There are many times when Hermione feels like Ophelia. When that rush of dark warmth surges through her body like an electric shock and stirs her alter ego to burst forth. When all that floats through the confines of her mind are the pages of Castello's leather-bound, godly book, detailed with spells and curses beyond her wildest imagination.
One of those times is when she's torturing people—that's glaringly obvious. Exerting her power over something so innocent and helpless—like a falcon with the corpse of a rabbit dangling from her teeth—reminds her that she is still formidable, capable, and indomitable against her classmates. Predatorial tendencies writhe through her bubbling blood day and night.
It's also when she watches Malfoy carry out what she commands. He's malleable and flexible with her, catering to her needs while simultaneously letting his own anger—or whatever is inside of him, if anything—run free. It's the act of listening and obeying that multiplies that power she feels within herself, because if she can really control people like this—if she harbors this intense authority over people—then who's to say she can't exert it on other victims?
She also feels like Ophelia when, at night, all alone in her bed, mere minutes after she finishes her evening bidding with Malfoy and her victims, she pleasures herself.
Yes, pleasuring herself. Exhibiting full autonomy over her body, her needs, and her sweltering desires. She'd never been one for such lewd exploration, often preferring that someone else just do it for her. But recently, what with one particularly alluring figure in her life, Hermione sees that there is enormous value in imagining scenarios, growing warm between her legs, and then sliding her finger over her tongue and into herself. It's a reward—an incentive, even. For herself and for him. The more they torture, the more this need begins to coagulate around her soul, her brain, her nerves and compel her fingers to rub against the cusp of her folds.
Hermione loves the way she's able to explore herself. The movements of her fingers are timed just right, each motion against her clit and inside herself meticulously carried out to achieve ultimate satisfaction. She's mastered the art of voyaging, sailing across oceans on ships designed for royalty, beating against waves that intend to strike her down, and even reaching over the vessel to feel the splatter of water against her palm. Like a figurehead, she scales the seas and controls the water with just her presence. Voyaging is key, because what good is the destination if the journey was not full of ecstasy and enjoyment?
It's unfair to everyone else in this world just how skilled at masturbating Hermione is. She needed to be good at it, anyway. Poor Ron has not a clue what he's doing, jabbing his fingers around her all summer like he was digging for gold and ignoring a perfectly visible and immensely valuable gem—gods, did she just refer to her fucking clit as a gem?!—right there, right on her fucking cunt for literally everyone to see. Ron has to be blind if he can't see the way it glitters and fucking begs him to just... stroke it? Once. For the love of the gods, just put his fucking thumb or tongue or palm or knee or teeth on it—
Hermione pulls her hand back when she feels herself throb with warmth and a flash of completion. There's an ache in her lower stomach, a pressure unlike any other that starts to fade away with every passing second, until she has finally reset herself—teased herself so that she can do it all over again. Fuck herself harder and faster and not come to the thought of her daft... boyfriend? Friend with benefits?
They'd never actually had the "conversation"—defined what exactly they were. Ron seems to think that they're officially together, and that could be Hermione's fault. She never exactly told him that they weren't—just remained relatively silent when he would bring it up over the summer. And then it just sort of... played out. Hermione remained passive, and that's just not her. Never was. She doesn't know why she allowed that to manifest.
Perhaps it was the pressure of the war. She was, after all, exhausted. Just wanted a sliver of normalcy again. Ron presented that to her, and with fatigue clouding her vision, she just... accepted it.
Gods, can she stop thinking about him? There are plenty of other men she can think about.
Hermione gulps as she slides her fingers within her again, reflecting exactly on the other person that lives freely in her mind. Ambles across her skull and nestles himself in the crooks of her brain. And he sinks down into the plush spaces of her being, settling in her mind like she was always bound to let him in.
Truth be told, Hermione adores the way Malfoy dwells in her consciousness.
It makes this process all the more enjoyable when it's him that she's thinking of.
She feels herself reaching a climax. Her toes curl down and her head juts back, extending her bare neck to the ceiling. Mouth falling open slowly, Hermione takes in a quick breath before streaking her thumb across her clit in little circles.
And then, after several seconds in that position, her legs begin to quiver. Her right knee shoots up in a bend, then revolves to the side to grant more access. Tension surges through her lower stomach straight to her cunt, and with one more vivid memory of Malfoy calling her name—Ophelia—Hermione silently comes undone.
She closes her eyes but doesn't even see a white light against her eyelids. She sees past that. A kaleidoscope of colors flashes across her brain when she climaxes, but until then she simply sees him, sometimes herself, and sometimes the terrified expression on the face of her victims. She hears his voice, their screams, even the silence of the Forbidden Forest.
Exhaling in relief, Hermione removes her hand from the band of her underwear, nonchalantly rubs the remnants of herself against her inner thigh, and then proceeds to clasp her hands over her chest and wait for the night to pass.
Her fingers always do the trick. She knows herself better than anyone.
But perhaps, Hermione considers, one of these nights, she might be able to feel someone else's. But only when the time is right. Only when she can safely give herself over to that tempting someone.
Cheating on Ron would be an insignificant thing to her.
The key to it all is power.
Taking it, receiving it. Playing it like a game of chess. That's what Hermione craves: the fluctuation of it all. The chase, the high, the sensuality. Makes her want to touch herself again just thinking about it, but this time to his words, his mannerisms, and the thought of his fingers.
Truth be told, she'd give up her power for Malfoy. There's something thrilling about that prospect. He's been at her knees already—obeyed her like a good boy—but to switch the dynamics and make things more fun—see exactly what he's capable of, too—that might be the way to make this process go faster. Be more exciting and thrilling and worthwhile.
Hermione stares at the ceiling, contemplating her next moves. Wondering where the months will take her in this journey. Considering new approaches and changing dynamics.
It all sounds so exhilarating.
She could touch herself all night, but it's really the prospect of it all that releases butterflies in her stomach.
No, not butterflies. How fucking cliché of her.
Little dragons, perhaps? Breathing fire into her limbs and scorching her bones and nerves? Compelling her to go forth and set the world ablaze?
That seems more fitting. There are dragons growing within her.
And Hermione wonders when they'll finally make their debut appearance.
They're all chatting and giggling away in class at the prospect of a Halloween Party this weekend.
A party.
Seamus willfully leads the discussion, promising it to be the party of the year. A return to normalcy after a year without fun.
"Costumes? Required. Booze? Provided. Entertainment? Yours fucking truly!"
Laughter erupts on the Gryffindor section of the class, garnering several glances from spare Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, whose pre-class chats are at a much more hushed level. Eyes roll as the others return to their conversations, but Seamus keeps going with his excruciatingly loud mouth.
Hermione is utterly disengaged. Can't be bothered to listen to Seamus' obtuse and irritating voice as it reaches every inch of the ginormous lecture hall. If acoustics were a tangible thing that she could hold in their hand, she'd spite it and slice through it like butter to sever the sound it makes possible. She'd do anything to hear far less of Seamus fucking Finnigan and his obnoxious, unbearable, just plain insufferable voice. And his arms—they wave like a madman's above his head in excitement. Hermione wouldn't mind slicing through those, too. Painting them a scarlet color and conjuring the bones within to snap and stick out of his flesh like branches from a tree.
She grits her teeth to withstand the idiotic, thickheaded topic of discussion.
A party. Hermione cannot fucking believe that her classmates are talking about a party and not... the war. Their sheltered unhappiness.
The name Ophelia.
They should still be talking about what happened to Hannah, damnit. She's still in the hospital wing under the care and attention of Madam Pomfrey, who's at a loss for words as to why at random hours of the day, Hannah jumps from her bed, screams for Justin, and begs someone named Ophelia to let her go, have mercy, leave Justin alone, and set her free from this recurring nightmare.
Hermione wishes she could watch that happen over and over again, but there are other victims she should tend too. After a while, watching the same person lose her mind over and over again becomes... dry. New targets must be acquired for the satisfaction of it all to persist.
In the midst of such glee, Hermione finds herself desperate to seek out some sort of sorrow, and that's why her heart beats out of her chest with pleasure and awe as her eyes glaze over to witness Dean Thomas' state of being. He's cowering in the corner of the classroom that the Gryffindors find themselves in, his head hanging low, his eyes dull and empty, and his shoulders hunched over his body, creating a disfigured arch in the length of his spine.
On the other side of the crowd of the Gryffindor clump, Katie appears the same. She's a spitting image of utter desolation. Her lips are slightly parted with this mien of total disengagement, and they quiver with fearful anticipation. It's as if she doesn't know where she is—who she is.
But just as Hermione begins to feel the warmth of her successful torture trickle through her body and wrap around her heart, Seamus' voice rings in her ears again. Loud and insufferable as ever. There's a chorus of laughter that surrounds him, and Hermione wants to fucking kill him for bringing so much joy to this place. For distracting her when she should be relishing in the new, insipid nature of Katie and Dean.
Gathering the attention of the rambunctious swarm of students proves difficult for Professor Flitwick, but he eventually wrangles in the antics and commences his instruction. Hermione heaves an irritated breath when Flitwick previews the simplistic lesson for the day. Charms she's already perfected are displayed on a chalkboard, and as her eyes glaze over each spell that she is instructed to perfect each day of the week, she leans her back against her chair and groans in her mouth.
Gods, give me a fucking challenge.
The door to the classroom swings open.
A sea of black and green robes nonchalantly piles into the classroom. Hermione adjusts her posture slightly as she watches a suave Blaise lead the pack into the classroom with a cunning smirk strewn across his rosy lips, followed by a confident, bubblegum-chewing Pansy, then an equally cocky Theo, whose hands are tucked in the pockets of his robes and shoulders sway with each precise step, and then, at the end of the queue, it's him. And he looks... he looks...
Gods, he's enchantingly dark and dangerously stimulating. He could bring the earth to a halt with the power in his eyes, and that's exactly what Hermione dreams about. Eradicating everyone and everything except for him. The juxtaposition of eternal exhaustion and sizzling life in those irises is oddly inviting. They glimmer with a promise of excitement and vengeance, and Hermione would do anything to swim naked in them.
She's staring. She can't fucking help it.
Malfoy catches her gazing at him as takes his seat at an empty table on the opposite side of the classroom, right in the midst of the Slytherin crowd. He gently tilts his head to the side as he removes his satchel from his shoulder and drops it at the side of his feet. And then, sliding into his chair, Malfoy taps his fingers against the wood of his table, and that in itself drives Hermione wild. It's the steady flow of his fingers as they slowly creep after one another like a wave that sends her mind soaring through a kaleidoscope of colors, mimicking the way she feels when she comes undone at the behest of her own fingers.
Her tongue grows wet.
Her stomach flips.
She feels a bomb detonate just below her navel.
What Hermione wouldn't give to have his hands in other places.
A fire writhes through her belly as she takes in the supple movements of his hand. When he stops tapping his fingers, she aches for more. When he runs his fingers through his icy hair, her chest coils. And when he drags his tongue over his lower lip—that same, sensual signal she adores so dearly—Hermione feels like she'll be smothered by that fire within her. All she needs is a little more gasoline. Something to really spark Ophelia. Set her off.
But when Flitwick starts to lecture, that fire dies.
Fuck, she thinks to herself, slouching in her chair and glaring at Flitwick. You fucking cunt.
As much as Hermione has changed for the better—embraced this darker side of herself—there's this part of her that has been conditioned to heed every word a professor says as tantamount information. Peeling her eyes and ears from the lecture is a battle against her intrinsic nature, and she has to remind herself over and over that this information is fucking useless to her unless it's got anything to do with torturing her classmates. And since the charms which Flitwick has selected to teach are two levels below where they should be, Hermione curses her attentive nature as her brain forces her to listen.
Perhaps, a deeper, darker, more thrilling rewiring is in order.
Ron's to her right, and Draco is to her left, so Hermione surreptitiously cranes her head to the left—just enough so that Ron won't notice her shifting attention—and maneuvering her eyes a little bit further to the left than her head, Hermione's vision lands on Malfoy again.
And after admiring him for a few more seconds, Hermione finds that she can't hear a fucking word come out of Flitwick anymore.
The rewiring worked quite smoothly. She's transfixed. Malfoy is so damn enchanting. How is she just noticing how bloody brilliant he is?
The remolding of her brain commences. Wheels turn, forcing this shift in perspective. Classwork fades to the corners of her mind while Malfoy—dark, dangerous, and attractive beyond words—escapes the confines of her surreptitious box of desires and seeps to the forefront. Nestles right where her figurative libido lies. The ghost of his hands all over her skin in a flash of several instances returns, sending a shiver running up her spine.
Staring at Malfoy generates the Ophelia within her.
Her eyes fall south and hit Katie.
The bitch looks sickly and exhausted.
Oh, she's exhausted? Try levitating a limp body through the forest, into the castle, up the stairs, then into the Gryffindor common room, Katie fucking Bell. In darkness as black as hers and Malfoy's heart. While disillusioned. Wingardium Leviosa is a simple spell when it comes to feathers, but a human body? The exertion of energy drained Hermione of any remaining sliver of mercy or guilt she felt about torturing the bitch.
Luck was on her side when Hermione entered her dorm room and neither Padma nor Ginny woke up in what Hermione assumed would've been a state of horror. Katie, for the second time in her life, was cursed and involuntarily suspended in the air. That would've been difficult to explain. The girls had likely already taken those sleeping antidotes that Madam Pomfrey prescribed to the students after the war ended, as insomnia and nightmares were regular occurrences for most students.
Hermione should've kissed Katie on the forehead and wished her pleasant dreams when she lobbed her onto her bed. Maybe sang her a lullaby for good measure. Something about birds, or princesses, or magical gardens, or fairies. Something… cute.
But instead, Hermione climbed into her bed, slid the curtains closed with her torture-stained fingers, touched herself until her insides felt like a coursing stream, and then engaged in her nightly ritual of staring at the ceiling and exploring her inner insomniac.
Tossing Dean onto one of the couches in the common room was good enough.
Hurling a Charms book and some parchment paper beside him suggested that he fell asleep while studying, and that seemed reasonable to Hermione. And at some point in the night—or perhaps not until the break of morning—Dean's eyes would flutter open, and he'd swing his legs off of the plush, ruby couch and make his way upstairs to his room. The memory charm would remain firmly tucked away in his brain, and he'd live the rest of his life with the knowledge that something happened. He'd ask himself time and time again what occurred on that cold, October night, but he'd never have the satisfaction of knowing for sure.
And now, in the class, they both look just as desolate and confused as they did last night.
Katie harbors this daunting look to her stature—her shoulders are wrought with tension, her eyes are bloodshot and wearied, and her frowning lips seems to be eternally damned to a life of willful silence. Coupled with her eerily pale skin, Katie's breathing seems to be slightly off beat—the way her chest rises up and down in an unsteady pattern leads Hermione to consider the permanent implications of the curse from last night. The one that physically reimagined the way her heart should be shaped.
And Dean. He looks just as bad, if not almost worse. His once vivacious eyes are sunken in their sockets, cold and colorless and expended. He does not smile—doesn't attempt to exchange glances or cheeky smiles with Katie. Just stares at Professor Flitwick with dead eyes as he lectures on and on about those bloody useless charms. His chest moves in the same irregular rhythm as Katie's, once again confirming the success of the spell from last night.
Serves them right. Flaunting their surreptitious love felt like an anomaly to Hermione—an enigma, am absurd idea, a fucking waste of their time. Be together or be alone. What is there to hide, anyways?
Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.
And now, you'll never love one another again.
She'd bored of them now.
Hermione turns her eyes again and regards Malfoy.
Malfoy is purposely avoiding her eye contact, toying with slight pulls of his lips upward in tantalizing smiles and scattered taps of his fingers on the table in front of him. Long fingers that appear so pleasing, so mesmerizing, so electric to touch. Hermione thinks again about how they've already waltzed across her body so sweetly, and how badly she wants them to not ballet across her skin, but grip it, shred it, colonize it for himself in possessive scratches and sensual mutilations. She thinks about how satisfying those fingers probably feel in surreptitious places.
She wants him to look at her. Needs him to. She's ready to cause a scene—summon the Trigger which Castello speaks so fondly about and watch as Dean and Katie throw themselves onto the floor in the same pathetic fashion as Hannah.
Can you hear me?
Malfoy keeps his eyes locked on Flitwick, but Hermione knows that he's only pretending to be interested in the lesson. He shows no sign of acknowledging her presence, but as of recent, Hermione's picked up on his mannerisms quite thoroughly. Knows that he's not actually paying any valuable attention to Flitwick either.
She tries again, this time with more force.
Ignoring me won't do you any good, Malfoy. So, I'll ask again. Can you hear me?
Still no sign of a response.
Her fists have a mind of their own, bunching up tightly and causing her nails to sink into her palms. Teeth gritted and jaw locked in an angry frown, Hermione tries yet again to summon his attention.
Thought you liked reading my mind and hearing about all of my nefarious desires. Why don't you come back inside, and I'll give you a taste of what I know you're craving?
That seems to set him off, judging by the way he shifts back in his seat and smirks devilishly. When his arms cross over his chest, and his fingers dance upon his biceps, Hermione covertly runs her tongue over her lower lip, drawing out her hunger for chaos in that pool of sensuality.
Are you watching? She doesn't expect a response—just wants him to be aware that she's starting the process. Has no intention of waiting around any longer when the Trigger curse is dancing on the tip of her throbbing tongue.
When Malfoy nods once, his eyes still glued to Flitwick, that's when Hermione decides to go forth with the plan.
She recites the Trigger incantation just under her breath: "senti tuum dolorem."
And like a chorus of heavenly angels whose voices mesh together in perfect harmony, both Katie and Dean let out terrifying screams.
The whole class judders in response, half jumping out of their seats in shock and the other half grasping their chests like their hearts are a moment away from ejecting right out of their mouths. But they all immediately turn their gaze to Katie, then Dean, then back to Katie, then back to Dean, until it becomes a dance, and they're following the movement of two different performers at the same time.
Katie physically drops from her chair and lands on the floor on all fours. She screams into the wooden floorboards, begging for release from the spell.
"No!" she cries in a long wail, sporadically sputtering over her lack of oxygen and the way by which her heart twists in her chest. "Pl-please!" she manages to scream. "S-stop!" Her words grow more staggered and uneven the longer she succumbs to the pressure of the curse.
Deans mimics the same state of being. One moment he's hanging from his chair, and the next he's writhing on the floor in what can only be sheer, utter agony. The blood from his body discharges quicker than Katie's as he coughs up scarlet liquid and paints the floor with it. Like modern art, it splatters against the wood to tell an epic tale.
The class watches in horror as the drama unfolds. Professor Flitwick covers his mouth with his hand and rushes to Katie's side to examine her questionable and terrifying state.
Katie coughs blood onto his shoes, causing him to gasp and recoil backwards in staggered steps.
"Ms. Bell!" he exclaims, cringing at the sight of blood on his feet. "Oh, heavens, what is—" He turns to face Dean, who cries and grits his teeth in an exorbitant amount of pain. "Mr. Thomas!"
"Make it stop!" Dean chokes, the veins in his neck protruding and pumping with adrenaline and fear as he claws at the floorboards. "You... bitch! You fucking bitch! Make it stop!"
Hermione doesn't know who Dean is even calling a bitch—Katie or Ophelia.
"Ach!" Katie exclaims, throwing her hand over her chest and gritting her teeth. "Help!" She chokes on her words, sputtering total nonsense. Gargling, foaming at the mouth, deprived of her ability to beg for mercy, Katie crawls across the floor—drags her body through a pool of her own blood—and reaches for Flitwick. Entreats his help, desperately.
By now, the students have leaped from their seats and shuffled out of Katie and Dean's way, including Hermione and Malfoy. Glued to the back of the classroom and standing in utter shock at the scene before them, the students begin to whisper to one another. Gasp in horror and shield their eyes from the bloody scene before them.
Hermione acts terrified, but she can't get enough of the scene before her.
Ginny and Ron flank her sides, staring in utter dismay at the way Katie and Dean contort their bodies and shriek like banshees. Ginny wraps her hand around Hermione's arm when a particularly resounding cry from Katie's throat startles her.
Merlin, get a grip, Weasley.
"Someone do something!" Parvati shrieks, gesturing towards Katie and Dean with her trembling index finger, but what is there to do? Everyone's feet are frozen—pasted to the ground as they behold the dark magic that spills from Katie and Dean in a multitude of means.
To really put on a show, Hermione considers jumping into action. Catapulting herself into the arena and pretending to offer some sort of help, just like the Golden Girl would've normally done. It'd be a laugh—pretending to help. Pretending to care.
But the Golden Girl is dead, so... no.
Hermione opts to watch her beautiful work in action. Why would she willingly cease the glory that has materialized before her?
The sight of blood dripping from Dean's eyes is like a boost of satisfaction, and Hermione feels her lower stomach boil with excitement. His mouth foams and lips churn with the influx of blood, vomit, and whatever else is spewing from his mouth. It's a gorgeous image of pastels and neutrals—a Monet. He spurts his guts on the ground and shrieks in more pain—music. Orchestral. Like Beethoven in the spring.
When Flitwick looks up and makes eye contact with Hermione, she puts forth her most shocked face possible. Fakes her horror at the situation and even throws her hand over her mouth for extra measure.
Katie screams one last time before finally—gods, it's worth the fucking wait—she says, "Stop! Stop! Ophelia, stop!"
Hermione knows she shouldn't tingle with excitement. Is fully aware of how debauched it is to get off on the way a victim calls out her sinister nickname. But gods it sounds like the gates to heaven are being unlocked and swung open, and with a slight creak and a chorus of angels, Katie guides Hermione a little bit closer to her own personal heaven.
"Who?" Seamus exclaims, rotating his head back and forth to examine the present students.
Because no one named Ophelia resides among them.
Well, at least no one that they know of.
"Who the bloody hell is Ophelia?" Ron whispers, reaching for Hermione's hand and holding it in his.
Gods, his hand is so sweaty. So callous. Why is he holding her so tight?
Let go, moron. Let go before I twist your fucking wrist and make you cry like a child.
"I... I don't know," Hermione says back, figuratively patting herself on the back for another stellar performance. If it were up to her, she'd scream her secret name from the highest rooftop in Europe. Grant herself the throne of glory that she deserves as Ophelia.
But she's not finished yet. She still has to kill the bastard holding her hand before she can even think about revealing herself.
The whole of the class cringes and recoils in fear as Dean and Katie continue to contort their bodies in the same fashion as last night—twist and distort and pretzel their figures to look wholly different than what is considered normal. Stemming from their chests, the deformity seems to spread to every inch of their body. The pain looks unbearable—just how Hermione's likes it.
And with a gaze as intense as steel, Hermione blessedly watches and takes wonder in her art.
And then, she finds Malfoy's eyes yet again to her left.
He's staring at her, and his mouth is curved in a minuscule smirk.
She surreptitiously smiles back. Looks away. Feels his gaze still hot on her neck, as if he's now the one begging her to look at him.
But he can wait.
Watching this unfold—looking at each and everyone's terrified face—is what Hermione wants to prioritize. The torture supersedes the budding tension between them in this moment.
It's a reminder that her priority is more than receiving a decent fucking shag—anything is better than Ron, at this point.
The power flips in this moment. It's a constant inner battle, but now Hermione holds the reigns in the palms of her hands. She decides when to act on her desires. She controls her cravings.
Malfoy may have her wrapped around his finger, but Hermione has his neck by her hands.
And as Katie and Dean continue to writhe on the floor, and Flitwick sends an emergency Patronus to Madam Pomfrey, Hermione heart beats with the prospect of watching moments like these unfold over and over again. With him at her side.