CHAPTER ELEVEN:
SINFUL
7 January, 1997
(the present)
New Year's Eve morning, he'd been reading the newspaper in bed when she cuddled up beside him and began unbuttoning his nightshirt, running the sharp tips of her nails down the center of his chest, hoping to entice him into starting the new year off on a perfectly lovely note. Her hand had just reached his waistband when he caught her wrist, said, "I'm in no mood," and placed her hand back on her side of the bed. He didn't even take his eyes off the front page.
Two nights later, she borrowed lingerie from her sister, a short white teddy with a low-v-neck that accentuated her breasts (which were finally filling out again, one year post-escape from Azkaban, as she was looking less emaciated now). She'd straddled him in his chair and flicked her tongue against his earlobe and hoped he would reciprocate, but he'd said, "Not now," removed her from his lap, and left the bedroom, heading Merlin-only-knows where.
On the fifth of January, she stepped into the shower while he was standing under the hot stream, massaging soap into his scalp (having no need for shampoo these days). She'd asked him to help her by washing her hair – he used to enjoy washing her hair – but he'd said, "Can't you manage it yourself?" rinsed off, and stepped out.
By the seventh of January, she was more sexually frustrated than she'd been perhaps ever in her life, despite her long period of celibacy in Azkaban, a place that squelched one's libido along with their sense of humor and will to live.
"Why don't you touch me anymore?" she whined over a breakfast of café au lait and croissants, sent up by her sister's elves.
"Excuse me?" Had he any eyebrows, one would be cocked right now. Instead, he sneered and returned to the Prophet.
"You feel more affinity for that bloody newspaper than you do for me as of late!"
"Nonsense." He turned the page. "I feel no strong affinity for either of you in the moment."
"Fuck you."
Slowly, he set down the Prophet, and regarded her with his full attention.
"Excuse me?"
"I said fuck you." She stood, her hands holding the edge of the round table for support, and glared down at him, furious at both the calm, bemused expression and his careless disregard for her feelings. "I have given my entire adult life to you, I've dedicated myself to your cause, I've followed you and fought for you. I went to Azkaban for you. I conceived, carried, bore, lost, and am now reprogramming my only child for you, I repeatedly put myself at risk of dying for you, I have done absolutely everything I possibly could for you, and you… you… you have no more affinity for me than you do that bloody rag?" She whipped out her wand, pointed it at the Prophet, and set the pages on fire. They burned out quickly, leaving a small pile of ash between his mug and plate.
"You are overstepping, Bella," he warned, going slowly to his feet, his eyes not leaving hers. "Watch your tone."
"Fuck! You!"
"Bellatrix…"
"I am not old! I am not unattractive! I am not unintelligent! I am not undesirable! I could have any man I-"
"Have them, then." He returned to his seat, wandlessly Vanished the ashes, and lifted his mug to his lips. Before sipping, he added, "No one is stopping you."
Wounded, she gasped and backed away from the table.
"I have been faithful… your most faithful… your…"
"I appreciate your loyalty." Sip. "It does not go unnoticed." Sip. "But you seem to have forgotten your place. You are my solider, not my-"
"Is it that you don't want to, or that you can't?" She folded her arms across her chest. She was wearing one of her better looking sets of pajamas, borrowed from Narcissa (like most of her attire these days). A forest green silk top with white cap sleeves over short silk shorts, white with green accents. It hugged her chest and hips just enough to be enticing, but wasn't overly seductive. She'd worn it with the hope that it would remind him of some of her earlier nightwear, which she'd donned for him twenty years ago.
Apparently, those days were long forgotten - for one of them.
He again rose slowly, regarding her carefully; the flash in his red eyes told her she was on thin ice, and skating out too far. When he spoke, his voice was without warmth or inflection, as if she were a stranger - or an enemy.
"Excuse me?"
She was too far in to back away now.
"Is it that you can't satisfy me, my Lord, or are you merely disinterested?"
A muscle in his cheek twitched, as did his empty wand hand. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? Do you know who you are speaking to?"
"To whom you're speaking," she corrected arrogantly. "And yes, I know better than anyone to whom I'm speaking. I know you better than-"
"You know nothing." He glided toward her, a menacing air about him, and though her resolve momentarily faltered she puffed out her chest with false bravado and refused to back down, hoping he wouldn't sense how scared she was.
"I know you, my Lord. And you used to know me. You enjoyed knowing me, didn't you? You used to-"
"That was a long time ago, witch. Some twenty years." He was standing right in front of her now.
As much as she didn't want to show fear, she couldn't help taking several small steps back as he advanced, her breath hitching in her throat when her back hit the wall. He put his hands up on either side of her shoulders, keeping her in place. She was trapped. Still, she jutted up her chin and maintained eye contact, tossed her hair back haughtily, and again tried to hit him where it would hurt.
"Exactly twenty years. Twenty years today."
His red eyes darkened, a darkening that used to mean desire, but these days meant only bloodlust. "Are you on the rag, Bella? Have some chocolate. You're not yourself."
Her jaw dropped. She put one hand on her hip, tossed her hair, and forced a sardonic smile onto her lips. "If you're too old, my Lord, simply tell me. I'll understand. There's no reason to be ashamed. Many men lose the ability to satisfy their women upon reaching a certain age. But I've heard there are potions that can help with that. Perhaps Snape could brew one for you." Mockingly, she added, "Tom."
"You dare stand directly in front of the Dark Lord, use his former name, and impugn his manhood?"
"Referring to yourself in the third person is an early sign of dementia." (Whether this was true or not, she had no idea, but she was too far in to dig herself out now – might as well do all the damage she could while in the hole.)
He grabbed hold of the back of her hair – hair he'd so often run his fingers through in the past, hair he'd enjoyed washing, hair he'd sniffed and kissed and called beautiful – and by it, yanked her roughly down to the floor, to her knees. She winced when her kneecaps made contact with the hard wood, but she refused to apologize. She would not beg anything from him today, not even her life. Not on this important date. She was too filled with fire.
"Remember how you used to like me in this position?" she asked. "Remember how it made you feel to finish in my mouth, on my breasts? Remember what it was like before your fall, when you were a man, one who-"
"I am now much more than man!" He jerked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.
"Are you?" She rose both eyebrows, a look of feigned innocence on her pale face. "You'd think, being 'much more than a man,' you'd manage to satisfy the simple desires of a woman who-"
He struck her.
He did not release her hair when he did so, thus though she fell toward one side but was jerked back into a high kneeling position immediately.
"You think, because I've had you in my bed a few times over twenty years, that you can speak to me as if we're equals?"
He struck her again.
"You think, because I've shared with you a few secrets and a bit of personal history, you are more to me than any other adequate servant? You think you are less disposable? You think you're special?"
He struck her a third time.
"You think, because I gave you a child, broke you from Azkaban twice, and saved you from returning a third time, you somehow mean more to me than any other woman with whom I've been to bed? Or any other servant I've sent into battle?"
He raised his fist to strike her again. This time, she threw her hands up over her face, choking back sobs.
"Tell your sister to prepare a bedroom for you, Mrs. Lestrange. I'll not be tolerating your presence in mine any longer."
The hand holding her hair pitched forward and released, letting her fall to the floor, shaking and sputtering and in shock.
"I'm… sorry…" It was difficult to speak through her tears and the throbbing pain in the side of her face.
"Out."
She obeyed, mentally cursing herself for her impertinence – he had warned her several times as of late, hadn't he? – and managed to make it all the way to her sister's bedroom before collapsing onto a heap on the floor.
"Bella!"
Narcissa wrestled herself out from under the blankets of her massive four poster bed and rushed to her sister's side.
"Bella?" She cradled her sister, taking in her bloodied nose and lip, and bruising that would surely be forming along her temple and cheek. "Oh, Bella, what happened?"
-0-0-0-
7 January, 1977
(twenty years ago)
The Dark Lord threw down the Daily Prophet, looking thoroughly disgusted.
"What is it, my Lord?" asked Bellatrix. She was curled up in one of his wing backed leather chairs, reading one of her favorite mystery/romance novels for the hundredth time. They had just finished dinner, but it was not yet time to head to bed.
Bed.
He'd taken her to bed only one week and one day before, New Year's Eve.
He'd Summoned her for the first time since their first kiss (kisses… plural… an entire half-day of kisses) and had guided her into the bed, where they'd explored each other for hours, using their mouths and hands to bring each other to bliss, and then fallen asleep sharing a pillow, with her arm around his waist and his hand settled on the small of her back. While they hadn't technically had sex - not sexual intercourse, at any rate - there was no denying their... relationship... such as it was... had changed.
Tonight was the first time he'd Summoned her since, and again he'd started off this time by kissing her gently and calling her beautiful, but then he'd asked if she was hungry for dinner (she was).
She'd had her bag with her, as she'd been out with Cissy and two of their friends earlier in the evening, and, as always, she had a book in her bag – just in case she got bored with the conversation or had to wait for someone to arrive. The book had fallen out of her bag while they were kissing hello, and he'd teased her upon seeing the cover and reading the description.
"Drivel," he'd said. "I'd have thought you'd be the type to read books with more… substance."
"There's substance in these books," she'd argued. "I'm learning how to solve mysteries… and properly pleasure a man. Would you not call that substantial?"
And he'd laughed.
After dinner, he'd read the evening Prophet while she re-read her book, like a real couple, comfortable in the silence. She loved it. Until he threw the paper down – the anger on his face made her uneasy, made the lamb chop dinner swirl in her stomach, and made her heart flutter most unpleasantly.
"Something wrong, my Lord?"
"Yes." He slammed his hand down on the table. "That incredible idiot Dolohov has been arrested."
Her jaw dropped. Antonin Dolohov was one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, but as a prominent investor in their world and a Gringotts board member, he'd taken great pains to keep from participating in any illicit activity he might later be tied to.
"Arrested? On what charge, my Lord?"
"Domestic assault. He beat his wife. Put her in St. Mungo's." The Dark Lord sneered, contorting his handsome face into one of pure repugnance. "I have no patience, Bella, for men like Dolohov or your Rodolphus. Not only is it beneath us as wizards to use physical force in place of magic, but to lower one's self to…" He chucked the paper into the fireplace. "And now he's in Azkaban, awaiting trial, where he'll do us no good."
"That new boy you've been recruiting, Severus Snape? His father beats his mother. Lucius said as much to Cissy. His mother is pureblood, but his father is a Muggle. He's an alcoholic, too. A drunk."
"Muggle filth." The Dark Lord's lip curled. He knew that the Snape boy was a half-blood, but wasn't aware of his father's proclivities. "They all do it, Bella." He regarded her with complete seriousness, not a hint of exaggeration or hyperbole. "All Muggle men are like that. Not a good one among them. I'd wager to bet, if you paid your sister Andromeda a visit tomorrow, you'd find her battered and bruised, but too weak to leave."
"I wish she would leave the Mudblood, my Lord. Five years she's been with him. They have a daughter."
"The Metamorph. I am aware."
"How do you know so much about Muggle men, sir?
He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and shook his head. She leaned forward in her own chair, her arms folded on the table before her, and awaited his answer.
"Bella, as one of my most valuable followers, I trust you with information I'll not freely share with others. I can trust you, can't I?"
"Yes, my Lord. Absolutely."
"Good." He sighed, as if it took him great effort to share with her whatever he was about to say.
She bit her lip and waited with baited breath.
"In order to win this war, before I encouraged my followers to start rising up, I traveled and studied extensively. I learned about Muggles and their ways – I even lived among them – as the only way to defeat an enemy is to 'know thine enemy.' After all, it is Muggles who raise Muggleborns, and who create half-bloods, Muggles who poison our bloodlines and harvest our magic for their own means, Muggles who are responsible for dying out of the oldest wizarding families. And what I learned about them personally, about them as people, was most disconcerting. They all beat their wives, Bella. They're worse than animals."
He stood, face still screwed up in disgust, and paced back and forth before the fireplace as he continued.
"They all beat their wives, Bella, and they rape, and they take out their frustrations on those close to them rather than on the actual enemies – like young Snape's father does, abusing his wife and son because he cannot accept that he is nothing and no one – they hurt their children, leave them to die, as the blood of their children is worth nothing to them. They are nothing like us!"
He put his hands on either arm of her chair, leaning over her, maintaining eye contact.
"I would never lower myself to beating a woman, or raping one, or resorting to fisticuffs rather than wandwork. I am beyond that, whereas each Muggle cares only for himself, or herself, and not for those around them. Not like me. Not like you."
"No, sir." She stared up at him, more in awe of him than she'd ever been. "My Lord, I care deeply for those around me."
"I know you do, Bella. And I care for all of you, my followers, my Marked Death Eaters, my inner circle. To those who show me loyalty I return it tenfold, in the form of rewards and places of honor. You sit in a place of honor."
This time, the heart flutter signified a surge of love and gratitude and righteousness. "Yes, my Lord."
He straightened and moved back toward the fireplace, leaning on the mantle. The flames flickered across her eyes as she watched him, and he never took his eyes off her.
"I hold my Death Eaters to higher standards than the Muggles and Mudbloods hold their fellow men, as we all should, because those who are Pureblood and dignified and able to properly harness and use magic do not debase ourselves so far as to use fists, not in duels and not at home. I would never do to you as Snape's father does to his mother, or as bloody Dolohov has done to his wife."
"You would never, my Lord." She continued gazing up at him lovingly, her brown eyes wide and bright, taking in his every word, her nails digging into her thighs. Her face was flush and her chest heaved as she inhaled and exhaled. He was an incredible orator, whether at a podium, in the center of a circle of followers, or just here, alone in their bedroom – his bedroom – with her as the solo audience member. She was in love.
"Men who have to rape women are pathetic, Bella. Like your husband. Men who beat their wives. Men who impregnate women and then leave them to die alone just after childbirth, without a second thought given to the woman or the unborn child they've created. Muggles. Mudbloods. Filth. I will not have filth in my ranks. Dolohov will serve his sentence – there is a one year penalty if convicted – and then, once he has returned to us, I shall teach him a lesson."
"Using magic, my Lord?"
"What else, my Bella?" He cupped her cheek, gently stroking her soft skin with his thumb.
"You would never hurt me as Rodolphus did, as he tried to do. My Lord."
"Never." He guided her up from the chair, his hand still on her cheek, as the other hand went to her waist. "We discipline with our wands, not our fists."
"But you'd never hurt me, would you, my Lord? Not even in discipline?"
He leaned down. Their lips were nearly touching.
"Would I ever have to, Bella?"
"I'd do anything you asked of me." Her lips brushed against his as she spoke. "Everything."
"Your husband is no longer permitted to touch you."
"I know." She was speaking into his mouth now, as his lips moved to capture hers. "Touch me, my Lord."
Mouths and tongues connected. The hand on her cheek slipped into her hair, her hands went up to cradle his face, he pressed his upper body to hers…
"Give yourself to me," he murmured when they parted. "I want you for my own."
"I thought you were beyond the base, carnal desires of man…" She whispered the teasing words as he sucked at that spot on the side of her neck. A fluttering in her lower belly and a warmth forming between her legs practically begged for him to do as he was proposing, but she wanted him to woo her, to convince her, so she'd not let on. "And I am a married woman, my Lord. It would be wrong."
"Married in name only." His mouth found hers again. "Stay the night with me. Stay the weekend."
"Yes." (Oh, fuck being wooed; she wanted this.)
And then he was undressing her. Slowly. Taking his time. Popping out each hook-eye closure on the front of her corset… drawing her skirt down long, silky legs… stockings… knickers…
She stood before him naked but for her heels, the strappy ones he'd said he liked, and her jewelry, all shining silver and glossy peridot – her birthstone, a light green – save for the thick gold band featuring a series of small diamonds around a larger one on her third finger; her wedding ring. He took her left hand between his, gently ran his fingertips over her Dark Mark, which momentarily burned bright, then twisted the gold band.
"You'll not be needing this."
Off came the ring, the large, ornate one that had been in the Lestrange family for generations. He slipped it into his pocket, kissed her palm, and guided her to the bed.
She reclined onto her back and watched him as he removed his wizard's robe and the attire underneath, a high collared frock coat… a thin white undershirt… dark gray trousers that were already tented…
As he lowered himself on top of her, she wrapped her arms around his back, and inhaled sharply when his bare chest settled against her breasts, his sparse hair tickling her hardened nipples. His erection pressed against her abdomen and she shifted, parting her legs, already warm and wet and ready…
"We are in no rush," he said as his hand moved between their bodies. He caressed her breast, running his thumb over the pad of her nipple, then took it in his mouth, making her back arch.
With her hand on the back of his neck, her nails digging in just a bit, she encouraged him to suck harder, to keep going, not to stop. He kissed along in a horizontal line across the valley between her breasts to the other, which he also took between his lips, teasing with his flicking tongue.
"You belong to me," he murmured as his mouth moved south. He nipped just below her bellybutton, which made her jump and giggle, and then his tongue was exploring her more intimately, as he had on New Year's Eve. At first, he refused contact with her clit, which only made her want it more, and when she reached down to touch herself he swatted away her hands. He licked between her lips and delved inside, drinking and sucking and massaging her inner thighs at the same time.
He finally sucked her clit into his mouth as two fingers entered her, and she cried out at the contact. He fucked her with his fingers and tongue until her hips were spasming beyond her control, and then she was holding a pillow over her face, trying not to scream loud enough to wake the dead. When he stopped, once she'd orgasmed, there were tears streaming down her cheeks, she could scarcely breathe, and she felt heady.
"My Lord…" she whimpered. "Yes…"
He wiped her cheeks and kissed her lips, and positioned himself over her again. One of his hands went to his stiff cock; both of hers went to the backs of his shoulders.
"He's not to touch you, Bella. Not physically, not sexually."
"Yes… yes, thank you, my Lord…" She rubbed against his outer thigh with her inner thigh, prompting him to enter her. For years, this had been all she wanted. Since even before that first time he Summoned her to this room – how long ago was that? Five years? Six? She'd given herself entirely to his cause… and she wanted to give herself entirely to him.
"You are mine now, Bella. Special to me. My most faithful follower. My most competent soldier…" He slid his tip between her folds, circling it over her clit, making her wriggle and moan. "The only one for whom I would lower myself in this way…"
"Please, please, my Lord…"
He kissed her soundly, pulling back only as he pushed into her. Again, she cried out, and her nails went into his shoulders – there would be marks. He drove in slowly, paused not to give her time to adjust, but to give himself a steadying moment (it had been years since he'd last been with a witch) and then he began to thrust, deep and slow, and then faster, filling her… fulfilling her fantasies… giving in to what he'd told himself he'd never again need, as he had no desire to rely on, or even derive pleasure from, another person.
"Harder, please, my Lord," she begged, and he contentedly obliged.
"My Bella," he groaned into her wild rose-scented hair. "My beautiful Bella, brilliant Bella… Mine…"
"Yes!" she cried. "My Lord, yes... ohh... yes!"
He was pounding into her now, squeezing her breast, holding firmly to her thigh, fucking her hard and fast, giving her everything she wanted and taking from her all he could. She hit her peak a second time, crying out and digging those nails into his flesh, tearing at his skin, tears welled in her eyes from the pure pleasure of it. He couldn't help but smile with sheer satisfaction – it may have been years since he last took a woman to bed, but clearly he'd not lost his touch in that time.
When he was almost there himself, he abruptly stilled, kissed the bite mark he'd already left on her neck, and murmured into her ear, "Tom."
"Wh… what?" She opened her eyes, meeting his, and bit her lip.
"On New Year's Eve, my birthday, you asked what my name had been when I was in school, when I knew your father as a young man. I told you it was a name I'd left behind forever, one those former schoolmates are now forbidden to speak, as I am now Voldemort – and those who are of any intelligence are afraid even to whisper that."
"Yes, my Lord." Her entire body was trembling, vibrating, pulsating around him. She tried not to let her hips jerk, though she was desperate for him to continue.
His lips again went to her ear.
"Tom Riddle," he repeated, his voice low, almost a growl. "That was my name, then. Tom. Say it."
"Tom," she echoed faintly. She was dizzy with bliss, and her heart nearly exploded at the realization he was trusting her with one of his greatest secrets. "Tom Riddle."
"Voldemort." He resumed thrusting. Her head tipped back. Her fingers slipped between them, massaging her clit, as his hands held firmly to her bucking hips. She was on the edge again.
"Say it."
"Vol… Voldemort."
"It's a name you'll not speak outside these walls. You'll not speak either name outside these walls."
"Tom Riddle," she whispered. It became a moan. "Tom… Tom Riddle…"
"Yes." Harder, faster… Fuck… He was almost there… She was almost there… He grabbed her breast and squeezed, hard, and then his hand entangled itself in the back of her hair. She tilted her pelvis and met him thrust-for-thrust…
"Bella," he groaned. "My Bella…"
And she spasmed and jerked as her inner walls clenched around his throbbing cock, and it made him spill into her.
"Bella," he growled. "Mine."
And, with his blessing, she cried out his name.
"Tom! Tom Riddle, yes… Tom… T-t... oh... Voldemort!
-0-0-0-
7 January, 1997
(the present)
For the last week, Hermione had relished her little bit of freedom. She'd made friends with the house-elves, who seemed to enjoy doting on her in the kitchen, she'd finally managed to work her aching underused muscles by swimming laps in the massive pool, and she was feeding her brain as much as it could take in via books of all sorts found in the expansive Malfoy library…
But it wasn't enough.
She wanted her wand. She wanted the sunshine.
She wanted Snape to pay attention to her.
He'd been distant since New Year's Eve, since she pressed her lips to his on impulse, since he'd hurried out of her cell. She didn't know why it was so important to her to connect with him – perhaps because he was the only person from her old life she still saw on the regular, or perhaps because she assumed he, like her, lived in some gray area between the light and dark, toeing the line, transcending both worlds, or perhaps it was just because she'd always hungered for the approval of her teachers and he was, at the moment, the only one she had – and one of the hardest to impress.
But she wanted him to pay attention to her.
She also wanted to know more about Narcissa and the Longbottoms, and she wanted to know whether Harry and Ron still missed her, and she wanted to know why Andromeda had been holding her as a baby, and why the Dark Lord seemed so pleased by her natural gift for Occlumency and Legilimency…
She wanted to know everything, but no one told her anything, and it was frustrating.
"Tea is late today." Bellatrix reached the bottom of the cellar stairs, a tray hovering in front of her. It was nearly four in the afternoon and Hermione hadn't seen her all day, not even during her two hours out (which she'd spent in the pool today. The ceiling, like the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall, was enchanted to look like the sky outside, making it the closest to sunshine she'd seen in some time).
"Are you alright?" Upon catching a glimpse of her mother's puffy cheek and forming bruises, she hopped up and went to the cell door. "You're hurt."
"I fell," said Bellatrix, and though she had no tells – no avoidance of eye contact, no scratching above her collar, no unnatural flatness in her voice – Hermione was certain this was a lie.
They set up the tea things, preparing their own, and settled across from each other at Hermione's desk.
"Auntie says she loves her husband very much. She misses him. And she worries about Draco. That's why she drinks." Hermione wasn't sure why she brought this up at this moment – it was information she'd had for a week now, and it was of no real importance to either of them – but it was difficult to make conversation day in and day out when every single day was the same.
"Auntie is… stressed."
"What happened to your face?"
"I told you, I fell." She lifted her mug to her lips and sighed. "Drink your tea before it's cold."
"If it went cold, couldn't you do a warming charm? Or I could. You could let me use your wand, just to-"
"No."
"But I-"
"No."
"But-"
"I said no!" Bellatrix slammed down her mug, causing hot tea to slosh out over the side. Hermione flinched.
"Sorry."
"The Dark Lord does not believe you're ready for your wand."
Hermione glowered. "I don't see what you see in him. I don't understand how you could have had a baby with him. Are you one-hundred percent certain he's my father? Don't misunderstand, I don't want Rodolphus to be my father either, but-"
"You think I was such a slag some eighteen years ago that I conceived a child without knowing with one-hundred percent certainty who the father is?" She added another sugar cube to her tea and sighed again. "Drink your tea."
"Do you love him? The Dark Lord, I mean."
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know. I'd like to know if my parents – when I was younger, and I knew I was adopted but had no idea about… about any of these, I didn't even know I was a witch, I used to fantasize about my birth parents. I wondered whether they loved each other but couldn't handle a baby for some reason, or if they were together only once, and I was an accident, or if-"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me!" Hermione set down her own mug. "Don't I deserve to know whether I was conceived in love? Or were you his… did he…" Hermione's face paled, then went slightly green. "Was it like Longbottom and Potter and Black with Auntie?"
"He's not a rapist." Bellatrix reached for a biscuit. "He'd never hurt me. Not on purpose."
"But he hurt you the night you took me here. He could have killed you! And me! He hit you, and he cursed you, and he-"
"You needn't rehash it for me; I was there." She passed the biscuit plate to her daughter. "Here. Chocolate. Cissy and I made them."
"You were baking together? When? Why didn't you ask me? I like to bake. I could have-"
"You talk constantly!" Bellatrix winced and pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Why must you talk all the time?"
"I spend most of my time alone, so when I see you, I have a lot to say. Maybe if I had more friends to talk to-"
"You want me to find you a friend?"
"This is delicious!" Hermione chewed a bite of the chocolate biscuit. "Much better than the breakfast Auntie made the day the house-elf died. Her name was Sudsy, by the way. Sudsy the house-elf. Died of old age. The other house-elves are still in mourning. She was very popular among the-"
"I could not care much less." Bellatrix set down her own biscuit and pressed her fingertips gently to her wounded cheek. "You've been swimming? Your hair looks brittle."
"Yes, I could use more of that shampoo you gave me for Christmas, please. The rose one. It smells so pretty. It smells like…" Hermione glanced toward the vial of Amortentia on top of her bookshelf. The roses were one of many smells that had found their way into her nostrils when she and Snape brewed that one. "Does the Dark Lord love you?"
"What?"
"You love him, don't you? I know you do. I can see it when you look at him. It's obvious. It was obvious when you were dancing at my birthday party. Even though you won't say, I know you love him."
"Well, aren't you quite the know-it-all, then?"
"But does he love you? Can he? Dumbledore thinks he doesn't have the ability to feel love."
"Does he, now?"
"Dumbledore told Harry-"
"Dumbledore is old and senile, and he was never one to espouse the truth even in his younger years, nor was he one for justice. He knew what his Order did to my sister, but he passed along the information she gave them just the same, knowing it could get her killed, and those vile blood-traitors were never held accountable." Her hand went to the dagger in its sheath on her hip. "Until I took care of matters."
"Is that why you tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom? It wasn't for information about the Dark Lord, it was because-"
"I already explained that to you."
"But I want to know more! All you told me was-"
"I don't wish to talk any more about it."
"He doesn't love you."
Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow, making her look a little too much like Snape for Hermione's liking.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't think you fell. I think he left those bruises on your face. I think he hurt you – he hurts you. I think-"
"Stop."
"I think he abuses you, same as he does his other followers. I think you're afraid of him. You might have loved him once, but now-"
"You're an accomplished Legilimens, are you? Three Occlumency lessons and now-"
"He's never loved you. If he loved you, he wouldn't hurt you, he wouldn't have nearly killed you that night you brought me back here. My mum always said that a boy who loves you won't hurt you, even though some boys who hurt you will say it's because they love you. If the Dark Lord loved you, he wouldn't have left bruises all across your face. He-"
"Stop talking."
But Hermione could not stop talking.
"...probably doesn't have it in him to love; maybe he's not even human enough anymore, considering, what with being nearly destroyed and brought back and all that's happened since 1981. I think it's tragic, that my mother had a baby with a man who treats her as he does you. I think you ought to think more highly of yourself than to allow that. I think you love him, but he's not worthy of your love, because he won't – or can't – reciprocate it."
"Shut it." Bella stood up, wincing as she did so, for her knees were still sore from having been slammed to the floor earlier. She backed toward the door of the cell.
"He doesn't love you. You want to believe he does, don't you? You want to think having a baby together means that you meant more to him than you do, but he's shown you time and time again… He was brought back to his body months and months before he broke you from Azkaban, and he let you languish there when you were pregnant even though he was at full power then, and-"
"I swear, Hermione, if you don't shut-"
"Why did he leave you there in 1979? Had he broken you out then, we never would have been separated, no one would have been told to drown me, you wouldn't have spent years thinking your only child had died. I wouldn't have spent my childhood wondering about my mother who birthed me in jail and probably didn't even want me. We both suffered because he couldn't be bothered to-"
"Stop!" Bellatrix cried. She pressed her palms against her eyelids. Was the girl somehow reading her? Seeing into her soul? Using her darkest thoughts against her? It was like being back in Azkaban, the pain, the unrelenting questions – how could he leave her there? Why didn't he save their child? Why hadn't he ever said 'I love you' when she'd said it over and over and over again?
"...break you out sooner." Hermione added simply, sadly. "He doesn't love you."
"That's not true," whispered Bellatrix, sounding wounded.
Annoyed by this, Hermione stood, put both hands on her hips, and regarded her mother with a mix of revulsion and pity. "You put all of your faith in him and you'll do anything for him, but the love is entirely one-sided. It's pathetic! Everyone thinks you're this strong woman, this force to be reckoned with, someone to fear, but you do all you do just because you're hoping it'll make him love you back, but he never will! He won't, he can't, and doesn't want to, but you refuse to see it, to accept it!" The more she thought about it, the more furious she got, the more she wanted to shove some sense into her pitiable mother. "He's not worth you! He! Doesn't! Love! You!"
"CRUCIO!"
Bellatrix Lestrange didn't pull her wand, but she didn't need it. Wandless magic was among her many gifts – honed through years of practice – and so even without it her Unforgivable caused the girl to double over in pain, as her insides contorted and burned, and she hollered with pain.
"No!" shouted the deep timbered voice of a man at the foot of the stairs. And, suddenly, Snape was there. He had the cell door open, he was wrestling with Bellatrix, lowering her arm, interrupting her eye contact. He got in front of her, blocking Hermione from her view, and shoved her roughly back against the bars.
"What is wrong with you?"
"I… I…" She couldn't speak, couldn't think. Beyond him, Hermione was curled up in the fetal position, sobbing. "I didn't mean to…"
"Are you trying to kill her, or only to drive her mad like Frank and Alice?"
"I didn't mean to…"
"Two days ago you told me you'd do anything to keep her alive but needed my help, and now I arrive for her tutoring session to find you torturing my pupil?"
"I… I…"
"Narcissa!"
"Yes?" Narcissa, who'd been fast on his heels but stopped short upon seeing her sister, stepped from the shadows.
"Take her upstairs."
"Please…" Bellatrix tried to rush to Hermione, but Severus caught her around the waist, holding her against him. "Please, love, I'm sorry."
"Get out." He lifted her a few inches off the floor, carried her beyond the cell door frame, and pushed her – not gently – toward her sister. "Go!"
Narcissa did as directed, steering Bellatrix toward the stairs, though now Bella was crying nearly as loudly as Hermione was. Severus Snape locked the cell door and moved quickly to Hermione's side. She'd collapsed onto the floor, so gingerly he lifted her and placed her on the bed.
"It's alright," he said, his voice low. "I've got you."
-0-0-0-
7 January, 1990
(seven years ago)
When Severus Snape started teaching at Hogwarts, several of his students had previously been his peers, as he was only a few years older than they were. He was, therefore, lectured by Professor McGonagall about the importance of decorum, discretion, and consent, power imbalances, and the golden rule – which basically boiled down to, "It doesn't matter how old they are or how willing they seem, you can't shag the students."
It was an awkward and humiliating chat, especially as, at the time, he was a twenty-one-year-old virgin who'd never even contemplated the possibility of shagging a student.
"Have a biscuit, Severus," she'd said, passing the tin of ginger newts across her desk. "I realize this is an uncomfortable topic of conversation, but as the Deputy Headmistress, uncomfortable topics of conversation as they pertain to your job is part of my job."
"I understand," he'd said, reaching for a biscuit even though he hated the taste of ginger, his father's favorite flavor. He took a bite. Every bit as disgusting as he remembered from his youth.
"Excellent," McGonagall had said, looking relieved. "In that case, we're through here, but feel free to stay and finish your tea."
It was because of that conversation, when the student seated on her desk with her legs spread and her blouse open, asked, "What are you thinking about?" he answered, "Ginger newts."
"You're an odd man," said the student, but his oddness didn't stop her from taking his semi-erect cock in her hand and stroking it until he was as ready as she was, nor did it stop her from gasping and moaning when he fucked her, nor did it stop her from asking whether they could do this again during next week's detention.
"Do you intend to be assigned detention again next week?" he asked.
"Oh, I think so Professor," the pink-haired Hufflepuff answered cheerily. "I believe I've been quite naughty this evening, and therefore deserve a number of additional detentions… don't you?"
-0-0-0-
7 January, 1997
(the present)
"Does this help?" he asked. He was massaging a healing salve of his own creation into Miss Granger's abdomen, where the worst of the pain from that particular Cruciatus Curse was being felt. He had the sneaking suspicion it hurt more here than in her chest (where it had been directed) due to the lingering effects of Dolohov's curse, which he hadn't been able to identify when healing her at Malfoy Manor a few days after her abduction.
"I pushed her," whimpered Hermione. She was reclined on her back on the bed, he was seated beside her, and she flinched as his hand came into contact with the more tender parts of her flesh. "I don't know why I did it. I could see it was hurting her, and her face… he did that to her face, don't you think?" She sniffled. "Why did I have to say those things? What was I thinking?"
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I do believe she loves you – she told me as much two days ago, when she Floo-called me desperately seeking assistance as it pertains to you."
"Assistance?"
"The Dark Lord does not feel you are progressing quickly enough in your 'reprogramming.'"
"My what?" She hissed through her teeth as he massaged the salve into the spot just below her lower right ribs. "Reprogramming?"
"He wants to turn you into the daughter you would have been had you not been raised by Muggles and befriended by Potter and Weasley. She is at a loss for how, as she does not wish to hurt you."
"She does not wish to hurt me?" Hermione chuckled bitterly. "Alright."
"There is much she could teach you, show you, about their ways, the tactics of the Order, what those who followed Dumbledore and the Ministry line did during the first war, beyond even what happened to your aunt. War crimes. Heinous acts. But she does not wish to frighten or scar you. I believe she is hoping, if you learn to love her as she does you, you'll naturally let go of your allegiances to Dumbledore and Potter. If she shows you more love…"
"She used the Cruciatus on me!"
"Yes, well, that was hardly planned, was it?" The salve was completely absorbed into her skin now, but he did not stop massaging her midsection, nor did she ask him to. Her skin was so soft, so smooth. This close proximity was dangerous… but he enjoyed it. "She also seeks to make you a greater witch, to help you reach your full potential. You have a brilliant mind and you are talented with a wand, of this I assured both her and the Dark Lord. He wants you to be not only loyal, but useful. He wants you to be not only dedicated to his side, but an asset to it." His pinky finger slipped just a little too low, under her waistband, before his hand moved up again, settling under her blouse-and-bra-covered chest.
"But what does my mother want from you?" asked Hermione. She wriggled a little, and he couldn't help picturing her on her back like this with one hand in her knickers, the other on her breast, not so long ago. He felt a sinful tightening in his trousers, but still he continued to touch her.
"She believes you are more like her than you realize. She knows that knowledge appeals to you, you want to know everything, and she thinks you, like she, can be seduced…"
"Se… seduced?"
"By the Dark Arts. She wants to add to your tutelage. Not defense… but the Dark Arts."
"Learning to Unforgivable Curse people? I don't think-"
"There's so much more to it than that, Hermione." She shivered, perhaps because he'd used her first name, as he so rarely did. "There's so much more to it than torture. There is so much the Ministry does not want citizens to know, so much that Hogwarts refuses to teach. Bellatrix and I… we could teach you. If you wanted to learn. Skills like Occlumency and Legilimency. How to conjure and control Fiendfyre. I told your potions class on day one I could teach you about potions that would 'bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses… even put a stopper in death…' I did not tell you how many of these potions are banned from my curriculum."
She perked up considerably at this. "You could teach me banned magic?"
"I could." His hand stilled, settled on her lower abdomen, just above the waistband of her gray wool skirt. "I could teach you a great many things you'd never learn at Hogwarts, Miss Granger. If only you wanted to learn."
"I do," she whispered, cinnamon eyes wide, enthralled and intrigued. "I want that."
A/N:
This chapter was super long, so I had to split it in half. For that reason, the Easter chapter has been bumped back to Thirteen, so Chapter Twelve's teaser is new. I think you'll be happy with the change, though – it means spending more time with Snape and Hermione on his birthday (9 January) which is when their relationship starts to take shape... insert mischievous grin here.
Review responses at the end of the next chapter!
Thank you!
-AL
Chapter Twelve: Snape spends his birthday with Hermione; they share a significant moment.
Chapter Thirteen: Skipping ahead in time a bit, and flashing back to an important past Easter.