A Lestrange Detention
It was detention, and Bellatrix Lestrange was going over reports in her classroom. Legs crossed with a student seated at her feet, she dangled her boot near the boy's face. They were alone. With a look of intense concentration, the boy jotted down notes, writing as if the woman wasn't there.
The fool she thought, glaring down at him. As if being crucio'd within an inch of his life wasn't enough, he is now under the influence of amortentia… HER influence to be exact. It was poetic justice really. His parents had crossed her. The blood traitors they were. Now their son will live to lick the grime from her boot heel.
She uncrossed her legs, sticking her heel into Neville Longbottom's pudgy chest. He made a pained expression but maintained his pace of writing.
"Does it hurt," she inquired in a soft, low voice. Excitement rising through her.
"Yes," answered Longbottom, his eyes still glued to his parchment, redness sprouting in his cheeks. After a long moment, she removed the heel from his chest.
"Enough work now," she said, and Neville sandwiched his notes inside his book and placed it to the side. Bringing her foot down to his groin, she pressed her heel into his ball sack. With gritted teeth, he leaned forward hugging onto her leg.
"Get off," she snapped, pressing deeper. He sat back, eyes closed tight. "Big bad Longbottom," she snipped. "Acting like a bloody schoolgirl. Man up will you." Releasing his balls from the stick of her heel, she lifted her leg.
"Off," she ordered. He took hold of her boot and started untying. She was sockless. A warm, pale foot resting in his hand, it emitted a sourly smell. He began massaging the heel of her foot with his thumb.
"Mmm," she murmured. "Rub my aching sole."