Notes: Song lyrics come from Combichrist's "I Want Your Blood." Strong hints of very dubious consent/non-consent/coercion.
Sold me your soul for a life of sin/Discipline/The state of mind you're in
It is the work of a few moments, snatching Hermione Granger from Diagon Alley. Really, the lack of fight she puts up is appalling, Bellatrix thinks with a sneer as she approaches her trussed-up prey. The Mudblood is still unconscious from the last Stupefy, her mouth hung slackly open.
"Ennervate," Bellatrix says coolly, the tip of her wand pressed to the Mudblood's temple. Granger stirs weakly, then freezes, clearly realising her situation. Bellatrix grins. Perfect.
"Hello, Mudblood," Bellatrix purrs, circling the bound girl, her heels clicking on the black-tiled floor. "So glad to see you're awake. I'm sure you remember me, don't you? It would be so rude if you didn't."
Glaring, the bushy-haired girl says nothing, but then again, she doesn't have to, now does she? The smirk on Bellatrix's face grows.
"Right about now, I imagine Potter's trying to find you," she says conversationally, prodding Granger with the toe of her boot. "Of course, he won't. You're mine, Mudblood. The Dark Lord's given you to me. A little Mudblood pet, all mine to break."
"I'll never be yours," Granger finally spits, defiant as always. Her amber eyes so full of anger, of hatred. Bellatrix leans down, grasps the girl's chin in her fingers.
"Darling, you already are," Bellatrix whispers, eyes burning. The Mudblood looks away, face white. Bellatrix resumes her position, pacing around the immobilised sixth-year.
"I'll be back tonight," she finally says. A wave of her wand, and Hermione is levitated onto a bed, her bonds snapping into thin air. "Rest assured, little pet," she smirks as Granger tries to leap off the bed and hits an invisible barricade, falling back onto the pillows, stunned. "You can't get away."
And with a soft pop, Bellatrix Lestrange is gone.
Obey, kneel down, I'm in complete control/Your body says stop while your eyes say go/Discipline on your knees/I want your soul
Hermione is terrified. She doesn't want to show it, can't show it (what if that bitch is watching her?), but she's sure it must show in her eyes, in the scrabble of her fingers against the smooth glassiness of the invisible wall that pins her to the bed. She can move freely across the blanketed expanse, but as soon as she so much as thinks of swinging her feet off, of stepping onto the glossy black tiles, she is repelled.
Finally, she sits up against the headboard, hugging her knees, so she can think. She doesn't have her wand-of course, Lestrange would have taken it off her faster than blinking. Her pockets are completely empty, in fact. Not so much as a spare Knut. She can't do much wandless magic. Some, but it takes so much energy and concentration, it's not even worth it, at least right now.
Oh, please find me, Harry, she thinks, scared enough that she doesn't even berate herself for the perceived weakness in depending on Harry. Please find me.
She hadn't been expecting trouble this morning. Just a quick jaunt to Diagon Alley for a book that had come in. She hadn't been expecting the black-robed figures to appear out of nowhere, to surround her. She hadn't expected Bellatrix bloody Lestrange to Stupefy her before she even had a chance to draw her bloody wand.
And now here she is, locked up in some godforsaken place (although she has to admit, it looks rather nice), the prisoner of a Death Eater madwoman.
How is this possible? But she has no answers.
And then there is another pop, and Bellatrix is back. Hermione refuses to look cowed, refuses to give that bitch the satisfaction. She looks up at her tormentor with placid brown eyes, willing back the fury, the fear. Bellatrix only laughs as she waves her wand, casually dismantling the barricade.
"Little cat got her claws back?" Bellatrix mocks. "It doesn't matter, you know. You can fight all you like. It won't make any difference."
"I don't care," Hermione spits, willing herself fiercely to stop the trembling. "Let me go."
"Let you go?" Bellatrix raises one eyebrow. "Why would I do that? But I tell you what, Mudblood." Another mocking flick of her wand and the door swings open. "If you can make it to the door, I'll let you go. I won't even touch you."
"What?" Hermione whispers in disbelief. Bellatrix laughs.
"Come on, Mudblood. Don't you want to go? That's what you just said, isn't it? Go."
"It's a trick," Hermione breathes, but Bellatrix only shakes her head and flicks her wand impatiently at Hermione.
"I can always rescind my offer, Mudblood," Bellatrix says sharply. "One...two..."
Hermione scrambles off the bed, eyeing the crazy-eyed woman who's become her tormentor and her jailer. Only twenty steps lie between her and freedom.
Bellatrix yawns, looking bored.
"It's like you want to be mine, Mudblood," she taunts. "Is that it? Do you want to spread your legs for me like the little Mudblood whore you are? Do you long for a Mistress to set you straight, to push you past the boundaries of pain and pleasure, until your eyes cross and you have no more thought in your head than a decoration? Is that what you want, Mudblood? Do you want to be my pet?"
"No!" Hermione cries out, but it's as if her legs refuse to work. She stands there, staring dumbly at Bellatrix, who laughs and lets the door slam shut, nearly in Hermione's face.
"Oops," Bellatrix informs her gleefully. "I guess you didn't really want it, did you, Mudblood? Bad pet, making me think you were going to run away. Crucio!"
I want your blood/I want your soul/I want them both right now
The pain is immense, the pain is everything, but somehow it helps Hermione focus as she bends over double, her knees landing with a crack on the tiles. Even her fingernails hurt, and she's amazed that she can bear this without screaming until she realises that high-pitched keening sound echoing through the room is her screaming. Every muscle in her body spasms, and it is only when Bellatrix lifts the curse that she remembers how to breathe.
"I always liked that one," Bellatrix says dreamily over her head as Hermione crouches helplessly on the floor, listening to her heart trip and struggling with the urge to vomit. "Such a beautiful reaction it produces. Don't you agree, Mudblood? Always after new knowledge, aren't you? First-hand experience is better than the books by far."
Hermione longs to spit at the woman's high-heeled boots, but her mouth is bone-dry, save for the blood slowly pooling in it from where she's bitten her lip. And she knows better than to spit such a valuable bodily fluid at an enemy.
"Well, pet?" Bellatrix demands, nudging her with the toe of her boot. "Aren't you going to thank me?"
Are you insane? Hermione thinks, but doesn't dare to say. Of course the woman's mad.
"T-thank you," she manages to stammer out, hoping that it satisfies Bellatrix. It doesn't.
"You forgot something," Bellatrix sing-songs angrily, her wand suddenly digging into the back of Hermione's neck. "Bad pet, do I need to Crucio you again?"
"No," Hermione gasps out, trembling. Tears sparkle in the corners of her eyes. "No-Mistress! Mistress, I'm sorry," she gabbles, unsure of how she knows what the Death Eater wants, but the wand is taken away, and she heaves a sigh of relief.
"Good girl," Bellatrix whispers, and suddenly, Hermione is levitated up again, deposited in the center of the bed next to her newly christened Mistress.
"Do you like my spell, pet?" Bellatrix asks, a slow smile curling her lips. "It's my own creation, Mudblood. A variation on the Cruciatus. Same incantation-but different intent. Well," she amends with a careless laugh. "Additional intent. An infusion of the Imperius with it. You want nothing more than to be my pampered little pet right now. Don't you?"
Despite herself, Hermione nods. She doesn't want to, but she can't seem to stop herself as she curls herself closer to Bellatrix, her head resting near the woman's thigh.
"By the time I'm done with you," Bellatrix murmurs, her fingers wreathing through Hermione's hair. "You will be mine, and you will never know anything different. Isn't that right, pet?" Hermione arches herself in agreement, a whimper spilling from her lips.
"My pet needs attention," Bellatrix smirks, tracing the tip of her wand down Hermione's face. "Come on, then." She straightens, intent smoothing her face, as Hermione waits, breathless.
"Scream for me, Mudblood."