Notes: For the 'All Sorts of Love' competition. Bellatrix/Hermione. Dubious consent/Imperius'ed consent.
She smells so sweet to me. How odd, the sickly taste of madness that lingers on my tongue, the press of her soft thigh against my cheek. She whispers what a good pet I am, as her cackling laughter echoes in my head. Good pet. Pretty girl. Pretty Mudblood.
Do I mind? How can I? Imperius wreathes through my every thought, its misty confines a welcome balm from the world. Kiss me, Hermione. Bow down to me, Hermione. Lick me, suck me, fuck me, Hermione.
Who else can say their existence is so gloriously planned? I follow behind, trailing at her feet, the ever-obedient lap dog. The Dark Lord smirks at me, crimson eyes pinning me in place as he tells Bellatrix what a good pet she has made of me. At one point, those words would have made me rage, would have brought forth sparks from my eyes and hexes from my tongue. And wand. I don't have a wand anymore. She's locked it away, locked up tight where no one can find it.
"You don't need a wand, my pet," she tells me, stroking back my hair, and I nod, pliant beneath her touch.
I see Harry and Ron at some point, from a distance. They are aghast, horrified at me, what she has done to me. I care nothing for it. I am hers. I am lost to her, her little broken pet. A doll so carefully shattered and set on the perfumed pillows of her bed.
"Come to me, Hermione," she whispers, and I am undone.