The Beginning

IV

The Lestrange Estate has been my home since I was twenty years old. Like a new pair of boots, it was something that I had to break in order to feel comfortable residing within its walls. It is not as lavishly ostentatious or grandiose as Black Manor, my childhood home, but as the years went by I came to appreciate its subtle aristocratic charm. Or the charm it might have had before it was passed down to the eldest Lestrange heir.

I am not nor have I ever been the homemaker my middle sister probably has become as the matriarch of her new half Muggle family, or the socialite my youngest sister waited her entire infancy, childhood, and adolescence to become. I did not season the place with 'a woman's touch' though anyone who so happens to walk the halls will surely feel my presence.

There are spider cracks in the hand brocade walls from the many times I've lost my temper or found myself in need of magical release and did not fancy a trip to Azkaban for maiming my husband. Where there might have been vases of garden flowers on end tables, there are potted Venemous Tentacula which I've raised from seedlings. Where there should have been cabinets filled with family heirlooms or fine china or other such dribble, are large glass cases stocked with dark artifacts, shrunken heads, cursed weapons, and vials of rare potions. The sitting room's furniture are French antiques, perserved by enchantments to keep the rarely occupied fabric from going threadbare. The long mahogany wood table in the dining room could easily seat twelve guests, but hasn't been used since Rod's parents were living. Also to have fallen into disuse over the decades is the estate's grand ballroom. A once resplendant marble cavern with eight floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking the grounds, and a Goblin gilded chandelier, has become the domain of cobwebs, dust, and shadows. The only rooms in this part of the manse that get to experience frequent human or Elven contact is the library and study. On the upper level, the family portraits line a dimly lit carpeted corridor that leads into seven bedrooms, four bath chambers, and the stone stairwell up to a small Owlery. The basement houses the kitchen and the Elfs' quarters.

I am not in the habit of bringing my lovers or potential lovers to Lestrange Estate. But for some reason, upon my verbal command, the Floo Network spits Granger and I out of the fireplace into my chambers. The most spacious of the bedrooms, this place is my own private sanctuary. Rodolphus hasn't been in it since our wedding night. In fact, besides myself, the only other living souls to be within its walls are the House Elves.

My ebony wood four poster with its heavy sable drapes dominate the room set in the manse's west wing. The bow windows provide the perfect view of the setting sun every evening. Two cases contain my prized collection of leather bound books of spells, potions, centuries of magical history, ancient tomes, scrolls, and magic symbology. A squat silver and glass liquor cabinet is filled with bottles of aged Elf made wine, French absinthe, Ogden's Old and Blishen's Firewhiskey. Random odds and ends are scattered about the room, vials of perfume and cosmetics are strewn across my vanity.

"Welcome to my humble abode," I drawl with a superfluous gesture, turning to Granger who has this adorably shocked look on her face, "Make yourself at home."

She chuckles at this and shakes her head, "Sorry. There are no stray wizard chess pieces or a toy broomstick to trip over for me to do that."

She has a point there. The last of the children to run up and down the estate's halls were Rod and his brother Rabastan over thirty years ago. There are no longer any remnants of that time lying about. Even my nephew Draco had never spent enough time here to leave so much as an old snot rag. I hum softly, a barely there acknowledgement to her statement. I did not bring her here to discuss her and her husband's offspring.

"Do you want a drink?"

Granger nods a little too quickly for it to be casual and I cannot help but smirk. It is funny how this witch can go from fierce lioness to docile lamb, then back and back. Something about it frustrates me and excites me equally. It's as if I am looking at the mirror image of myself. A witch who is my complete opposite but somehow manages to remind me of me.

"Bitty," I call out, my tone hardly rising about my natural speaking voice and with a small pop, a young House Elf appears in the center of the room.

"Mistress has called for Bitty. How is Bitty to be helping Mistress and Mistress's guest?"

"Two glasses," I order as I select a bottle of amber liquid from my cabinet. Blishen's has always been my favorite. "One with ice the other without."

Bitty snaps her long, spindly fingers and a tray appears in her hand with the requested items. I wave the creature away and she disappears in the same manner which she came.

"Is she your only House Elf?" Granger asks as she takes the glass of ice I offer her.

"No, I've five." I'm generous with my glass, filling it to about four fingers, "When I married I brought one with me from Black Manor and Rodolphus inherited one. They've since whelped. Bitty is the youngest."

Granger's glass gets about a thimbleful. And the eyebrow raise she gives me in response makes me snort. "I won't have you stumbling about my home like a sodding Hippogriff, breaking up my things only because you can't handle your liquor, pet."

"I'm not as innocent as you think Bella," she murmurs and those hazels hold my gaze in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. This affect she has on me. It makes me want to smile and mercilessly curse her simultaneously.

"I can see that," I whisper, bringing the rim of my glass to my lips and taking a sip. The accompanying burn in a my chest is a welcome feeling and I quickly take another.

"Do you treat your House Elves well? You don't abuse them?"

Annoyance settles over my face and the scoff that follows is tinged with derision. "What are you, some sort of bloody martyr for Elf welfare?"

"Actually I am the Department Head for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," she quips in know-it-all fashion, as if she is not merely stating her place of employ but implying it automatically makes her a renowned expert on the topic, "So I'm well within my right to inquire."

"Fine, but you're well ruining the mood. My Elves take great pride in their work and this family. I've no need to punish them, nor do they punish themselves. However if you would much rather offend them with an interrogation instead of snogging me, by all means go ahead."

The smirk that tugs at the corners of my mouth as she chokes on her sip of Blishen's is a particularly wicked one. I remove the glass from her hand, drain the last of mine, and set them both on the vanity.

She stands there in the middle of my room and I suppose I expect her to balk - just as I did before she signed the waiver with the Black Quill all those weeks ago - as soon as I remind her of the shameless kiss she planted on me in that underground dueling chamber of Morsmordre. She had kissed me like no one ever has before. As if I were water and she was dying of thirst. Traces of arousal still lingers in my blood, now fueled by Firewhiskey, as I remember the feel of her lips on mine, the feel of her heart hammering against me when she held me close. Her fingers in my hair.

I circle her slowly, purposely invading her personal space. Her hazel eyes widen slightly as I thread a hand through her bushy brown tresses. Soft, the texture is softer than I thought it might be given the way it looks. And it isn't merely a plain brown. There are hints of copper, red, and gold that blend together to make its own unique shade. She leans into my touch when I draw the tips of my fingers across her collarbone, a light shiver goes through her at the added sensation of my nails and a sigh accompanies it, spilling freely from her parted lips when I rest my chin on the blade of her shoulder and press an open mouth kiss to the shell of her ear.

"What would your husband say," I whisper, my tone low but song-like, as I continue to touch her, lightly, teasing, tracing random patterns against the skin left bare by the cut of her camisole, "If he could see his pretty little wife right now?"

Her body stiffens and she whirls around to face me, her expression one of outrage, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

"Now who's ruining the mood?"

I tilt my head and shrug in response, not at all disarmed by her anger. I'll not be the catalyst of her perfect life going up in smoke. The difference between she and I in this regard is that if Rod were to bear witness to whatever it is that Granger thinks she wants to happen, he could tell me nothing. He would not be able to accuse me of anything he hasn't done himself. He won't divorce me. Afterward, he might compliment my taste in lovers and then go off to whet his own sexual appetite for the night. There would be no consequences for me. This is nothing like my trysts with Alecto whose parents pawned her off to a notoriously lecherous old pureblood wizard when she was just seventeen. He blessedly made her a widow two years after the wedding. There were never any consequences for her. But for Granger, this is another matter entirely. I need to be sure that she is aware of the risks she is taking now before things have even crossed the threshold between her snogging me and what inevitably happens next.

I'll not be the one she blames for her infedility once she can't handle the guilt.

Something flashes in her eyes then, something far more heated and sinister than an indignant glare. This just skirts the line of dangerous. It's as if someone has sparked a flame against those hazels and as they smolder, they darken, transforming her expression into something fierce, deadly. Against my own will, I take a step backward.

"Don't you think I've thought about what he might say?" she all but growls, the roughness in her voice tightening things low in my belly, "Don't you think I've thought about what might happen if he ever found out how much I can't stand him? How dead I feel inside being married to him?" She closes the distance between us and I take another step back just to see her invade my space once more. "Don't you think I know its wrong to want you?" It's like a dance. A step back, a step forward. I wish I could say I am luring her to me. It would make me feel as I have never given her the upperhand. Truth is, the lioness actually has me on the retreat. The intensity rolling off of her is making the air around us thick with so much heat and tension, it has become hard to breathe. "I. Don't. Care."

The backs of my knees hit the edge of my bed and with a soft sound of surprise, I fall onto my back in the center of my Fwooper down bedding. She follows, stradling me in a fluid motion. I blink up at her, a maelstrom of contrasting emotions storming within me. There is desire, as well as shock, and though I'm loathe to admit it, unease. She has me in a compromising position. One that I have no experience with. The things she could do to me, if I let her. If I relinquish control.

"You make me feel alive, Bella," she whispers and there is the threat of tears in her voice though none in her eyes as she stares down at me. There is hunger there, a confidence I had no idea she possesses. Conviction. Something that could be predatory. But also something that is beseeching. She is asking, no, begging for my permission.

I am physically stronger than her. I could easily reverse our positions. But I don't. My tolerance is much too high to blame the Blishen's when I let her cup my cheek in her hand, warm with just the slightest tremble. I let her lean forward, my hands kept passively at my sides. I let her kiss me.

As was our first, this kiss is the sort that melts you slowly. Soft, so soft are her lips as they envelope mine. It deepens, the taste of her enhanced by traces of Firewhiskey. She doesn't bite, she suckles. It isn't a battle for dominance but a sure, sensual gesture that makes my heart throb in my chest and the parts below my waist dampen. She uses her hands as I do, like weapons, though she doesn't wield them with force or the desire to cause pain. She uses one to lightly grip at my side, the other has since left my cheek and is tangled in my hair. She doesn't snag or tug at my curls, merely toys with the dark strands, letting them fall between her fingers like liquid.

"You're playing with fire, girl," I mutter as I break the kiss, inwardly cursing the breathy tremor in my voice. Sweet fucking Salazar, what is she doing to me?

"Then let me burn."

She kisses me again and this time I use my hands to grip her sides, which are soft with no resistance under the light material of the camisole. She moans into my mouth, my name whispered as she kisses me like she means to draw the very breath from my lungs. My heart is pounding beneath the confines of my corset, a cantering cadence spurred by equal parts lust and the makings of nervousness.

Like unsurety and fear, I despise the subtle pins and needles feeling that anxiety evokes. Though I had once teased her, saying that anxiety can be a good thing in a duel, I don't truly believe it when it comes to myself. It makes me feel weak, small. I come from a lifestyle that epitomizes superiority, being on top. I'm not the sort that is content to allow someone to dominate me. It isn't in my nature to accept it. It is why I take so much pride in the way that I duel. I am always on the offense. There is never a need for Shield Charms because nothing can so much as touch me with my walnut wand in hand, an arsenal of spells, hexes, curses poised on the tip of my tongue that I know will hit with accuracy, precision. Sex, fucking is no different. I pillage and plunder, I rob witches and wizards of their very souls with my own variation of a Dementor's Kiss, using my assets and honed skill to extract a near deadly pleasure. I don't know how to allow someone to do that to me in return. I've never wanted to surrender to anyone in my life. Not totally, not completely. Not the way Granger wants.

I am waging an internal battle against myself even as she lavishes my lips, my cheeks, my neck with her gentle, open mouthed affection that has soothed scraped knees and bid sweet dreams. I can't do this, no matter how heated my blood has gone, no matter the way my thighs are clenching beneath her weight in hopes to alleviate some of the ache between my legs. My hips roll upward seeking out some friction. Her hands are trailing the length of my ribs, seeking for a way to get beneath the bones of my corset. It is a relief in itself to know she cannot untie my stays with me laying on my back. A small victory in this mental war.

But when I look up at Granger, I see the strangest expression on her face and the relief shatters. She is smirking down at me, her hazel eyes blown with desire, her lips quirked upward in a decidedly devilish expression that could rival my most wicked. Before I can ask her why the bloody hell she is looking at me like that, from the corner of my eye I see her draw her wand.

Instinctively, I reach out and grasp her wrist hard enough to leave a nasty bruise. Though I doubt she would even try to hex me, being both disarmed and beneath a witch with a wand in her hand, coupled with the tumult of loathsome emotions brewing within me, is too much to contend with.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Granger appeals, her voice gone tight in response to the unforgiving grip I have on her wrist, "I just want to show you something. Trust me."

And there it is. The crux of the issue. Trust. What is this girl to me? How do I know that I can trust her? Everyone who is a constant in my life - my sister Narcissa, Rodolphus, my duelists, the late Master Riddle - I trust them with my life because they have all given me reason to do so. They have earned it. This witch, she can't even be trusted by her own husband, if we are going to split unicorn hairs. And while no, this is no life or death situation, it's just sex - something I've engaged in countless times with countless individuals - I've never had to drop my guard, lower my shields. None of them had ever even tried to break down my walls. Why should I for her?

"Please," she says, all honeyed sweetness, no hint of threat or malice. If I were a skilled Legilimens, one who did not need the aid of intense concentration, a wand or spell, I could easily be certain of her sincerity but I am not, and the only thing keeping me from giving in, is me. "Please, Bella?"

"Fine," I growl, hesitantly relenting, the word holding exasperation and a bite of anger, "But any funny business, pet, and I will break your arm."

"I know," she responds though there is no mockery or sarcasm and I slowly release her. She beams at me as if she is destitute and I have just handed her a sackful of Galleons. A bright smile that makes her eyes crinkle in the corners and her cheeks dimple. She is beautiful, beautiful in a way that she is evidently not aware of.

She waves her wand and the incantation is a silent one. The instant effects though are louder than a Banshee's shriek. In a heartbeat, both she and I are completely naked. I can't help but gasp at the sudden feel of her warm, bare skin on mine. She is all delicious womanly curves, her past pregnancies evident in her hips and torso, the ripe fullness of her breasts. What is also evident is her arousal, slick heat that gives away just how much she enjoyed snogging the shit out of me.

"Impressive," I drawl in an attempt to cover up my surprise. I needn't have had to trouble myself. She hasn't even heard my voice. She is much too busy letting her eyes hungrily absorb my body. Her gaze lingers on what I affectionately refer to as my 'battle scars' from my days of training with Riddle and other duels that got a little intense. But it trails indolently over my breasts, my toned stomach, lower.

"See something you like, Granger?" I murmur teasingly, thoroughly enjoying her almost school girl like fascination. She is like a child in Honeydukes surrounded by all the sweets she can eat and unsure of where to start. Despite my reservations, the thought is not entirely unwelcome.

"Yes," is her somewhat strained response and its with that one word that she leans forward to draw one of my nipples into her mouth.

I groan low in my throat, the muscles in my torso and below my waist clenching at the sensations her tongue evokes. She has hardly touched me and already I know this is going to be different. When I take male lovers and they do whatever they do in an attempt to please me, I am practically silent, unresponsive. I am the one who makes my lovers squirm, shake, cry out in ecstasy. But not now. Granger, she has managed to stretch the coil of my control so thin in these past few weeks, reaching its zenith in this past hour, and with just the feel of her mouth, the gentle pressure of her teeth on the pebbled peak of my breast, I can feel the now fragile strand of my control begin to snap.

It is both frightening and exhilarating.

Her heady, tender kisses and that wicked little tongue of hers explores the length of my body, her hands, feathery touches, the light scrape of her nails that don't score, don't even scratch, yet still makes me writhe beneath her, seeking her touch. She is careful, dove-like in her tasting, touching. Like I am made of glass or porcelain and she doesn't want to crack or damage me. Warmth, her touch is warmth and it is enough to ignite this flame within me. She stokes it, slowly, soothes it like she doesn't wish for it to grow into a raging inferno but to burn steadily still. The softest gasps fall freely from my parted lips, my chest rising and falling rapidly, my heart fluttering beneath my ribs. I want to bite my lip, my tongue hard enough to cut through the haze of this torturous pleasure. That is what this is, a torture of the sweetest variety. I feel as if I could be falling, flying, yet still teetering at the precipice. I don't want to let go but with her touch, she is prying me away from the edge to freefall into descent.

She shifts her body, deft fingers sliding lower, lower past my waist, my navel, until they are slipping between the hot sodden folds of my core. I hiss at the contact, my eyelids fluttering at the sparks of heat her touch evokes while she makes some small noise of reverence at the back of her throat. As if she has just discovered some long lost treasure.

Granger knows what she's doing, that much becomes obvious when she makes lazy circles around my clit, while her teeth nip lightly at the thin skin above my mound. My hips roll to meet her fingers, a moan caught in my throat while she continues this onslaught. Her brows are furrowed slightly in concentration as she increases the speed and my legs quiver. Mortified, I can feel the climax building already though she's barely touching me. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched around harsh exhales that makes my chest heave in an attempt to keep the sounds that want to burst free at bay. I don't whimper, I don't beg. But she is making me want to.

This seems to frustrate her and that frustration quickens her pace. My arousal facilitates her fingers but she never stops being gentle, almost worshipful with my body, despite how frantically she wants to bring me to completion. I feel my inner muscles tighten, pulse, and the moan that spills from my lips is a shaky one, my body shuddering through the buzzing, orgasmic wave. But she isn't satisfied. It isn't enough for her.

Determination mingles with lusty desire in that hazel gaze of hers and as I try to blink the pleasurable haze from my own eyes, I realize all too late that Granger is on a mission. The mission being to fuck me within an inch of my life. And I have all but declared open season for the little huntress.

"Oh fuck," I gasp as her mouth descends on my sensitive clit. With her hands now free, she grabs both my breasts, her thumbs lightly flicking the nipples. I buck upward to meet her lips, my body now completely ignoring my plans to keep calm. The sight of her, between my legs, her eyes boring into mine as she licks and suckles, her purring moans of appreciation muffled, the lewd sounds her mouth is making as she devours me, it is all too much.

My voice has risen in pitch, these throaty groans, desperate gasps that sound utterly foreign to my ears are being wrenched out of me by this witch. How is she doing this? Where the bloody hell did she learn this? But even those unasked questions are a jumbled puzzle rattling about my head. It is chore to put together a string of coherent thought or words. I don't even wish to try. Not when breathy utterances of 'yes, yes, yes' are far easier to articulate.

This climax is more violent than the first, all consuming. My sharp cry of rapture that rents the air startles me just as much as the way my body quakes beneath her. And her hands are still stroking me, having moved from my breasts, they trail over the skin of my midsection, the lines of my ribs, down to my hips as she presses wet kisses against the insides of my thighs. As if she is trying to settle me, subdue, somehow ease the havoc she just wrought.

In my dizzied state, my vision doubled and blurred, my heart galloping within my chest, I feel her probe at my entrance, teasing strokes that make me want to snap my legs closed and part them wider in equal measure. One finger penetrates me, all that wetness making it a smooth motion that would hardly even register if not for the way my nerve endings have been blown apart not once but twice, and I mewl piteously when she adds a second finger. Oh Salazar, this girl, she is shattering me. Breaking me into pieces as she gently thrusts into me, stroking my walls, kissing my inner thighs, tracing nonsense patterns onto my skin. A third finger joins the first two, stretching me, filling me, her thumb just brushing my throbbing clit and the sounds I make are akin to sobs, breathless, heaving, broken moans filled with so much pleasure they sound like pain.

I can feel her wetness and warmth on my thigh as she rocks firmly against me, mimicking her thrusting fingers with her hips and her gasps mingle with my cries. The closer she gets to her own climax, the more frenzied she becomes, rutting against my leg, her head thrown back, her lips parted in a perfect 'o' shape, but her eyes are on me, her attention is diverted to me and seeking out the spongy tissue deep within me with those talented fingers of hers. Liquid fire courses through my veins when she finds that special spot at last, twisting her wrist just so, digits curving upward as if she is beckoning to my soul, coaxing it out of me to take a tumble into this dark, carnal abyss.

"You're killing me," I whimper, for she's dragged it out of me at last, my body now trying to twist away, to recoil, suddenly terrified of the plunge. I feel trapped now, ensnared in her thrall. I want to flee but she is dragging me, pulling me towards the edge and I can't get away no matter how hard I kick, fight, scream, and struggle, "You're killing me."

"Shh," she murmurs, cupping my cheek with her free hand, "Let go. I've got you."

This third orgasm is like a storm; a vicious clap of thunder, scorching forks of lightning, a gushing torrential downpour soaking her hand, my primal howl of release, the gale force winds. I have lost complete control of my body, it has been rendered a useless mass of convulsing muscles and flopping limbs. My vocal chords are shredded, my eyes unseeing. The only thing I can hear is the throbbing beat of my heart which is the only indication that I haven't perished in the destructive tidal force of that cyclonic climax.

"Hermione," I croak, instantly aware that this is the first time I've addressed her by name but unable to even dwell on that fact when there is a much greater issue, "I can't move."

As if I weigh hardly more than a Cornish pixie, she pulls me farther up onto the bed, positioning me in what she assumes is comfortably. My teeth are chattering noisily like I've been caught in the cold rather than just had the best sex of my life. My body, trembling like a leaf in autumn. I'm sure I look positively dreadful but that is what happens, I suppose when you've been turned inside out

I feel the bed dip and I see a flurry of movement in my periphery. It seems that the lion has gone and the lamb is back, hurrying now to make her escape before I've properly recovered. No, no, we'll have none of that. She is not allowed to leave, not after what she has reduced me to.

I reach for her, my arm limp and heavy. My fingers brush hers and she takes my hand. Hard to believe with this small, smooth palmed appendage can do. I give her a half hearted tug forward.

"Stay."

She smiles down at me, that same bright, genuinely happy grin of hers and tucks herself right up beside me on the bed.

She wraps her arms around me, her nose buried in my hair, a contented sigh making her chest rise and fall against my back. I nestle into her. Skin to skin, the lightest layer of perspiration making it a damp warmth. The heady scent of sex, peaches, and spices thick in the air. The pinkening of the sky and the sun's slow path towards descent visible from my window belies just how long Granger and I have been locked together in my room. For some completely idiotic reason, the hot prickle of tears makes me blink my eyes.

"Thank you, Bella," she whispers and it is almost inaudible but I hear it nonethless. I know exactly what she is thanking me for. But I don't know why she thanks me. I don't want her to thank me.

Not when I have to make her hate me by the morning.

Author's Note: This was probably the hardest thing I've ever written. Honestly, all of those emotions with this lemon, I'm drained! I hope you guys liked this chapter and I would love to hear your thoughts on it. So be a dear and hit up that pretty little review box. The support for this has been overwhelming. I appreciate all the reveiws, follows, and favorites. Next chapter will be the last. Until next time loves - bellanoire, over and out!