warm wave. Her mind moved as if through honey, but her body responded promptly. She didn’t even question the command, and two sharp slaps rang out against her thighs. “Fuck!” she groaned.

“Miss Granger, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” Bellatrix responded with mock-shock. “Good heavens, the Wizengamot ladies would be clutching their pearls. But luckily, I am not part of the Wizengamot… actually, there aren’t many Ladies of the Wizengamot left…” She shrugged. “There aren’t many Gentlemen of the Wizengamot left. All those who would stand against us had to go.” Bellatrix's eyes went unfocused, and it was clear that she was seeing more than just the cell in front of her.

“It was beautiful, Muddy. We did it in Courtroom Ten, exactly where they condemned us all, so many years ago. I watched as the tiles turned red with blood, as their heads bounced down the stairs, and their headless torsos slumped on the benches. It was magnificent. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but then again…no. I did see Potter go up in smoke on a barbecue. I don’t think anything could beat that.”

Hermione’s heart lurched painfully at the memory of her best friend’s sad excuse of a funeral pyre. A sound escaped her lips—a shaky, grief-ridden breath—that made Bellatrix’s piercing gaze snap sharply to her, their shared attention loaded with the weight of their past conflict and their presently shared arousal.

“But we’re getting distracted!” Red lips lifted at one corner, the cruel twisted smirk of a predator who liked to play with their food. “I think we can handle a few more hits, can’t we? Can you take more for me, Muddy?” she cooed, her voice dropping back into that seductive purr that had Hermione’s stomach turn to molten heat despite the hatred that burned within her heart.

“I… yes.” Hermione set her jaw; she could take a few more hits. It wasn’t as if there was anything she could do to bring the dead back after all; she could only focus on her own survival.

“Perfect, a further four to each side should do it, and make it count, Muddy.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Hermione delivered a further slap to each thigh, a fraction harder than she had before. Her cheeks grew hot as her arousal built, but still she continued in her task. The sound of the spanking rang clear in the dungeon even from below the blanket. The hits once again set off a chemical explosion in her brain; Oxytocin, Dopamine, Adrenaline, all surging through her like a tidal wave. 

When she reached her mental count of ten strikes, Hermione paused, her breath hitching. Her forearm brushed her underwear, and a cold, wet shock kissed her flesh. Not that she was unaware of how wet she was, she couldn’t have ignored it if she tried, but it was a humiliating reminder of her own slick arousal. Heat and shame tangled in her belly, the illicit thrill of her predicament sending a sick shiver of pleasure through her body, even as she burned with embarrassment.

“I can practically smell you.” She gave a deep inhale, sounding somewhere between a throaty growl and a groan. The sound rumbled from deep in Bellatrix's chest and settled low in Hermione’s stomach. “I think we should probably do something about that for you. It would be terribly rude of me to leave you all worked up like this.”

Bellatrix levelled her with a stare, intense but laden with a weight that Hermione didn’t fully understand. Hermione stared back confidently. She didn’t know what Bellatrix was looking for, but Hermione wouldn’t be found wanting.

“Put your fingers on your clit, pet. On top of your underwear if you must.” She rolled her eyes.

A fire flickered within Hermione, the fire that never backed down from a challenge, test, or quiz. Her ferocious stubborn streak, which even time on the run hadn’t managed to dampen. She slid her fingers upwards from her inner thigh, slid them beneath the waistband of her underwear, and groaned as the pads of her fingers grazed her slick flesh.

“So Miss brave-as-a-lion Gryffindor… whatcha pick?” Bellatrix asked, her eyes as excited as a kid at Christmas.

Hermione blushed, purposefully focused her eyes on the ceiling, and muttered. “I always go for extra credit…”

The infamous cackle bounced around the room, reverberating against the smooth stone. “Extra credit! Ha! Good one, Granger.”

Hermione glared stubbornly, her cheeks blazing with humiliation and defiance, unable to outrun the flush of shame that colored her an even darker shade of red as she felt Bellatrix’s mocking laughter strike her down to her core.

Bellatrix's laughter grew louder. “Oh my Merlin! You aren’t joking. You actually want to go for extra credit? Oh, this is brilliant.” A single tear tracked down her cheek in her laughter. “Whoo, no. Okay. Okay. Pull it back, Bella, pull it back.” She shook herself from head to toe, violently shaking her head in a way that made her look like a nodding dog on a motorway.

“Right… where were we… Oh yes, the Mudblood with her fingers on her pussy. How could I forget? I want you to trace your fingertip across your cunt, let your fingers get nice and wet, but don’t touch your clit yet.”

Bellatrix’s attention was zeroed in on Hermione now; gone was the fidgeting and faffing, replaced by the single-minded focus that the dark witch usually withheld for the battlefield.  Hermione did as she was told, sliding her fingers through the coarse hair that grew at the apex of her thighs. She slid the pads of her fingers down until she found the smooth, wet skin of her labia, and then she dipped inside just enough to get them wet. Her breathing was laboured, the motion of her fingers carried the weight of Bellatrix’s stare so that even the barest touch sent her body ablaze.

​“Are they nice and wet, Muddy?” Bellatrix whispered. The room was so still and silent, almost like the very stones were holding their breath, so despite Bellatrix’s words being barely more than air, Hermione still heard each word as clearly os if they had been spoken directly into her ear.​

“Yes,” she husked back.

“Good. Two fingers on your clit, little witch, and make tiny little circles. Slowly.” The words were spoken like a challenge, a plea, and a death sentence. Dangerous as the sharp tip of a blade, erotic as the laboured breath of a lover, and as final as the swing of the executioner's axe.

With the first rotation of her fingers against her clit, Hermione groaned. The whole thing was dirty in the best way, controlled and yet oddly freeing, twisted and toxic, but arousing nonetheless. She didn’t understand why she was getting off on the situation, but she was, and she wasn’t going to fight against it, not when it was one of the only pleasurable experiences she had had in so many months. If the only comfort she was going to have in this life came from sexual gratification with Bellatrix, then so be it. She was too far past broken to deny herself pleasure.  

Her fingers swirled again and again, each rotation pushing her closer to the edge, the hungry look on the dark witch’s face driving her onward. The intensity on Bellatrix's face was addictive, the near feral way she flicked her gaze from Hermione’s face to the hidden movement beneath the blanket.

“That’s it, Muddy, just like that,” Bellatrix encouraged.

“Oh God!” Hermione cried, her back bowing as pleasure sparked through her body.

“Hmm, not quite, but I’ll take it,” Bellatrix smirked.

Hermione bit down on her lower lip, her face scrunched up in a not-too-attractive expression as she tried in vain to hold back her moans.

“If you bite that lip any harder, it’ll bleed. Not that I’m complaining, but then I might be tempted to taste it, and after that AIDs thing… well, I’d rather not. Stop holding back. I want to hear you. Let me hear you!”

Those words were the permission she needed, and the sound of her pleasure spewed from her mouth like a prayer.  A deep, guttural groan from Hermione was met with a rumbling hum of approval from the dark witch.

“When you get close, I want you to speed up. You will ask permission to cum before you do.”

“Fuck,” she uttered. “Yes, Mistress.”

“You look so pretty for me, touching your cunt like a hungry little thing. Such a perfect little whore.”

“Oh God…” Hermione squeaked, her cheeks flushing pink once more.

“Don’t panic, little witch, I’ll stop teasing. Wouldn’t want to distract you, now, would I?”

Hermione closed her eyes tightly, a desperate flush colouring her cheeks as shame and need battled within her. She hesitated for a split second, then, unable to look at the dark witch, forced herself to speak the words she knew she must. "Please, don’t stop," she begged.

“Oh ho ho! Who would have thought it? Miss Golden Granger really does enjoy a bit of dirty talk. If only the press knew. They would have a field day! But lucky for me, today I get you all to myself.”

“Fuck! Ohh.” Hermione’s fingers sped up, moving with purpose against her sodden clit. Her body felt wound tight, like a bow string just before the arrow is released.

“Oh, Muddy, we are going to have such fun, you and I. The things I could teach you! The things I could do to you. By the time I’m finished with you, you won't even recognise yourself.”

“Please!” Hermione cried, not sure if she was asking to cum or for Bellatrix to keep talking.

“Please what, Muddy?”

“I…”

“Make use of those pretty lips of yours and tell me what you want?”

“I want….”

“Closer, but still not a complete sentence.”

“I want you to…be mean.” Even Hermione didn't know where the thought had come from, but the moment it slipped from her lips she couldn't find it in herself to regret it.​

A cruel smile formed on Bellatrix’s face. “Granger, you just signed your death warrant…”

She quickly got to her feet, moved across the small gap between her chair and Hermione’s mattress. Crouching just inches from Hermione’s head, she pointed her wand harshly under her chin.

​“You want me to be mean, Mudblood? You want me to treat you in a manner befitting your status? Fucking filth!” she spat. “Pinch your clit,” she instructed, flatly.

“What?” Hermione asked, eyes wide in shock.

“I said. pinch. your. clit. Don’t make me say it a third time!”

Hermione obediently pinched her clit between her thumb and forefinger, digging the edge of her nail in just slightly. “Ahh!” she cried out. But she was truly surprised when a wave of euphoria washed over her in the seconds after she released her grip.

“Like that, did you? Ikkle baby Gwanger likes pain. Big surprise,” she drawled. “So, are you close yet, or am I going to have to do something to tip you over the edge? I am getting rather impatient.”

​“I… I’m close,” Hermione stuttered.

“Not close enough for my liking.” Bellatrix gripped Hermione’s shirt collar with both hands, and with a forceful tug, the buttons  flew off in every direction as the shirt opened down the centre.

“What are you-”

“Shut up! Shut your filthy fucking mouth!” Bellatrix bellowed. One hand slipped beneath the cup of Hermione’s off-white bra. Cruel fingers twisted the already stiff bud of Hermione’s nipple, as Bellatrix’s other hand squeezed the other breast, testing its weight against her palm.

Hermione had never expected someone else's hand on her could feel better than her own, but the feeling of the dark witch’s rough treatment was sending spikes of pleasure through her. A fresh wave of arousal pooled between her legs, trickling out into her underwear and onto the blanket below. She was absolutely terrified; the manic glint in Bellatrix’s eyes was enough to make a brave man wet himself. But Hermione was accustomed to fear; she had been living under near-constant terror since her first year at Hogwarts...she thrived in fear. And so it was that the fear drove Hermione closer to the edge.

"Fuck!" Hermione whimpered, voice shaking, every muscle straining on the edge between fear and stolen pleasure. Desire tangled with panic inside her, spiralling her closer to release.

“Not yet,” Bellatrix warned, her voice low and threatening.

"But you said-" 

"Yes, I said you weren't cumming quickly enough for my liking. But then I changed my mind. Now, hold it!" 

Hermione's eyes opened wide in shock. “No, please, I need-" 

“I said not yet. Now be a good little fuck toy and let me play with you!”

"Please, I need,” Hermione tried again, her breath coming in ragged pants now.

“No. You need to follow my instructions and hold it.”

The dark witch roughly pulled the cups of Hermione’s bra down, exposing Hermione's bare chest to hungry eyes.  

Hermione shook her head back and forth, her eyes squeezing tightly closed. ​“I can’t… I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. You fought in a fucking war! Don't let your own body defeat you.”

“No, no, no, no. Please,” she begged, her body wound tight like a bow string.

"Fucking hold it or I'll call Gibrah down here and she can follow Leesey through the fiery portal to the afterlife," Bellatrix threatened. Her words were punctuated with a sharp tug against both nipples, making Hermione cry out in not-quite-pain and not-quite-pleasure.

“Please, please, please,” Hermione chanted, nearly incoherently as she fought with Herculean effort to delay her climax, her hand still working furiously between her own legs.

“Use your words and ask me nicely, slut, and I might just let you cum.”

She continued to toy with Hermione’s breast, she rolled her nipple between two fingers, and scratched raised welts across the pale flesh.

“Please, Mistress Black, please let me cum.” Hermione was nearly crying now, her eyes glassy in the dim light of the dungeon.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it? Cum for me, Mudslut!”

Hermione shattered, back arching, every nerve raw beneath waves of dizzying pleasure. Her eyes screwed shut, and her back bowed away from the mattress from the sheer force of her orgasm. Her fist clutched the fabric of her skirt like a lifeline as her body twitched through the waves of pleasure that swept over her. A single whimper was the only signifier that her orgasm had worked its way through her. ​

To Hermione’s great surprise, a tender kiss was placed on her forehead with a whispered, “good girl.” But when she opened her eyes again, Bellatrix was gone.

​

​

Hermione lay motionless, heart thundering as her breath slowly steadied. Yet her mind refused to quiet. The memory of Bellatrix’s strange tenderness conflicted with everything she thought she knew—safe and dangerous, gentle and cruel, all tangled together in her uncertainty.

Sure, her clothes had been ripped, her nipples were more than a little sore, and she was sure her boobs looked more like a lattice of scratches than breasts, but Bellatrix had been encouraging, almost gentle with her; at least, until she had asked her not to be.

When thinking through her issues failed her, she instead set about improving her appearance. She was grateful that the dungeon was temperature-controlled, as she knew ordinarily she would have been shivering with only a bra, skirt, and still damp underwear.

She started with her hair, knowing that would be the easiest thing to rectify. She was thrilled to have knot-free hair, and would have loved to keep it loose, but it wouldn’t stay knot-free unless she did something about it. After running her fingers through her curls to free the few tangles that had already created themselves, she began a three-strand French braid from the crown of her head. With deft fingers, she wrangled her curls into the neat braid, tying the overstretched bobble around the tail.

Next was the trickier step - fixing her shirt. She didn’t particularly want to spend the rest of her time here with her tits out.

Just as she was about to grumble about her lack of clothes, a gift bag popped into existence in the centre of the cell. The emerald green bag had a large tag on the side, so large that it had obviously been enlarged with a charm. Hermione assumed this meant she was to read the card.

​

Hello pet,

Something for you to wear whilst your shirt is…unwearable. Although if I am right, you will be trying to reattach the buttons already. I look forward to seeing if you are successful.

Bellatrix

​

Opening the bag, she found a grey Hogwarts jumper, emblazoned with the Slytherin crest. She wasn’t best pleased about wearing the uniform of her sworn enemies; however, she also knew that the house emblems had been removed from the jumpers around the 1970s, meaning that this jumper could belong to only one person. A quick glance at the tag on the inside confirmed her suspicions.

B Black was nearly written across the washing instructions. Hermione slipped the shirt from her shoulders and slid the jumper over her head. It smelled like Bellatrix—a heady mix of cinnamon and pine that shouldn’t still linger after so many years, but then again, without some kind of stasis charm, the jumper would have been eaten to ribbons by moth larvae by now.

She tried to ignore the security she felt from the jumper—it felt like a darker, more dangerous version of stealing a boyfriend’s hoodie. She knew she shouldn’t, but wearing it made her feel protected and claimed. If she thought too hard about it, her head might explode—well, not literally, but she could think herself into a migraine and that was nearly as bad.

Instead, she scrambled around on her hands and knees as she searched for the tiny plastic buttons and the thread that held them on. They had flung themselves in every direction, and it took a considerable amount of time to collect them all, but it took her mind off the subjects she was trying to avoid.

Once all the buttons were in a neat pile on the floor, she then laid the shirt on her blanket. She carefully placed each button in its designated spot and prepared herself for the intricate magical portion of the repairs. She spun her arm in the spiral wand movement of the repairing charm, speaking the spell aloud as she focused on her intention for the spell. “Reparo.”

The thread from the first button began to move through the buttonholes, slipping through the holes in the cotton shirt, and then tying itself in a neat knot. Unfortunately, however, the second button did not follow, and Hermione sighed as she realised she would have to fix each button individually.

“Merlin, what I wouldn’t give to have my wand right now…” she grumbled before settling down to repeat the process with the rest of the buttons. “It’s gonna be a long night, Granger.”

Chapter Text

                                                                                             April 11th 1998

Dear diary (are we seriously still starting this thing with ‘Dear diary,’ Bella?)

WELL, TIE ME DOWN AND CALL ME NANCY! What a fucking day!

A group of those stupid Snatchers brought in another bunch of teenagers, claiming them as the ‘Golden Trio’; for once, they were right!

I had Potter in my grasp! I’d have killed him, too, if that stupid elf hadn’t decided to drop Cissy’s chandelier on my head. But if my aim was right - and it was - my dagger should have sliced straight through its traitorous heart. Oh, I wish I could have seen it. The look of despair as it realised it was dying, the way the blood would have seeped into that filthy pillow case, and the tears! How Potter would cry, and cry, and cry, and cry. Ha!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. So they arrived, Potter had hit the nasty side of a Stinging Jinx, probably from the girl, but it was definitely him. Frankly, he was…unexceptional. A letdown even in comparison to his blood. He was so ordinary, in the worst way.

But the girl! Clever. Far too clever considering the horrific state of her parentage. Hit Pothead with a Stinging Jinx for Merlin’s sake! Clever!

And oh, how she screamed! Most go doolally after a curse or two; it’s ever so boring. Not this one, she took everything I gave her and still didn’t give in. I like it when my toys break slowly; what use is a toy that snaps after one little Crucio?

And it’s funny; most witches would lose their minds if I held the curse that long, regardless of their magical ability. This little bitch not only stayed sane, but just kept screaming for me! It was beautiful!​

There was something about feeling her below me...it was… I can’t describe it, but it was… addictive. Merlin, carving her flesh and hearing those delicious cries… The way she begged and screamed, watching her writhing below me

I’m back! Did you miss me? (Miss me? You’re writing to a book!) Sorry about that (You’re apologising to the book now, Bella? What is going on with you?) I got...shall we say, distracted. (Ha! Yeah, ‘distracted’ is right! What a satisfying distraction it was.)​

But during… I  had an idea. I shall ask the Dark Lord for the Granger girl. He’s already agreed to the slave trade; why not let me have her? My reward for a job well done. Mine to play with, however, I like. She will only ever scream for me. Merlin, and she screams so beautifully, so pretty when she cries, and she's smart enough to teach. I shall enjoy breaking her.

Yes, that is what we shall do. But…maybe when the Dark Lord isn’t after my head for losing Potter…

Anyway, goodbye inanimate object, talk to you tomorrow,​

Bella

Well, hello, pet.

I see you have discovered my gift for you. You were just as curious as I expected. I should punish you for going through my things without permission, but as this is a gift for you, that seemed particularly cruel.

Whilst I’m sure there are many things you would like to write in this book, it is for more than simply noting things down. It serves a purpose.  I would like you to document every punishment and every reward that you receive, and how it made you feel.​

I would like you to start from the moment I moved you into this new room. Whatever transpired between us today, put it in the book. The book itself is a reward, so enjoy it, my little bookworm.​

The purpose of this is to document your experiences and give me a way to monitor how you are responding both mentally and physically. I will be reading what you write, but I ask that you do not censor yourself; I need to know the bare truth of your reaction in order for us to progress to the sort of play I wish to have.

I expect at least half a page each day, with your detailed observations of each interaction. Your first page is due before dinner this evening, so get writing.

Mistress Black

Mudblood evaluation Day 1     17th May 1998

The subject is Hermione Jean Granger, age 18. Miss Granger has brown hair and brown eyes, is 5 feet 6 inches tall, and is a Mudblood. She has consented to this study and is an active participant.​

This diary will contain detailed observations of the ‘Mudblood Experiment’, including observations from the subject of her experiences. The purpose of these observations is to monitor how the subject is responding, both mentally and physically, to the stimulus that she is exposed to.​

The Mudblood Experiment is an examination into how Miss Hermione Jean Granger, henceforth known as 'the subject', reacts to the stimulus she is exposed to by Bellatrix Druella Black, henceforth known as 'Mistress Black', 'Madame Black', or simply 'Mistress'.

The subject has been in the facility for five days now. She has been mostly compliant, excluding performing wandless magic in her cell, although this was not strictly prohibited. This book will monitor and give a critical reflection on the daily life of the subject and her emotional and physical reactions to stimuli.

Madam Black has exposed the subject to a collection of stimuli since the official start of the study this afternoon. Below is a brief overview of how each stimulus was presented.

• Stimulant 1 - Mistress Black delivered a backhand slap to the subject’s face.
• Stimulant 2 - Mistress Black left this Notebook and Quill for the subject.
• Stimulant 3 - Mistress Black gave a page from her own diary to the subject.

I will now explain the effect each stimulus had on the subject.

Stimulant 1, hereby referred to as S1, was a backhanded slap, delivered to the subject after she incorrectly referred to her superior as Madame Lestrange.

The subject explained that she felt…

The subject explained that she felt pain, a burning sting in her cheek. She was close to tears, partially from the pain and partly from the emotional response that she experienced. She felt insulted, belittled, and betrayed, but also a deep-seated disappointment directed inwardly, centering  around the feeling of letting somebody down - in this case, Madam Black. In the subject’s own words, she added, “I do not wish to feel like that again. It is a feeling I have hated my entire life, and I will not disappoint Mistress Bellatrix again.”

Stimulant 2, hereby referred to as S2, was a notebook and quill, left for the subject to find in the desk drawer.

The subject felt comforted by the sight and scent of the book. As a notorious bookwork, this stimulus was particularly appropriate for this subject. She was excited when she realised she would be able to write, to work on a project, and keep her mind sharp. She also felt pride and contentment stemming from knowing she had done enough to not only gain her new room but also her diary.

Stimulant 3, hereby referred to as S3, was a page taken from Madam Black’s diary the day the ‘Golden Trio’ were brought to Malfoy Manor.

The subject admits, overall, to being confused by the page. Confused as to why Madam Black would trust her with something so personal, about her own feelings regarding the page, and specifically around the ‘distraction’ and what it meant. Concerned as to what precedent is being set by Mistress Bellatrix gaining pleasure from torturing the subject, and what that enjoyment would mean for the subject in the future.

Again, in the subject’s own words, she said, “Overall, I felt a shameful sort of pride. I was proud of myself that I could please Madam Black, but that was mixed with equal amounts of shame. I should not be proud that I pleased her, or disappointed that I let her down. I should be terrified, which I guess I am, but it was a thrilling sort of terror, like walking through a haunted house or riding a rollercoaster.”

The subject felt an overwhelming sense of shame stemming from her longing to see Madam Black again and her desire to please the Mistress. She knows it is a situation that her friends would not understand, and would have ostracised her for, but she understands that she is living in a new world now - a world where the laws of decency and ‘goodness’ have been externally altered. She is finally ready to submit to this new world order.