Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling is our queen, undisputedly. I'm just a petty thief who enjoys tinkering around in another's world.

Rating: M/NC-17. Graphic femslash all around really. Shhhh. Just go along with me and pretend it's permissible on this site. I'm hardly the only one.

Warnings: Sex. Violence. Quite possibly some of both together; I mean, we are talking about Bellatrix Lestrange, here.

Pairing(s): Hermione/Bellatrix, Hermione/Andromeda, Hermione/Narcissa.

A/N: It's on top this time because I think you might want to hear this:

Five years and infinite angst later… it is. officially. time. Time for the grand finale. Seven more chapters, fifty thousand more words, and a friendly reminder not to read this at work later, and Glass Silence is all written, all edited, and all ready to post. Since I think you guys are about as ready to be done with this as I am, I've decided to post one chapter a day (here AND on AO3—Woo-hoo!) for the next week. Hopefully, the fact that I thought I had three chapters to finish and there turned out to be seven explains my bad luck setting prior deadlines.

I know this means less than the usual time to read and review and pledge your undying loyalty, but I would still love to hear from you, especially if there's anything you want me to know before it's over. Any questions unanswered? Strings left hanging you're still dying for me to get back to? Songs you listened to while reading this that made the angst worse? (Seriously, hmu, I need some new moody jams.)

Mostly, though, I wanted to make sure I extended an invitation for y'all to send me prompts. To get this done, I added writing 2,000 words a day to my list of life routines, but now that this is done, there's a big question mark over what's next. I think there will be a break before I do another long project (and this is probably the only fic I'll ever put on this account—seriously, go follow Menzosarres on AO3 / tumblr instead, I am THROUGH with pseudonyms) but if there's something you'd love to see me write in the meantime, I'd probably love to write it. Leave it in a review, drop it in my PMs, come chat / ask me on tumblr, whatever. You all have been the best readers a longwinded, rarely-posting writer could ask for.

ANYWHO, I'll save the emotional thankses for chapter 42.

Until then, Happy Valentines Day!

Ever yours,

Zarrene.

Her face was warm and everything was a little bit sideways, and there was something uncomfortable digging into her ribs.

Hermione shifted restlessly, not remotely prepared to be awake yet, squeezing her eyes even more tightly shut and burying them in the softness underneath her. Everything felt warm and hazy and smelled faintly of juniper; she curled her knees in, prepared to nest for at least another year.

Then her pillow started laughing.

Hermione's eyes sprang wide. She jerked upright but couldn't quite figure out which way upright was, so she wound up sort of crouching, staring down at dark fabric and the faint impression of knees beneath it, the tip of a wand to the right where it must have been digging into her side, wondering how on earth she'd gotten from leaning against a cold, hard wall with Bellatrix sleeping half on her—not a dream—to being the one with her head in Bellatrix's lap.

"You know, pet, there usually has to have been a night before to have a morning after."

When Hermione managed to look up, Bellatrix seemed amused, a little disheveled, one shoulder—the same shoulder? The other one? The night's memory was a blur—exposed to the chilly morning air and tinted a faint seafoam by the glow from across the room. Her skin looked soft. Her sleep-mussed curls looked soft. Even her smirk looked soft.

Hermione stammered, struggled to her feet, spent a good two minutes untangling herself from the comforter, and fled, Bellatrix's soft laughter chasing her through the door.

She wound up in the bathroom, staring into the mirror over the sink, trying to blink sleep out of her eyes and chase the flush out of her cheeks with cold water and sobering thoughts. Alas, the later seemed to be in short supply. Teeth-brushing. That was sobering. Minty toothpaste, mechanical movements, more cold water…

Then why was her pearly-white smile only making her see the big bad wolf in the mirror over her shoulder, whispering, "All the better to kiss you with, my dear," in a voice as sweet as poisoned fruit…?

Her eyes were bright. Her cheeks were still crimson.

The wolf was waiting the minute she stepped out, leaning against the wood between the door of the washroom and the door of Hermione's bedroom, her smile unthreatening, but poised to pounce.

"So. I wake up with a little present in my lap but she runs before I get to unwrap it."

"Please don't." Hermione hovered in the doorway, eyes closed in denial. "I'm not in the mood."

"Then why come crawling into bed in the middle of the night, hmm? Did someone have a bad dweam?"

The baby voice needled her into sharp irritation. "Yes," she snapped. "And it wasn't me."

Bellatrix stiffened almost imperceptibly. Hermione felt a twinge of satisfaction, but when stiffness stretched into silence, the glee turned guilty. She sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone in. I had the strangest dream, too, then I heard you scream, and, well, I—"

"—thought you'd fall asleep on me?"

Hermione was tempted to correct her again, but this time, it was a hint of self-preservation that stopped her tongue. She'd probably been right the night before. If Bellatrix knew her sleeping self had decided to use Hermione as a pillow, she'd never be allowed out in the world again for fear of a ruined reputation. Whatever improbable drowsy rearrangement had landed them in the opposite configuration, it was doubtless her saving grace.

"I thought I was still dreaming," she confessed at last. It wasn't a lie.

Bellatrix studied her through narrowed eyes, so Hermione returned the stare. In the time she had been having her mid-morning crisis, Bellatrix had put on real clothes. For all intents and purposes, the only difference between her black nightwear and her black robes and dresses was the softness of the former and the corsets of the later, but it still left Hermione feeling mostly naked and half-formed in her pale gray nightshirt and loose, thin shorts. She crossed her arms uncomfortably high on her chest, wishing desperately that Bellatrix's probing stare wasn't between her and all two of her bras. She was the morning person in this…

Relationship?

…whatever this was, and Bellatrix being the first one looking human had her all out of sorts.

"So, you fell asleep on me," Bellatrix prompted again, slower this time. Pointed.

Flush deepening, Hermione shook her head. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what, dare I ask, was it like?" She straightened out of her slouch. Hermione took a step back even though she hadn't gotten any closer, and she smirked. "The wicked witch bays for blood and you come running? Thought she'd showed up in your dream just to give you a nice pillow?"

"That's— That's not—"

"Thought you'd just whisper 'Bella' in her ear and crawl in beside her and—"

Hermione's eyes went wide. "You remember!" She thrust a finger at her in accusation. "You were awake!"

And Bellatrix's taunting little tirade stammered to a halt.

They stared at each other across the two feet of space between their noses, the first hint of sunlight beginning to stretch towards them across the floor from the kitchen window. Bellatrix's face flickered between expressions so quickly Hermione could hardly grasp hold of them. She caught a frown of anger, a twitch of distance, a little skittish eye-slide of embarrassment—and a final hissing sigh. Her arms came up, mirroring Hermione's, crossed in a defensive sort of posture Hermione had never seen before. Score one for me. Only took sixty-four days.

"Or perhaps," Bellatrix spat, defensive. "I was still dreaming myself."

Hermione's brain stuttered all over those words, too. After a minute of stillness, she remembered how to blink. "Oh." Bellatrix's eyebrow rose, and Hermione shook her head. It still wasn't working, the idea of herself in Bellatrix's dream, what the outcome had been… "Alright." She went to stuff her hands in her pockets and encountered only the waistband of her shorts, which she poked at for a second before realizing she had nowhere to go. "Dreams are… stupid. Let's just…"

"Leave it there?" Bellatrix prompted, a hint of acid creeping back into her tone, words landing with corrosive intent against Hermione's skin. "Why? Afraid, pet?"

Now she moved forward, and Hermione had only so many feet of washroom to back into before she'd run up against the far wall. She held her ground as two feet shrank to one, one to inches.

"Afraid you'll end up in my bed again?"

"First of all—" Hermione put up a hand again, one finger raised between them. "—that was not your bed. Second, I'm not afraid of you."

Bellatrix flashed a caustic grin. "Liar."

"I'm not!" Hermione insisted. It was… mostly true. She hadn't been afraid of Bellatrix in… at least a little while. Afraid of her taunts, her promises, her own reaction to all of the above… Perhaps. But the witch herself? Afraid in the way she'd been the first few times she'd encountered her? The wild, animal fear for her life? No. That had passed.

But Bellatrix's darkening stare threatened something else. "Not even when I kiss you?" Voice light, words teasing, Bellatrix's eyes flicked pointedly to her lips. "Not even when you wake up beside me?"

"I—I already answered you. And I know you're just… You only want to distract me from what you said! You fell asleep on me!"

Bellatrix smirked at the little squeak at the end of her words. It seemed her moment of embarrassment had passed. "You know, pet… sometimes we're drawn to what we fear the most."

Hermione inhaled sharply. "Alright, stop it," she said. "Let's sort this, here and now. I'm not afraid, and I'm not—I'm not drawn to you either."

"Good to know." Bellatrix's reply and dismissive little grin infuriated Hermione like no words before, but she didn't have time to respond. "Then it won't bother you at all if I—" One bare foot smacked against the floorboards, pointedly loud, then a second. This time, Hermione did move back, but, as she'd known, as was always the case in this cursedly tiny hideaway, there was simply nowhere to go. "—double check."

"I never… I didn't say it didn't bother me!"

Hermione scrambled desperately for more words to fling between them, but Bellatrix was no longer listening. She'd crossed the bathroom floor and raised a hand to Hermione's cheek, pointedly gentle, thumb sliding across her bottom lip in a gesture she'd long since learned was most effective for ruining Hermione's attempts at speech.

Then she was leaning in, notching them together, tangling their legs, looming dark and close and larger than life as Hermione shrank back against the wall and let out a tiny sound of distress that was probably already disproving both of her claims.

She was a little bit scared, and it had everything to do the draw. Drawn was the wrong word, though. She wasn't drawn to Bellatrix like an interesting bit of art on someone's wall; Bellatrix was magnetic, gravitational. Planets should fall into her orbit. Then at least Hermione would have company in falling.

And she was falling, there were no two ways about it, leaning in a bit as Bellatrix's lips drew close enough to share breath… expecting to make contact, knowing what was coming… but not quite there… not even with her neck arched and fully exposed… not even on tip-toe… why couldn't she just…

The phantom kiss of air vanished.

Hermione's eyes shot open as words caressed her ear. "Just as I thought, pet."

Hermione stiffened, but it was too late. She'd failed the test. And Bellatrix hadn't even kissed her for it.

But, oh, then there was a kiss, lips at side of her neck, a tongue at her pulse point, a searing reminder that Hermione, too, had a tongue, and should be using it to counter the narrative about fear and want Bellatrix was quickly crafting into an airtight argument—

If only she could remember how something as unwieldy as a tongue worked when her blood was busy waking up and singing.

Hermione spent the next few minutes spluttering out disjointed words, none of which had any effect on the woman whose nails were digging trenches into her shoulders as her lips seared into her skin. "Bella—trix, I didn't say you could—" was too long, she couldn't finish it, couldn't keep her lips working that long without a gasp, so it turned into "Bella, please, I just woke up on the floor! Won't you… Can't we … slow down?" but, Merlin, that sounded like a question. Nails ripped at her shoulder, dragged the neck of her nightshirt wide enough she could hear it tear. "Bella! Oh, if you'd just—" A hot tongue dragged across her shoulder and up the column of her neck. "—give me a… a—" The nails slid higher, pricking the base of her skull, pulling her head back so she could spread searing kisses up the path her tongue had just taken. "—a second," Hermione gasped when she remembered words again, but she couldn't remember the first half of the sentence, couldn't remember why she'd said it at all, because she was too busy desperately wanting to reel Bellatrix in for a proper kiss.

But her right arm was pinned to her side by the ill-stretched neckline of her nightshirt while her left had gotten trapped between them—had she been trying to push her away? "I—I'm not—" Wild, eerily dark eyes suddenly seared into hers, and Hermione felt more than heard the growl of exasperation that rattled Bellatrix's ribcage.

With no further warning, teeth sunk into the meaty bit between neck and shoulder, and Hermione yelped, jerking sideways. "Hey!"

But then, as Bellatrix's lips lifted clear, blood flooded the mark in a rush of heat. Her heartbeat chased it, pulsing in the crease of her neck, dragging something from the back of her head along with it, leaving her feeling flushed and stretched and a little bit out of her own mind and… The whimper she heard escape her mouth in its wake sounded an awful lot like a request.

Then, Bellatrix bit again, higher this time, and no more gentle than the first. "Bella?" Oh, no, not another question… And again, lower, below the nearest collarbone. "Ah, you—" Her brain felt like taffy, stretched between the words she was trying to form and the pricks of heat constellating down the front of her body. She felt herself going limp, held against the wall by nothing more than Bellatrix's torso against her, Bellatrix's thigh between her thighs. By the time she finally bit the thin skin between Hermione's breasts and slid sideways, sneaking a tongue beneath the ragged hem of Hermione's shirt to tease across half of her nipple, Hermione felt boneless and brainless and entirely composed of the places Bellatrix Black had touched her—

"Thought you were never going to shut up, pet."

—and she couldn't even manage the first sound of an angry retort, because finally, finally, Bellatrix was kissing her again.

Hermione whimpered and kissed her harder, mashing her nose against Bellatrix's, freeing one hand only to get it all tangled up again in dark, heavy curls, all the better to tug at, grab on to, pull her even, impossibly, closer.

All the better to eat you up.

/

The stretch of hallway between washroom and bedroom was a blur. Hermione had the faintest sensation that her feet couldn't possibly have touched the ground even once, pressed against one wall, then another, held so tightly about her waist it didn't much matter that her legs weren't working, knees incapable of bearing even an ounce of weight. Then the light was green and ghostly and downright dripping with just-passed déja vu and Bellatrix's skin was glowing again, the bioluminescence of a drowned angel... and Hermione was dropped unceremoniously on a mostly-bare mattress with a thoroughly undignified oof!

Bellatrix crawled up after her.

"Are we done, pet?" Her voice dripped over Hermione's skin like oil. "Have we finished your games? Is it my turn, or will you drag yourself away in yet another ridiculous display of your pride?"

Hermione stared up at her, braced against her elbows, biting her lip. Having the wind knocked out of her seemed to have knocked her sense back in a bit, too, but right now, it was losing every argument against her bruised lips, bitten skin, and the unadulterated heat in the pit of her stomach. "I don't know." she whispered.

Oh, but that was a lie, of course it was. There was no pride when it came to this. She'd been done yesterday, for the wrong reasons, before Narcissa and swept in and muddled everything. But she was done today, too, because Bellatrix had fallen asleep on her, had apologized to her, and because she, well, she wanted it, now—her body was being very demanding about that, and her common sense just… didn't seem to mind. Then again, she already knew her body wasn't to be trusted, and maybe now she couldn't trust her head, either. But if she couldn't trust her brain or her body, what was left?

Her heart?

Hermione laughed aloud.

Oh, good, now Bellatrix was glaring at her again.

"No," she said instead of trying to explain. "I'm not. Pushing. Or…"

The storm in Bellatrix's eyes didn't clear. She prowled closer until Hermione's throat went dry, until she was fully poised over Hermione's body, then bent, wrapping her lips around the first bite she'd left on Hermione's shoulder. She sucked—hard, and Hermione's head spun as she let go to mutter, "About—" The second bite, then. "—fucking—" And again, between her breasts, laving faint teeth-marks with her tongue before drawing even with Hermione's eyes. "—time."

"Oh," Hermione managed, breathless. "Shut up!"

Before she pulled Bellatrix in for another kiss.

Bellatrix laughed against her mouth before returning it, knocking Hermione's other elbow out from under her so she fell against the sheets, so she could kiss her into the mattress, bearing down until Hermione's neck was bent backwards, back arched up, hands clenching and unclenching in curls she couldn't seem to find her way out of, wasn't sure she'd remember how to let go if she did.

But that was okay. She wanted to do this forever.

Bellatrix seemed content to let her. She hummed into Hermione's kisses and overcame them with teeth and frustrated them, too, getting off-rhythm in a way that felt very intentional, but which meant Hermione found herself gasping against a closed mouth, finding the tip of a hot tongue teasing the corner of her own shut lips, prying them open to overwhelm her, and oh, it was so, so mean, that Bellatrix was still teasing her now, like this, in her bed, after she'd stopped fighting…

But it felt good, too. Begging for a kiss with her breath, having the next one stolen from her the moment she'd given up. She wasn't counting, again. Kisses were impossible that way. She'd learned it by now, but still, it must have been at least ten—ten decadent, merciless kisses—when she whimpered, totally needy, completely shameless, until she felt Bellatrix's grin.

Then she flushed all over.

"That's a good sound, pet."

And she wanted to say shut up again, but she didn't mind the nickname so much, here. It teased over her skin like a bite, like a kiss… like permission.

So she took it, pressed another kiss against closed, smiling lips. To her surprise, Bellatrix opened, drawing her in, tasting her—

Then yanked the collar of her shirt so hard the tear at her shoulder widened to the bend of her elbow with the warning crack of failing cloth, exposing half her chest.

"Hey!" Hermione yelped, freeing her hands from the back of Bellatrix's neck with more than a few curly hairs still attached. Trying to shrug it back up, she succeeded only in losing it off the other shoulder.

Bellatrix smirked down at her, lips stretched thin and dark with the shadow of their kisses. "What," she drawled. "Did you want to keep it on?"

Disbelieving she still had blood left to rise to the surface of her skin, Hermione felt her flush deepening nonetheless, creeping down her cheeks, spreading down her chest, an uneven rush of heat. Her breath caught when she tried to speak, her nipple suddenly straining against the soft nightshirt, confused and demanding over its brief exposure to the chilly air. "Well, no," she confessed. "But I did want to keep it."

Bellatrix laughed. "Did you, now."

Something in her voice made Hermione's heart stutter. Her fingers drew pointedly closer, ignoring Hermione's hands where they clutched her neckline in favor of picking up the bottom of the tear she'd made. Gaze never faltering, she began to pull again, widening it ever so slowly, inch by inch, easy now that the weave had begun to part.

Hermione couldn't seem to look away from those devilish, green-lit eyes, but she could see gray fabric giving way at the edge of her vision. A thrill lanced up her spine, icy and hot all at once. It was such a gentle display of violence. Destruction with the utmost care. She felt the back of one close-cut fingernail drag against her stomach and she shivered, finally looking down just in time to see the last two inches go with a sharp twist of Bellatrix's wrists, overcoming the resistance at the hem.

"Oh," she said. Like she hadn't seen it coming. Like she'd been surprised.

"You won't need it," Bellatrix murmured, a little soft, a little cruel.

Nails wandered back up the trail of skin she'd uncovered, playing up along her side until she met Hermione's white-knuckled hands. She wrapped them up in hers, pushing down and back until they were pinned beside Hermione's shoulders, each still clutching one half of a split neckline. Exposed.

Her heart began to race.

Bellatrix raked her stare down the line of Hermione's neck, chest, waist. She licked her lips, a flicker of pink. "You won't miss it," she muttered absently.

Hermione barely mustered the comprehension to realize they were still talking about the shirt she'd long since given up on. She could hear herself breathing shallowly, quickly, feel herself tugging her wrists like she wanted them freed—and she did, she wanted to reach, to grab, to touch—but she didn't, not really. Staring was good, too. And shivering. And listening with less than half a brain as Bellatrix continued to breath strange, threatening, promising words.

"Not now. Now that I've got you…" The words were absent, almost an afterthought. Bending down, she raked her teeth over the bite Hermione could still feel, heavy and warm, between her breasts. "I'll have you like this always."

Hermione's heart skipped, then sped to double-time, sensing danger.

Too late, her brain added helpfully.

Too late, her nipples agreed, tightening delightedly as Bellatrix's curls teased across them.

And her heart continued to beat out panic at a pace that would have made her concerned over staying conscious, but Bellatrix's nose was dragging sideways across the top of her chest, warm breath smoothing away goosebumps just above her breast, then lower, and Merlin, she had to stay with the living at least long enough for her to— to—

But she didn't, the nose dragged up her neck again, breath lingering over bites that Hermione was so conscious of they might as well be new limbs, blooming from her skin, reaching out for the one who had planted them in the way Hermione's hands couldn't.

"Just… like this…" Bellatrix seemed fixated on her marks, her entire body vibrating with barely constrained energy as she kissed them with her teeth.

Do it, Hermione wanted to whimper, to plead. Do it again. But she didn't ask, couldn't quite bring herself to beg for ruin just yet. "Bellatrix…" she managed instead. Was that really the safer choice?

She drew up at her name, a dark, wild-eyed shadow staring down at Hermione with a hunger she could barely comprehend. Her stare wandered, mapping Hermione's face, drifting lower. Her pupils dilated.

Hermione's mind blanked. She felt the growl before she heard it, rumbling through her thighs where they pressed together, almost angry, almost inhuman. Without warning, her hands were freed, and Bellatrix's palms dragged up her sides, harsh and heavy. "Pretty Mudblood…" she hissed, pressing both hands flat below her breasts like she could crush her with one exhalation, could dig her thumbs in and pry open her ribcage, could—

Hot, smooth palms raked up and covered her nipples, and Hermione choked on air, couldn't breathe. She was already half dead from cold air and soft fabric and teasing curls, and now Bellatrix was really touching her, Bellatrix, and that oh, so much worse, because—fingers, thumbs… nails…—the ache was spreading, this had to be the start of death, because sex didn't usually make her want to… to scream, and maybe cry, and probably break things.

"Yes," she sobbed, and that wasn't what she'd meant to say, was it?

But, Merlin, Bellatrix grinned down at her, all teeth and cruel-curled lips, and rewarded her with a sharp pinch to each nipple that she felt right between her legs, and yes seemed like the lone possible word for it after all.

It was only when her blindly reaching fingers found the leather at Bellatrix's sides that she remembered she had hands, too. Now that Bellatrix had given them back to her, that was. "Oh," she heard herself say again, and this time it was a sound of realization. The urge to break something was building somewhere between her ribs and her thighs, and by the time her fingers wandered up along Bellatrix's spine, the first threads of the corset seemed like the perfect target. Why should she be the only one losing clothing? She hadn't even had the chance to get dressed before… before Bellatrix swept her away, stole her reason, started…

She yanked, wishing the string would snap clean in two, that somehow the entire thing would come unraveled at her touch. Instead, one loop of the top bow tugged free in her hands, limp and ineffective.

Bellatrix's nails raked up her shoulders, leaving her breasts stinging with trails of heat. Before she could pull the other loop, her wrists had been steel-trap caught in a cuff of Bellatrix's fingers, bone grating against bone.

"No," she growled, shoving forward and down, pressing Hermione's hands over her head.

No?

Dark, narrowed eyes bored into hers, each of them breathing hard. Hermione squirmed for a second, then slumped, frowning. "Why?"

Bellatrix's only answer was to ply her with kisses, pointed nips at her bottom lip, and Hermione could feel the frown melting into a pout, then wiping clean as she gave in, as she opened to the kiss, as Bellatrix's tongue taunted her with the promised reward of compliance.

But where was the fun in that?

The moment Bellatrix relaxed her grip, Hermione yanked free and went for the ties again.

This time, she was caught mid-air, nose-to-nose, her hands immobilized and trembling with the sudden inertia. As Bellatrix put more weight into it, Hermione struggled but was pressed inch by inch back into the mattress, denied.

"Why—Why won't you let me—"

This time, the answering kisses were anything but tender—bruising, head-spinning kisses, kisses that left her shaking all over, kisses she would gladly give up breathing forever in exchange for, but…

"D-did you want to keep it on?" she managed to gasp out once Bellatrix let her up for air.

Stiffening at her own words, Bellatrix stared down at Hermione like she'd almost forgotten she was there. She cupped Hermione's jaw with one warm palm, sliding her thumb over Hermione's bottom lip in a very familiar gesture, then sliding it between them, running it pointedly over her teeth. "Yes, pet," she said at last. "I do."

As Bellatrix shifted her weight, Hermione's second wrist came free. She saw the challenge in Bellatrix's stare. Do it again. Reach for them. Just try to touch me. Defy me. I dare you. She bit her lip, thought better of it, and leaned up to nip at Bellatrix's instead. It was almost a kiss, almost an apology, but Hermione was feeling anything but contrite.

"Why all this?" she asked as she drew back, running the freed fingers of her left hand through the air an inch from Bellatrix's waist, not quite touching. "Why now?"

A funny feeling was bubbling up the back of her neck, a little bit giddy, a little bit devilish. It sparked along the tracks of bites and scrapes leading down her neck, a blaze of reckless bravery. All of a sudden, she couldn't seem to stop smiling. The nervous electricity from just moments before had filled her, overflowed, and fled. Now, she was here. This was happening. She'd said yes—or, at least, a very convoluted double no. The fear, the draw… all of it, everything standing in her way had been admitted and demolished, and here she was, half naked, with the strangest desire to laugh and, stranger still, with a thousand stupid questions bouncing around in her head. "It's the middle of summer," she said through her sudden smile. "And still, all black, all the time?"

Bellatrix's brows had crept steadily higher with each question. "You want to ask me this now?"

Fingers wandered over the dangerously ticklish skin at the bend of Hermione's stomach as Bellatrix spoke, and her voice emerged in a breathless giggle. "You have to admit it's… intimidating." She changed the word silly only at the last moment. The look in Bellatrix's eyes wasn't silly at all.

"Or you are easily intimidated." Bellatrix frowned down at her. "It's traditional." Suspicion dripped from the words. "There isn't any statement a witch can make that can't be done in black." The words were slow and clear, but her touch continued to stray, absent and distracted.

Hermione squirmed, but the desire to wiggle away lost to the faint, pleasant warmth left behind. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to listen. She wanted to kiss her.

Trouble, that smart, smart part of her brain scolded.

It was right, of course.

She told it, in no uncertain terms, to shut up.

"Anything else—" Sliding downward, Bellatrix's nails snapped the waistband of Hermione's shorts against her hipbones in clear retribution for the distraction. The sharp flash of heat made her flinch upward, the hook of Bellatrix's finger under cloth dragging it two inches lower as she did. "—is meaningless." The new skin she'd won was twice as sensitive as that above, and Hermione whimpered when she couldn't curl her knees in, trapped against the ticklish brush of nails by Bellatrix's weight over her thighs. "A frivolous display of modern indulgence."

Hermione gasped when the tickle became a quick pinch, then smiled at the mouthful, each word divided into the separate syllables of a well-rehearsed argument. Just as quickly, her smile faltered, giddiness fading. The thought dredged up memories Hermione would have done anything to leave in the deep, just then. Daring crimson blouses and tailored slacks swam behind her eyes, the picture of a contemporary, trend-setting sort of witch, early outfits from the rare Diagon outings with Andromeda; then shimmering silvers, pale greens, and deep, disappearing blues drifted by, the colorful, understated elegance that always graced Narcissa's presence, effortlessly timeless. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let the contrast wash over her. Pretending the events that led her here had never happened would do no good. The younger Blacks were going to be a part of her forever, rebellions of color and all.

When she opened them again, she stared up into the darker simplicity above her. She could see another retort half-formed and waiting to snap off Bellatrix's tongue like a well-placed blade, and Hermione found herself still wanting to smile.

"You'd be stunning in gold," she said softly.

Bellatrix's fingers stilled. Five points of heat pooled against her skin. "Someone's chatty when she's nervous." The words were harsh, dismissive, but Hermione could sense the battle behind them. The playful edge crept back into her smile. Bellatrix was not one to tolerate an interruption of her plans, and Hermione's strangely-timed turn towards conversation contributed little to the mood, but the thin skin on either side of her throat had darkened at the gentle flattery. She had almost made Bellatrix blush.

Hermione let her fingers make contact in the center of Bellatrix's corset, well away from the strings that had gotten her pinned last time. "Why all these?"

Shaking off the disorienting compliment, Bellatrix cocked her head, hair falling over one shoulder. She offered a knowing stare. "If you are hoping to distract me…" She bent, pressing a quick kiss to Hermione's lingering, impish smile. "It isn't going to work."

Those words were all teeth. She kept close as she said them, then slowly bent further. Leather cleaved to Hermione's skin, slick and yielding, gladly sharing the warmth of the woman beneath. Then, she moved, a sinuous, snake-like motion that dragged the ribbing of her corset, ridge by ridge, across Hermione's nipples.

She gasped, levity fleeing, each crest plucking at her skin like a spark. Bellatrix ended her tease sitting back on her heels, one hand braced against the headboard, rising over Hermione's wide-eyed whimper like the figurehead on the prow of a ship, curls and waistline sculpted from the night sky, skin carved from marble, too weighty for the sea, beauty chosen just to drown those in its care.

At the look on Hermione's face, Bellatrix cackled, and the illusion broke. Hermione gulped. She was no less deadly as a woman, no less deadly with a grin splitting her lips and setting laugh-lines into sharp relief. Certainly no less deadly slinking low again, crouched over ready-prone prey, closing them in behind a curtain of curls, eyes dancing, lips curled. "Why indeed, pet."

Too late, the question was gone, Hermione had lost it. She'd grasped at strings again—different, invisible ones, but strings nonetheless—and had been pinned just as surely as before. This time, when Bellatrix's scalding palm slid up her stomach, she was out of words.

Bellatrix seemed to like her noises better, anyway.

Distractions forgotten, Hermione groaned and reached for her, rising up to wrap her hands around Bellatrix's neck. She no longer cared to consider why it was safe to bury her hands in her curls while the strings just two inches below were fully off-limits—didn't much care about anything, she decided deliriously; anything besides the craving for Bellatrix's hands on her skin.

And Bellatrix seemed happy to oblige, nosing along her jaw, nuzzling just beneath her ear. Instinctively, Hermione tilted her head. The thought of giving her throat jolted through her and kicked her heartbeat up another notch. It was all very much like panic, really. Delicious, dizzying, pulse-racing panic—

Bellatrix hummed against her pulse. Hermione shuddered at the sound of it. Hands drifted over Hermione's bare stomach, the sides of her breasts — A tongue dragged, pointed and slow, over the fading bite — Lips sucked marked skin deep into her mouth. She felt bruised, tender; it almost hurt… Almost. It was just enough to keep Hermione snared in the moment, stiff and trembling, and she wanted—wanted—

When hands and lips went no further, she mewled.

"Want something, pet?" Breath slithered against her ear.

Hermione half choked on a painful laugh. "You're horrible," she groaned. She dug her nails into Bellatrix's neck. "Please…"

"Please what?"

Hermione bit her lip. Her body was already asking, straining into a touch she hadn't quite been given, offering up the places where blood ran closest to the skin, but she couldn't say it. She wasn't about to just let Bellatrix goad her into—

A hand clawed into her curls, dragging her head back with a demanding strength that made her gasp, but no pain. Haunted, enticing shadows swam with the sparks of green light reflected in Bellatrix's eyes, beckoning her, promising pleasure and damnation in equal parts. Hermione would have kissed her, but she couldn't move closer, could only swallow against the plea rising in her throat. Need flared, pulled from the same primordial depths that made her heart race and her lungs flutter with a fear of drowning, a whole ocean of blood and heat inside her breathing yes, yes, yes. Distantly, common sense, or maybe the angel on her shoulder, was still doing its best to call out something like danger, but what match was one tiny piece of her mind against a red tide? When had she ever felt anything like this?

Who did she think she was fooling? Of course she would be goaded. Of course she would let her.

"Bite me again," Hermione gasped. "Please," she panted, wishing she were too warm to blush any deeper.

Bellatrix's eyes widened, pupils dilating. "Oh." Achingly slow, she drew Hermione's head to the side again, leaning in, breathing in, exhaling words that rasped and grated together like stones in the deep. "You know, pet. I thought you were just going to say, 'touch me.'"

Before embarrassment could creep in, Bellatrix's lips went for her throat again, teeth dragging against tendons until they nestled perfectly into the shadow they'd left before, closing almost reverently, the ache sending Hermione's head spinning as Bellatrix's growled deep in her throat. The primal, possessive sound made Hermione's breath hitch. It sounded as starved as she felt, as needy. It filled her with an illusion of power she wanted to cling to, wanted to imagine she had, here—the power to make Bellatrix feel something, maybe even something good, maybe even real desire, after all these weeks of distant stories and cruel insults and impossible games.

Before she could chase the longing out of her head, Bellatrix's jaw released, and Hermione cried out, arching, thoughts fragmenting and swirling away through her blood. Before she could gather them again, teeth were back. Lower, tighter, drawing a whimper, a gasp upon release. Merlin, it felt good not to think. Dizzier than the hands on her body, more peaceful than sleep, hotter than the blood pulsing under almost-broken skin. Just this side—that side?—of terrifying. It felt good to let go, to have her reason stolen right alongside her breath, to come up gasping and lost and see only dark curls bowed over her, mouth kissing her throat like she was starving for it. How could this not be real desire?

Skipping the third bite, the one between her breasts, Bellatrix chose to close her teeth around Hermione's right nipple instead. She sobbed. She pressed upwards, head fighting Bellatrix's cruel grip as it jerked back against the sheets. Bellatrix's lips were liquid heat, her teeth cool glass, sharper and smoother than they had any right to be, like they could break her and mold her and mend her all at once. Bellatrix clutched her tight and sucked her in. "Please," she gasped again, and this time she had no idea what she was asking for at all.

Bellatrix chuckled into her flesh, vibrations racing through her nipple and straight down her spine. With one last flick of her tongue, she let go with both lips and hand, speaking roughly into the fragments of Hermione's concentration. "You waited…" Teeth dragged lower, spreading quick, sharp bites in a diagonal across her stomach between words. "...so long...to... let me... touch you." She stared up the line of Hermione's body from just above her waistband, one thick curl dangling over her right eye, caught in the moisture at the corner of her lips. Her eyes were impossibly dark, heavy lids lending even deeper shadows, proud nose and sharp jaw as keen and cutting as her teeth. She was a study in feral intensity, the green light only furthering the image of something wild, a royal bloodline of the forest, untouched by human civilization, undomesticated, proudly poised over her kill. "Now you're begging," she hummed, voice still low, but lilting with evident pleasure.

"Mmhmm," Hermione managed, half agreement, half whimper, half plea. There were at least three halves. They all had to fit into that sound. There was nowhere else for them to go. She sure wasn't about to come up with any actual words, not now, not for this.

Bellatrix was grinning, breathing deep, nostrils flared. Suddenly quite sure Bellatrix could smell her, was tasting her need on the air, Hermione flushed all over. Tongue and lips ghosted across the line her fingers had wandered earlier. It led directly between her legs. Her heart was picking up again, or maybe just faster, speeding, pounding. It couldn't seem to get past the instinct to run, though Hermione had the distinct impression it wanted her to run until she ended up just where she'd started, run until she could be caught at the end and find herself sprawled here anyway.

Teeth raked down from her bellybutton, catching on the waistband, tugging, teasing. Hermione wasn't breathing. Lips slid lower, hot breath playing through the layer of inconsequential cloth and curls beneath, lower still, slowing with each painful inch, until Bellatrix's lips were hovering just over her, until the air pressed against the damp fabric with each exhale, hard enough that she could feel how wet she was, how—

Oh.

Bellatrix mouthed her through the cloth. Hermione's hips jumped, cotton dragging against hot, wet, sensitive skin. She was making noises again, could feel them in her throat, but she couldn't hear them, not while blood was pounding in her ears, racing through her veins to flee every extremity and swell the need under Bellatrix's lips.

The fingers snuck up on her, grabbing the sides of her shorts, yanking them down to her knees in one harsh tug. Eyes meeting, Hermione felt a shock race through her spine, an electric chill. Bellatrix's stare was as clear as black ice, no trace of skittish madness, no hint of cruel anger, spearing Hermione with a single-minded focus that made her feel twice as vulnerable as her bare skin, twice as exposed as her desire, but also… strangely… trusted. That stare was guileless, unshielded.

But what must she see? Hermione swallowed against a sudden rush of insecurity, a sudden reminder that, after this, Hermione would be just Hermione again. Hermione Granger, fumble-fingered Mudblood extraordinaire, the one who'd gotten them in the mess this had become last ditch way out of, the one who had spent every minute of the last year—when she wasn't having highly questionable, highly scandalous sex—ruining things. Honestly, she'd probably ruined a thing or two through sex along the way. Who did she think she was—

Bellatrix bit her without warning, sinking her teeth into Hermione's left thigh hard enough that she yelped and kicked out, heel dragging ineffectively against the sheets. As Bella let go, the swift release of pressure sent her reeling again, every bit of her brain skittering away to throb in a tight ball of heat and need between her legs.

"Stop thinking," Bellatrix rasped. Hands gripped her thighs, pushing them wider, drawing her knees up and in.

Hermione gulped, muscles in her stomach jumping and twitching, pulse beating fast and hard, like it could pummel her uncertainty into oblivion on its way right out of her skin. It crawled back up her body, slinking low in her belly, curling between her breasts, clambering up her throat, teasing its way between her lips until she finally blurted out, "Make me."

Bellatrix's hands flexed on her hips in time with a sharp, indrawn breath. Nails raked down her unbitten thigh, shooting tiny tendrils of pleasure up between her legs. "Bossy, pet." Teeth glinted in the halflight. "Tsk tsk." She bent, breathing over her, but didn't touch.

Hermione groaned, hips shifting restlessly.

Bellatrix slapped the skin her nails had just scored with the flat of her hand, lightly enough Hermione didn't kick away, but hard enough to raise heat in its wake, each teasing mark tortuously close to where Hermione wanted her, wanted her so badly it was starting to make her think of dying again—

"Ask...nice-ly."

That little lilt, almost sing-song, almost cruel, set every hair on Hermione's body standing on end. Her mouth went dry as ash. Please, she mouthed, not ashamed to ask for it, but only air slid between her lips. She licked them. Bellatrix's tongue flickered at one corner of her own mouth, a teasing imitation. A promise. Her clit twitched and throbbed. Each of Bellatrix's fingers on her hips felt like a brand. She was barely aware of her own hands fisting in the sheets, still up by her head, waiting, obediently, where Bellatrix had placed them. Her white-tight knuckles were asking. Her trembling thighs were asking. Her wide, pleading eyes were begging. But her tongue wouldn't obey.

Bella's hands strayed upwards again, fingertips vibrating against her skin, nails rippling over the bump of a rib, the pebbled edge of a nipple. "Ask, pet." Her voice was wavering again, wandering, her stare getting lost as it tracked the path of her own hands over Hermione's skin. "Beg for it." Volume and pitch slid lower with every word. "Let me hear that pretty silver tongue—wrapped around my name."

The eerie, specific demand dripped down Bellatrix's lips like beautiful decay, eating through Hermione's ribs to slick over the heart beneath, sending the danger! sirens wailing behind her eyes again.

"Bella," she choked, and everything in her head went silent. "Bellatrix, oh, please—"

"Mmmm." Eyes searing into hers the whole way, Bellatrix's head lowered between her thighs. "Again," she breathed over her, and Hermione almost sobbed at the phantom touch.

"Please," she gasped again, speech returning all at once, slamming into her in a wave of sound. "Bellatrix, Bella—"

Feral intensity returned to Bellatrix's face, sculpting it into harsh lines of need, a single-minded intent to finish a hunt, to claim prey. Lips lowered with aching restraint, as though only the force of Bellatrix's will kept this from ending in blood, and Hermione sobbed out her name again as her clit vanished between soft, hot lips.

All she could feel was the thick, lethal force of Bellatrix's desire flooding into her—her head spun, sound pinched to nothing but the thrum of her blood in her veins and the competing sirens whirling behind her ribs, one wailing danger, the other screaming yes—yes—yes.

Bellatrix kept her touch light, teasing, and open—all heat, little pressure, lips settled against lips, tongue just parting her, until Hermione's garbled repetitions of her name had jerked six steps up in pitch and fallen off in pleas. "Bella, oh, I—Bella, I— Please, please, I need—"

Bellatrix's nails gouged her thigh, digging deep, a shock of bright, sparkling pain that shot through her, and Hermione swayed at the edge of falling. All she could think about was Bellatrix's tongue—the place it had found to the right of her clit that made her want to just scream and—

And Bellatrix pulled back, ignored her whimper, hissed "This" against her flesh, lower lip dragging cruelly only centimeters above her clit. "You need this. I know what you need."

"Y-yes," Hermione gasped. "Please, yes." She had no will left for arguments. She was wound so tightly into herself she might as well have been composed of nothing more than twenty raised scratches, ten perfect crescents at the crease of ass and thigh, six blood-bruised bites, two pleading nipples, and one aching, swollen, begging clit. And Bellatrix's eyes just above, promising relief. "Merlin—Yes."

Because Bellatrix had had her on edge for days, now. She'd known what she was doing then. Of course she had. Every touch, every taunt, every gibe. She'd been ripping open a beautiful disaster with fingernails and teeth and taunting, promising words until it didn't even recognize itself, until only she could piece it back together.

"Oh, no," Hermione whined, shuddering, half with need, half with the terrifying thought of just how impossibly altered anything reassembled by Bellatrix might be. But to get there, she had to—Bellatrix had to— "Oh, please," she whined, and Bellatrix drove two fingers inside of her, drove the thought right out of her head.

"Yes, pet," she breathed. She set a rhythm, slow and cruel, each press a second before Hermione could breathe in, each curl a second after Hermione's whimper. Her other hand braced against Hermione's stomach, holding her down, stroking her lightly, petting, feeling every movement of her own hand inside of her. And Hermione knew, distantly, with some part of her not just wide-eyed and open-mouthed and thinking with the thrust of her hips, that Bellatrix was still speaking, crooning words over her fingers buried in Hermione's core. "I knew I could make you into this. Knew you'd beg. I knew you'd look at me just...like...this."

Everything inside of her was folding up on itself, tightening, How long, Hermione wanted to ask. When did you know? When did you think about this? But her mind deadlocked with pleasure, her voice lost down between her legs, and all that came out was a sharp, desperate, "Ah!"

Her fingers moved deeper, slower.

"Mine."

Oh. Oh no. Oh, that was a dangerous word, the most dangerous one she'd ever said, back then, when she'd said it beside the water, in the clearing, and twice so now, in the green light, when Hermione was peeled open like this, so desperate and so vulnerable and so, so desperately needy and—

"Mine now," she growled, and Hermione felt something break.

"Yes. Oh, yes, please, please—"

Her hips began to grid. One hand held her down, the heel of the other palm pressed hard against her clit while her fingers curled, digging into a place inside her that made Hermione want to scream, made all the little tight-wound curls all throughout her body start to unfurl like they were reaching for the sun. Any second— Any second, she'd—she'd—

"Say it," Bellatrix demanded.

A cry, high and wordless, burst out, because Hemione didn't know what she wanted, didn't know the words, any words. But Bellatrix's nails dug a little deeper, scouring her own name out of the depths. "Bellatrix!" she gasped, and it was an offering. "Bella." A plea. "Bella?" Whimpered. A question.

Teeth pinched her hipbone. Wrong answer. "Say you're mine," she breathed against her.

Oh.

Oh. No, no, she couldn't, couldn't concede, couldn't give her own voice to the ownership Bellatrix had claimed, couldn't speak willingly to the twisted possession of her magic that had somehow become possession of her body, her desire, her sanity; threatened to become possession of her humanity—

"Say it."

Shouldn't, couldn't—That was more, more than just saying yes, more than begging for a touch, more than digging her hands into the folds of the sheets so tightly she couldn't tell where her skin ended and cloth began, more than teetering over the edge of an orgasm she wanted more than she'd wanted… well…

Anything.

That couldn't be true. Could it?

But her body, right now, said it could. And, worse still, Bellatrix's stare said it could. Her eyes weren't empty. They were dark, full, and asking, almost pleading, even while her words were an order, a demand. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like a necessity. Like salvation.

Hermione's hands left the sheets, reaching down, arcing up. She gripped her hair, pulled Bellatrix up to her, pulled until her lips were at her throat.

"Yours," she gasped as need and pleasure stole her reason.

Bellatrix's teeth sank home, and she came with the word still on her lips.