She should not be here. Of this, she is sure. Still, slow but steady steps are leading her forwards towards a glooming building. There's something in the air, something intangible on the tips of her fingers. It's there and at the same time, it's not.
The rough scrape of a throat pulls her from a trance.
"Domme or sub?"
"Neither," she says.
Her entire body throbs. For a moment she wonders if he can hear her thundering heartbeat. The man in front of her towers over her and she looks up at him when he regards her with a curious look. It fades as soon as she notices it.
"Then move along."
"Why?"
His gaze moves over her body. She feels violated, uncomfortable.
"No switches allowed."
She swallows, inhales sharply. "Sub."
"Your wand," he says, holding out a hand.
Hesitating, she twirls the wooden piece between her fingers.
"I don't have all day."
She reluctantly hands it over. He opens a door and motions for her to step through. The tidal wave of magic soaring through her body is a strange sensation. She knows about the spell; one designed to keep Hogwart's students out. Smirking, she steps forwards, the spell allowing her entrance. They don't call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing.
The door closes behind her and she's alone. Darkness surrounds her, it's both terrifying and comforting. In the distance a flicker of light calls for her. Like a siren trapping its victims. She descends the stairs, towards the light.
Another bulky, giant of a man stands in front of a door.
"Arms up," he says, and she obliges.
His hands pat down her body and she wants to vomit. She knows it's a necessary evil, though. Once he is convinced she has no hidden weapons on her, he speaks.
"Domme or sub?"
Her answer comes faster this time and he gives her a short nod.
"Sitting on the furniture is not allowed. There are pillows on the floor, kneeling is not required. The Dungeon Mistress is in charge, you will do as she says. Questions?"
A million. Instead, she shakes her head. She never expected to even get this far. He, too, regards her with a curious look before opening the door.
She steps through, the scene in front of her nothing short of overwhelming. The room is much bigger than she had anticipated. Her gaze shifts from left to right and back to the left again as she seizes it up.
Along the brick walls, the faint flicker of candles and torches, illuminating the room. To her left a group of Dommes and submissives, too enthralled in their own conversation to notice her. To her right empty chairs and pillows. It's what's straight ahead of her that nearly draws a gasp.
The Dungeon Mistress sits on, what she can only describe as, a throne, surrounded by Dommes and submissives eagerly awaiting the attention they don't deserve nor will get.
Black curls cascading down pale shoulders. A black, lace corset dress hugging curves she can only dream of. Has dreamed of, in fact.
Licking her lips, she swiftly moves to the right until she collides into a wall. She wants to hug it, instead she lets herself slide down until she's sitting comfortable on a pillow. She hugs her legs with her arms as she observes. Her gaze never lingers for more than two seconds in the same place, terrified someone will actually notice her.
Short of mastering the skill of invisibility, she knows how to not draw attention to herself. It's what's kept her alive all these years and it's what will get her through this evening, or so she hopes.
She focuses once more on what's happening in the confinement of the room.
Half-naked boys, no– men, with collars around their necks, slowly moving around the room, handing out drinks left and right. No matter how many they pass out, the trays never actually running out of beverages.
Behind the Dungeon Mistress are several doors. She can only imagine what happens in them, she's in no hurry to find out anytime soon. At times the doors will open, submissives crawling out on hands and knees along with their Owners. Some of them are on leashes, seemingly being dragged along, others blindly following their Owners to their respective places in the dungeon.
Ignoring the faint throb in her abdomen, her gaze wanders to the Dungeon Mistress once more. Sitting comfortable on her throne, she doesn't speak to anyone, her wand twirling between her fingers. Sometimes she'll shake her head when a submissive comes to close, only to cower in fear when she aims her wand at them. No spells leave the wand, the threat of it enough to have the submissives back off, their heads bowed down.
It's only then she notices there are no other female submissives in the room. She hugs the wall tighter with her back, the revelation not one she had expected. For a moment she worries if she's not allowed in here, but if she wasn't, why would the bouncer have allowed her access? The only reason why she shouldn't be here, is because, at nineteen years old, she is still very much a Hogwarts' student. Even if it's only for a few more months.
Her gaze is drawn to the Dungeon Mistress again, this time lingering longer, unable to look away. She studies the eyes that are so much more than just black. They're the color of dark, starry nights, when the only light comes from those carefully placed stars. They're the color of a black hole in which everything gets lost. They're not black, no– they're exquisite, as is she. They're the most expressive eyes she has ever had the fortune seeing with her own.
It's when those eyes lock with hers that she stops breathing completely, suddenly uncertain the charm she cast on herself will be enough. She should have known better. The Mistress' eyes squint slightly and there's the tiniest movement of the wand, firmly grasped between slender fingers. Suddenly, it's as if all the oxygen is expelled from her body, all at once. She gasps for air and panics as the Mistress raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. It's in that moment that she knows. She's been made.
Another movement, and the oxygen returns to her, and she sucks in air as if her life depends on it. For a moment, it did. The magic soars through her body and she can feel how the charm has returned to her, once again shielding her true identify.
The Mistress' eyes never leave hers. The perfectly round, raised eyebrow restores to its former position. Even from a distance she can see the tightening of the lips, before they relax. There's a murmur and she can feel how her body is bound, unable to change positions, or move altogether.
Outside of these dungeons the Dungeon Mistress is her professor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Inside these walls there's not a trace of the professor's usual demeanor left.
She swallows, the only action aside from breathing, that her body still allows her. Her heart thunders beneath her skin, she's terrified of what's going to happen next. And yet... she knows she doesn't have to be scared. She feels safe. Somewhat, anyway.
She watches as the professor snaps her fingers and within mere minutes the room is empty and there's a silence unlike anything she has ever experienced before. It's just them now, the professor still seated on her throne as if nothing has changed, her own body still bound.
She can't even fathom what must be going through the professor's mind right now. Under no circumstance should she have been able to get inside the building; both the student restriction and the muggle repellant spell should have kept her out. At least, she thinks there must be a muggle repellant spell, as the place is flooded with magic. She highly doubts that the professor sees mudbloods as anything other than muggles who should have never been allowed into the magic world.
She has no idea how much time passes, before the spell on her body disappears and a crooked finger urges her to come closer. As she tries to stand up there's a small shake of a head, black curls flowing along. She swallows thickly, moves onto her knees, waiting for permission to come closer. If nothing else, she's learned a thing or two from observing tonight.
There's an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment as the Mistress beckons her closer once more. She wants to fight it, but her body has a mind of its own. Within mere seconds she's at the Mistress' feet and assumes a kneeling position that she's seen used before.
The charm is once more lifted, and she feels naked and trapped now that her true self has been revealed, but at least this time she can breathe. She's too scared to look up, terrified that the professor will aim the wand at her and speak an unforgiveable curse.
For a while nothing happens, she studies the pattern on the floor, her mind desperate for something. This is exactly why she always has a book in hand: to offer herself a form of distraction in case all else fails.
"I assume you're not here to do your essay research."
It's the absolute last thing she expected to fall from the professor's lips. A small smile tugs at her own, but she tries her best to ignore it. She doesn't know if she's even supposed to answer or not. So, she goes for the safe option and shakes her head.
"Tell me why in three words or less."
Oh god. She's a rambler, the professor knows that. She swallows most of what she wants to say and settles on one word in the hopes it will convey all she wants to say.
"Curiosity." She notices she sounds much braver than she feels. Her breathing is shallow, her heartbeat still going six hundred beats per hour.
"You shouldn't be here, pet."
She looks up at the name and immediately lowers her head as she notices the disappointed look on her professor's face. No one has ever called her that before. It's both degrading and arousing at the same time. Perhaps it's dungeon etiquette. Somehow, she doubts it.
From the corner of her eye she can see the professor leaning forward. A hand digs itself in her hair and before she knows what's happening, her head is pulled back by the hairs firmly grasped in the professor's hand.
"Curiosity is not good enough," Professor Black sneers in her ear. Her lips so close to the skin and yet so far away. "Try again."
"I-Idiosyncrasy."
"I didn't ask for a synonym. Last chance."
She finds it incredibly hard to focus. The professor's face is close to hers and it takes everything she has to not lean forward to steal a kiss from those lips. Not that the professor would let her. If she's honest with herself, she doesn't even understand why she has the urge to kiss her professor of all people.
"Stupidity."
Professor Black smirks at that.
Her body shivers as the professor's wand touches her bare neck. Before she knows what's happening, something heavy locks around her neck. The professor releases her hair and leans back in her throne. The absence of the touch makes her heart ache. She'd do anything to have that hand wrapped in her hair again. To have the professor close enough to touch.
"Touch it," Professor Black says. Her voice leaving no room for argument.
Her hands tremble as she reaches up, her own fingers running along – what she can only assume is – a collar. It consists of a thick strip of leather, a metal ring in the front. Confusions spreads around her face as she realizes there's no actual lock on it, and therefore no way to take it off. Panic sets in.
"Relax," the professor says. "I'll take it off when you've deserved it."
That'll be never, she thinks. Licking her lips, anticipation grows with every second. The absence of anything happening makes her incredibly uncomfortable. Her knees are aching, and her thighs are burning from the unfamiliar position. It won't be long before every muscle in her body will go completely numb and god knows what will happen then.
Professor Black has yet to say another word and she's too nervous to say something herself, scared the inevitable word vomit will buy her a one-way ticket back to Hogwarts.
She's quite sure that all the time spent in the professor's class wouldn't accumulate to the amount of time the professor has been staring at her just now. She supposes it's only fair; she's done her own amount of staring over the last couple of years. Still, there's only so much staring one can do before needing more. And she needs more, craves it, will do anything and it scares her that the professor more than likely knows this.
"Stand up."
With a groan, she does as instructed, her body grateful for the change in position.
"Hands behind your back."
She inhales sharply as she puts her hands behind her back. They're immediately bound together with a material unfamiliar to her. Her entire body is quivering, her mind reeling as she wonders what's going to happen next. She watches as the professor stands up, smoothing out at the creases in her dress. Out of nowhere a black metal chain connects from the metal ring around her neck to something she can't see in the professor's hand.
"Come."
The chain tugs at her and her legs carry her forward. She tries not to check out her professor's curves in the corset dress, but it's an almost impossible task. As far as backsides go, her professor won the lottery with hers.
A door opens and then closes behind her.
Her gaze grows wide as she realizes what the room is designed for; play. She doesn't even know what it entails, but she's seen the men who went in here, only to come out with faces red, scratches visible all over their backs.
"Professor," she starts, sounding terrified, before a stern look renders her speechless.
"Miss Black," the professor corrects her. "I'd think very carefully about what comes out of that insolent mouth of yours."
So, this is what torture feels like, she thinks, contemplating what it is exactly that she means to say. She hadn't planned any of this.
There had been rumors at school. Most of them fueled by Draco Malfoy himself, and just like his aunt, no one dared going against the boy. But she listened, observed, put the pieces together over several months. In the end she had gone against everything she stood for and forced one of the Hogwarts house elves to tell her the truth. Not knowing drove her crazy, as did now the guilt of having used that kind of power over someone so vulnerable.
It had taken her weeks to concoct the perfect spell that would let her pass the student barrier of the dungeon. The charm to slightly alter her appearance had been much easier, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know that Hermione Granger had a desire that not even she could name. She had always ached for knowledge, found solace in it even. But, there was always a piece missing, something to complete her. And now? Now she stood in front of the only person who hated her more than Draco himself; his bloody aunt.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have broken your trust like this."
Professor Black lets out a breathy laugh. "That implies you had my trust in the first place."
She really can't argue with that.
There weren't many people that had the capability to render her speechless, yet here she is, in her own dungeon of all places, uncertain of what to say or do. Ethically speaking, she should send the girl on her way, but ethics had never really been her thing, anyway.
She had known immediately that something had changed once the girl stepped through the door. Her brightest student had more magic in her little finger than most of her students combined. It was a shame that the mudblood insisted on wasting all her power on books rather than learning the finer art of magic.
The charm might have fooled her bouncers, but never her. She knew exactly what would happen if she'd take the charm away, but she wanted to see the filthy girl squirm for even daring to step inside a place so sacred to her.
Releasing a long, annoyed breath, she turns around and looks at the mudblood. The black fitted dress was hardly appropriate attire for a student, let alone for a place like this. Still, even she must admit that Hermione looks good, not that she would ever tell the girl that. She'd rather return to her former Lord, despite him being long gone. She smirks. Who would've known the almighty Lord would perish at the hands of an overprotective mother.
Love killed the most powerful wizard of all times and while Lily Potter had succumbed to death as well, she couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration for her former schoolmate.
She shakes her head, willing the memories away, before turning her back to the girl. Hermione Granger, for all intents and purposes, is unwelcome in her dungeon, so why has she placed a collar on the girl as if it is the most natural thing in the world? To embarrass her? Make her feel vulnerable?
Part of her feels flattered that the girl seems to have a fascination for her, yet at the same time, it causes her to feel repulsed. The mudblood is so far beneath her, not worthy of her attention, so why had she brought her to her own private playroom?
"The definition of BDSM," she commands, a disparaging smile on her face.
"An erotic practice involving bondage, discipline–"
"I'm not interested in the textbook definition of BDSM," she says, tutting. "Tell me what it means to you."
She takes a step closer, wanting to see the embarrassed look on the mudblood's face. Instead, she finds brown eyes connecting with her own, the girl's face flustered as she lowers her gaze towards the ground. She circles around the quivering girl, practically smelling the fear that radiates from her body and she revels in it.
"I wouldn't know," the girl says, almost inaudible.
For a moment she cackles, as her wand twirls in her hand. "Well, well. The brightest witch, clueless. Imagine that." It feels almost boring, the student she knows has a backbone, doesn't let anyone walk over her, yet this abomination in front of her, hardly dares to even speak.
"Do I intrigue you?" It's an unfair question, but the world is unfair and the sooner the girl realizes this, the better off she will be. She cocks her head to the side when there's no response. "Well, out with it, mudblood."
And there she is. That furious look, the fire in her eyes, the thin lips biting back whatever response so insistently wants to come out. This is what she can work with.
"Yes," Hermione hisses.
Bellatrix faux-pouts. "Did I hurt the little mudblood's feelings? You want to run home to mommy now?"
She steps behind the girl, who even now, is slightly taller than her. Her right arm cradles around the girl's waist and pulls her tightly wound body against her own. Wand in her left hand, she slowly drags it down from the mudblood's collarbone to her abdomen. She lets it rest there and brings her mouth closer to the girl's ear.
"You're filth," she whispers. She delights in the shiver coming from the girl. "What would you have me do, hm? Do you wish for me to undress you, bend you over and smack that bottom until it bleeds? Do you wish for me to fuck you? Do you actually think," she sneers, "I would willingly put my hands on a filthy mudblood like yourself?"
"You're touching me now, aren't you?"
She can see the girl's head lowering, probably looking at the arm that's still holding the girl in a tight grip. Her wand immediately moves towards the defiant chin until she looks up again. She wants to argue with that logic, but every response dies before it can leave her lips.
"There are rules," she begins, ignoring the mudblood's defiance. "You will address me as Miss. You won't speak unless I ask you a question and most importantly, you'll do as I say, always. Understood?"
"Yes Miss."
"What is your safeword?" At this, the girl seems to hesitate.
"Safeword, Miss?"
Bellatrix sighs, so much for the girl being so utterly bright. She suspects there was a lot of research involved before her student even dared set foot in the dungeon. There's a small tinge of disappointment, of all people, she expected better of her.
"When a safeword is uttered all activities cease. You see," she says, her words vibrating against an earlobe. "'Stop' and 'no' are words you will be uttering, but you won't really mean it. So, your safeword?" She waits, can feel the girl's heartbeat growing stronger against the palm of her that's still resting against soft skin. When no answer comes, she grows impatient.
"Umbridge."
"What?!"
"Umbridge will be your safeword. You had your chance."
"You can't possibly be serious."
She delights in how offended the girl sounds and slowly wets lips. "Don't tell me you have the hots for that pink potato as well?"
"Of course not."
She didn't think it was possible for the girl to sound anymore offended as she already did. Apparently, she can still be pleasantly surprised, which is a, well, surprise.
"Do you have any hard limits?"
"I–I don't know."
"No matter," she says, waving it off with her left hand. "You'll know soon enough."
She hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. With men it was so much easier, she destroyed them, within their limits, until they cried out and begged for mercy. But it's different this time, she feels different. Not to mention, if any one finds out she has Hermione mudblood Granger in her dungeon, she'd probably be send straight to Azkaban.
For a moment she contemplates sending Hermione back to Hogwarts. If she ends it now, no harm will be done, they can both go about their day and pretend none of this ever happened. Instead of doing exactly that, she tosses her wand aside. Hermione deserves to be tortured with both hands bare.
She twirls the girl around, one arms still firmly holding her in place, but now they're face to face. A tiny bead of sweat rolls from Hermione's left temple and she resists the urge to lick it away. Cocking her head to the side, she squints her eyes slightly and observes the mess inches away from her own face.
Hermione is nervous, that much is obvious from the lip that's firmly wedged between her teeth. More surprisingly than that, Hermione is wet. She can smell it from here and the scent is intoxicating. If this was anyone else, she'd throw her against the wall and show her exactly how disobedient girls get punished. If she's honest with herself she doesn't even know what's stopping her.
She releases her tight grip on Hermione's body and takes small steps back until she's at the edge of the spanking horse. With ease she hops on top of it and relaxes. Distance is good, she thinks as feet dangle slightly above the ground.
For a moment she indulges in the idea of having Hermione on top of the spanking horse. Indulges in the image of her ass up in the air, as it becomes increasingly red with each blow of her hand.
They're not there yet, though. She wants to see Hermione squirm first.
"What would you like to happen next?"
She smirks at Hermione's deer-caught-in-headlight look. Delights in the feeling of having ambushed the girl, like she had ambushed her earlier that evening.
"Scratch that," she says. "Tell me about your fantasies. Surely you dream? Wake up in the middle of the night, dripping with wetness? What do you dream, pet?"
Hermione visibly gulps, and she can almost hear the protest that's about to fall from her lips. She's incredibly surprised when Hermione doesn't protest at all and starts speaking quietly yet determined.
"I dream of you in the shower," Hermione begins.
She can't do anything but listen as the words flow freely.
"You ambush me in the shower. I never know you're there...until you are. You don't touch me, but I always know if I would take one step backwards, I could press myself into you.
"You tell me to touch myself. And I..." her voice trails off.
Bellatrix leans forward, wondering why the girl has stopped speaking at all. Perhaps it's embarrassment, and maybe that means now would be a good time to tell Hermione to continue, to offer some encouragement, but she doesn't. She remains silent. Quietly urging her to go on.
"It's hard," Hermione says suddenly.
"What is?"
"Exposing myself like that. I've not yet determined whether you're just going to listen to me, so you can use it against me later."
She looks up and Bellatrix wants to engulf the girl in a hug, but they're not there yet. Not by far. She needs for Hermione to know that she can be trusted without having to say the words. If there is no trust whatsoever, they cannot continue.
Hermione seems to be pondering what to say next and after a long silence she shakes her head, as if to shake away her fears.
"When you tell me to touch myself I do as you say. It starts innocently, fingers trailing down my side, following the streams of water that fall to the floor. But that never lasts long, at some point you growl at me to touch myself in more...inappropriate places."
"Are they inappropriate if I tell you to touch yourself there?"
"No Miss."
"Continue."
"You always stop me before it actually gets anywhere. Push me into a wall and tease me relentlessly. But you never actually touch me, and I've never let it go beyond that."
"Even in your fantasy, you're a goody two-shoes. Wouldn't dare to dream about what I'd do to you. Why is that, hm?"
"The fantasy could never be as good as reality."
Bellatrix can't argue with that.