Notes: for the Pick a List Competition. Prompts: Bellatrix/Hermione and 'monster.'
"Mudblood," the word insinuates itself between the cracks in your defenses, makes tears start to your whiskey-warmed eyes, makes you tremble before her, clad in only your socks and Harry's old shirt he let you borrow six months ago and you never returned. You weren't expecting this, but do you ever? Sleeping peacefully, curled up in an armchair with books around you, until she summons you, and you know better than to keep her waiting.
As she circles you, the tip of her wand tracing down the exposed line of your throat, you breathe lightly and wonder what your friends would think if they could see you now. The know-it-all, the brightest witch of your generation, reduced to a trembling, helpless puddle of nerves and feelings, reduced to nothing but a doe-eyed pet for Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Have you been good?" the innocent question makes you shiver, and you nod slowly, not daring to look up and see the look in those mad, dark eyes.
"I think you're lying," Bellatrix hisses in your ear. "I think you've been bad."
"Yes, Mistress," you whisper obediently. Her wand slashes here and there, and the shreds of Harry's old shirt drop in a tangle around your sock-clad feet.
"Much better," Bellatrix says, eyeing her work approvingly. "Come here, darling."
You step closer, and her arms are around you, pressing you tight against her nude body. Your heart flutters frantically as her mouth slants over yours, as her wand traces delicate curlicues down the line of your back.
Her kisses are sweet, hot, intoxicating, and you cling to her, feeling drunk as she caresses you, as she presses you down to the bed, as one hand slides between your legs. It is perfect, her fingers stroking you just there, her mouth sucking hard on your neck just so, and you spill over the edge with a hoarse shout, your world dissolving and reforming around you as she licks her fingers and smirks at you.
"Good pet," she says, and you drink it in like wine, curling around her body like a pampered cat.
"Thank you, Mistress," you whisper and you wonder, as you drift off into sleep, if she's the monster or if you are.
