Warning for every chapter: Slavery. Dubious consent. Violence. Mentions of rape. Death. Assault. General gore warnings. Please read responsibly.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters and no money has been made from this.
Enjoy...
Chapter Nineteen
Swallowing, Hermione stares down at her hands wrapped around the swan like neck. A fist connects with her chin. She loses her grip, collapsing to the side, spitting blood, lip split open. Her hands scramble for purchase, her feet push up, run. She needs to run.
A body collides with her, knocking her down, they crash into the vanity unit, hands scrambling. Feet kicking, she's trying to get away, from the punishment. She needs to run, to get away from Lestrange manor. Death by hanging will be better than anything Lestrange has in store for her.
Nails rip, it's scrappy, an elbow to the gut, a punch to a shoulder. A kick to the side, neither witch is sure who is dealing damage. She just tried to choke her mistress; she's going to get the kiss.
Thump, she lands defeated, restrained against the cold floor, hands binding her. Holding her down, preventing her escape, preventing her from attacking. Her body is shaking, she's not sure if it's from anger or fear. Shaking, she can barely catch her breath.
"Breathe," The order whispered against her ear.
Her head thumps against the cold wooden floor, again. Repeatedly, she hits her head, trying to break her thoughts. To get control. Pain, blood drips from a wound. She hits the floor again, flinching as warm hand presses against her head. Preventing herself from doing any more damage. She rages against the restraints, screaming against the wooden floor, screaming against the anger in her veins.
"Stop, Granger, just stop."
She cannot stop, her mind is rushing, and her body is alive. Burning every instinct is fighting with one another. A war rages inside her mind, she can barely contain herself. Light bleeds into the room, the door creaking open. Hermione dares not to look as she struggles against the hands holding her down.
"My Lady," Angelina calls into the gloom candles held aloft. "Is everything… okay."
They must look a mess on the floor, Lestrange restraining Hermione, holding her down. Is this the moment, Lestrange orders Angelina to call the guards, to get Hermione escorted to Azkaban or St Mungos? It would do her justice, for all the servants she has harmed over the years. What better retribution for them, than to throw her in a padded cell. She wonders if they will do tours, pointing out Lady Lestrange Red Kite that went in insane.
"Fine," Lady Lestrange bites out. "Granger is having a nightmare."
"Would you like a calming drought?"
"Yes, send an elf with one," Lestrange replies. "Shut the door, I don't wish to be disturbed again."
"Of course."
Click, the door closes, sending them back into darkness. Her body trembles from the exertion, and her head hums from pain. The hands remain to lock her in place, even after the familiar pop of an elf as he delivers the potion. She won't take the potion; she'd rather spit it in Lady Lestrange's face.
Flinching, Hermione feels a body bind, rush across her body, it makes her jolt. Shift, fighting once more against the bonds. The hands remain, one hand preventing her from head butting the floor, and the other hand gently runs across her back.
"Breathe," Lestrange orders.
"I hate you," Hermione growls, liar.
"I know," Lestrange whispers, hand still rubbing. "Deep breathes."
Despite her annoyance, she complies, forcing herself to take breaths. Tears, fall once more, she hates herself for it. Her body feels twisted, her mind coming undone, and she doesn't know how to react. How to act.
"Good girl," The hand still soothing.
"Why… why are you being kind?" Hermione whispers.
"You prefer me not to be?"
"You know I don't."
A sigh, the hand halts on her back, Hermione tenses. Waiting for the curse, until the hand resumes, Lady Lestrange takes a deep breath. Pressing her head against Hermione's shoulder blades. She can feel the witch's breath through the fabric of her robe.
"If anyone understands or has an inkling of what you are going through, it's me," Lestrange murmurs. "Crazy remember."
"You're not crazy," Hermione replies, tersely.
It angered Hermione, the day the paper ran the headline that Bellatrix was crazy, they had only caught a glimpse of what happened. They weren't there for the whole thing, didn't see the wizard goading Bellatrix all night. They were just there to capture the aftermath. Her lawyers dealt with repercussions, the newspapers. The Dark Lord warned Lestrange not to retaliate, to let the storm pass.
What good did it do? It was too late; Bellatrix was already labelled as crazy. A witch standing up for herself, making a wizard cry like a child, labelled crazy. The following week a similar situation happened, two wizards fighting. None were called crazy, only referred to as a disagreement.
"Temperamental, maybe," Hermione replies.
"Brazen shit."
"I'm sorry." Hermione breathes.
"No, don't apologise." Bellatrix reprimands. "Never apologise."
"I tried to strangle you,"
Rolling, Hermione finds herself on her back, Lestrange straddling her. Swallowing, Hermione stares at the red angry handprints on the mistress's neck. The bruise formed on her mistress's eye, a black eye forming. Not only strangled but punched her mistress in the face.
It's only now she realises, the body bind has worn off, her hand pressing against the swan like neck. Remorse, it sends chills down her spine as she studies her handprints on the neck.
"Hmm, add it to the collection," Lestrange comments clicking her neck.
With a shake of the head, Hermione hates herself for hurting another. She cannot remember it, a blank in her memory of how she lost her control again. Like, cursing Draco all over again.
"Sorry," Hermione murmurs studying the marks.
A shake of the head, Lestrange disregarding the comment, the witch never one to apologise. Bellatrix never shies from her actions regardless of their impact. It's one of the things Hermione admires about the witch.
"It was strange," Bellatrix comments her finger wiping the blood from Hermione's lip. "It was as though you weren't yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen your anger pet," Bellatrix continues. "This was different."
A sigh, Lestrange relaxing, looking away pensive in thought. Squirming, Hermione tries to get comfortable, Lestrange still straddling her. Using Hermione as a seat, it's not uncomfortable, but the attraction makes it difficult. Attraction?
"You believe it don't you, this stuff about the Red Kites?" Bellatrix questions turning her attention back to Hermione.
"The facts, they don't lie."
"So much so, you're willing to piss me off. To disobey me. You haven't done that in a very long time."
"I don't mean to… I. I have a duty to ensure you are taken care of." Hermione mutters frustrated. "I know what's coming, I know you don't believe me. But…"
"But you're doing this for me." Bellatrix finishes off. "It scares you, doesn't it? Your death."
"I'm terrified."
"Lovegood is helping you figure this out?"
Hesitant, Hermione isn't sure how to answer the question. If she's honest, then it would mean Hermione hasn't been spying on Luna as she commanded. If she lies, Bellatrix will know.
"Yes," Hermione agrees.
"I see,"
Cold, Bellatrix rises to her feet, leaving Hermione cold. Slowly, Hermione sits up as the witch moves toward the potion.
"How long have you known?" Bellatrix questions.
"About my death?" A nod. "Just before Lestrange Ball."
"Hmm," A hand holds out the potion for Hermione to take. "Drink it will help you sleep."
Sighing, Hermione uncorks the potion, swigging the contents, and she winces. The effect is almost immediate, as she staggers to her feet. A warmth spreads through her, she feels numb. Limbs like rubber, she struggles to focus, leaning heavily against the four-poster bed for support.
She needs to head to her bedroom, but she can barely focus. It's a strong drought, she should know she made it. It shouldn't affect her so much; however, she is overly tired. Worn out from the events.
A groan, she stumbles, turning to her door. A mumble from her lips as a hand pushes her, falling she lands on the soft plush mattress. Bellatrix's mattress, her robe vanishing from around her. She flinches at the cold, instantly warming as a blanket appears to cover her.
"I need to return to my room…" Hermione mutters.
"Yes, you should," Bellatrix comments moving in the shadows. "But I don't trust you not to run."
"I wouldn't…"
"We'll find out in the morning when you remember this night's events."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologise." Bellatrix dismisses.
"I don't hate you."
The words tumble from her mouth, she reclines into the softness that is the mattress. So soft, so warm. It encases as though a long-lost lover. Holding her close. Smelling so fresh, so inviting. She nuzzles further into the mattress the warmth from her mistress imprint long since cooled. The bed dips, her mistress climbing in. They're not touching, the bed far too big for them to be close.
It matters little, just being in the mistress bed is a luxury. She shouldn't be here, should return to her room, if anyone were to see them like this. What would they say? It matters little, even as she drifts into slumber. Bellatrix sat up, arms hooked over her knees, watching Hermione drift to sleep.
Trembling, Hermione tidies the room, removing the evidence of their fight. It's a beautiful day, even Lestrange ordered her to open the curtains and the window. To let the sun, flood the room. If it weren't for the droplet of blood on the floor, Hermione might have rejoiced at feeling the sun touch her skin.
"Here, help me with this." Lestrange orders walking back into the room.
Dropping the item, Hermione inhales the lavender, her mistress fresh from the bath. A necklace dangling between fingers waiting for Hermione to attach it. Back turned, Lestrange waits, patient for Hermione to place the delicate necklace. No dress today, Lestrange in a three-piece suit, it's not very often the witch dresses in such a fashion. But when she does, mercy help Hermione.
Heels, make the witch taller than Hermione, with long shapely legs well-fitting trousers, and such a shapely bum. Waistcoat in place, arms exposed, sleeves folded up. She knows, when Lestrange turns around, how many buttons will be undone, the cleavage on show. Hermione would never know how masculine piece of clothing looks so sexy and feminine.
The clasp is tricky, Hermione hates this necklace. It was gifted to Lestrange by Narcissa a few birthdays past. A part of Hermione wonders, if the witch did it deliberately knowing Hermione would struggle with the item. With a smile, Hermione releases the necklace, allowing Bellatrix to drop her hair.
Turning, Hermione is grateful to see the handprints on the witches neck have gone. Lestrange healed herself in the bathroom. Swallowing, a purple bruise has formed around Bellatrix's left eye. Hands tense, she reaches for her wand, wanting to remove any evidence of their fight.
"Oh no," Lestrange comments, stopping the wand from appearing. "I quite like it, adds to my character, doesn't it?"
"Please allow me to heal it?" Hermione pleads.
"Why, so you can ease your little guilty heart, please." Lestrange shrugs as she does the buttons on her waistcoat. "I want you to remember."
"Won't Lady Malfoy ask questions?"
"No one asks me questions pet," Lestrange smiles mischievously. "You should know this by now."
Hermione does her best to hide her frown, not quite meeting Bellatrix's eyes. Focusing on the collar bone, is an old technique, one that has served her well. If it weren't for the finger lifting her chin. Forcing to meet the dark gaze.
"Uh, uh. What have I said." Bellatrix reminds. "I will have you looking at me."
"I don't understand," Hermione mutters, frustrated. "You should have me hanging. At least lashings."
"I can arrange it if you're so inclined." Lestrange comments. "Come on, Pet, your smarter than this. Think,"
The hand brushes the hair from her face, nails scraping her scalp. It doesn't make sense, Lestrange should be hanging her. Should at least be cursing her, not whatever this is.
"I never asked for a Red Kite, never wanted one, never wanted a snivelling little pest following me around." Lestrange continues moving away. "My Lord, however, deemed it important that I am to have one. Evans became mine."
"Evans was brilliant."
"She was a pain in my arse." Lestrange counters leaning against the vanity unit. "I hated the pesky little bitch."
Swallowing, Hermione fidgets, fighting the urge to defend Lily. Trying to remember Lestrange and Lily's interactions. But she struggles, Lily nor Bellatrix interacted in that manor. Lily mainly kept to her duties, out of the way of Lestrange, towards the end she used to get Hermione to dress Lady Lestrange.
"Why?" Hermione asks.
"Because I hate obedience." A manic smile flashes across Lestrange's face. "Evans was the perfect little Red Kite, yes ma'am no ma'am. Ugh, it was tiresome. She never asked questions."
"We're not allowed to ask questions."
"No, but you still do. Do you not? Don't get me wrong, Evans ran the household smoothly, she trained you well, but there was something else. I didn't want a Red Kite, let alone one that was so boring. Towards the end, when you were training, I marvelled. A know it all, yes. Obedient. Mostly." Shuffling under the gaze, Hermione tries to catch up with her mistress's thoughts. "Ten years in the institute, ten. The first day I met you, well you broke several rules. Without fear, without concern for consequences. It was refreshing."
"I was a child," Hermione shrugged.
"A child who wanted to become a minister. You were smart enough to understand the world, you had seen what happened when you disobeyed. Regardless, you strode ahead, consequences to you were a part of life. Even now, you still rebel. You know pet, I have broken many, many people in the service of my Lord. Some snap in seconds, others take time. I never broke you. Do you think any other would let you sneak out to see your little muse?"
Flinching, Hermione bites her lip, she had thought she'd been discrete. Had managed to hide the number of times she saw Luna. Thought Bellatrix would have noticed.
"You're not the only one with Runes."
"Then why," Hermione struggles with the words. "Why let me?"
"Many know me to be my Lord's most faithful." Bellatrix dismisses the question smiling off into the distance. "I am, very much so. I would do anything for him, I have done anything in some way. When my Lord, utilises me, whether it be via political means or on the battlefield, it's a risk. A gamble. Utilise he does because he knows I have enough power to sway anything. I can end a conflict, a battle, or I have enough power to start a war. It's like flipping a coin, many would advise him not to use me. But he does, do you know why?"
"Because you are loyal."
"Yes, it's also because I have his respect." Bellatrix smiles focusing on Hermione. "I could break you, I could snap you between my fingers and make you a mindless little puppet. If I were any other, they would have done so a long time ago. You wouldn't have broke though, you would resent, bury your anger. Never truly committing, too cunning to fully commit. I refrain from doing this, do you know why?"
"Because you love chaos?"
A bark of a laugh, a smile on red lips, a small nod of the head. It is true, that Bellatrix loves chaos, it's why she loves fighting. When everyone else runs from danger, Bellatrix runs to it, with open arms. Hoping for chaos, for carnage.
"True, that is true. It's simple though, respect."
"You respect me?"
"I do, you find it hard to believe. It came as a surprise to me as well, fret not. We can steer through this confusion together. Usually, I tire easily of people, you though, you intrigue me."
"So, I had to strangle you, to gain your respect?" Hermione questions confused.
"No, pet, you already had my respect, otherwise I would have killed both you and that little wench of a friend by now. Do you know how many people managed to get the upper hand on me in a fight?"
"Not many, it doesn't count though, you weren't expecting it. It was a shock."
"True, it was. But you were raging like a feral wolf, not much of a shock. You don't understand? So smart," Lestrange coos. "But not when it comes to people. Let's play a game. Roles reversed."
"I don't like this game," Hermione mutters. "I don't understand it."
"Let's try, shall we. Roles reversed if I were a mere humble servant and you, I."
"It's impossible."
"Yes, it is, still let us hypothesise." Bellatrix chuckles. "What do you think would have happened?"
"I would have you hung."
"Indeed, you would have." Bellatrix agrees. "You would have me hung before sunrise if you hadn't already killed me. For such a naughty little act. It would matter little though because I would have been hung a long time ago. Probably the moment I entered the institute, I would have never made it past the age of seven."
"If we're playing the game correctly, your upbringing would be different." Hermione rationalised. "You wouldn't be you."
"I'm still a Black, it's in my blood," Lestrange smiles, feral. "I was born chaos, at a young age, you truly think I'd sit in pigtails allowing the mother to fuss over me. I was using magic at the age of two, I set fire to the house at the age of three. By five, my father was hiding his wand from me. I had inclined to certain magic. By eleven, my first year at Hogwarts, my Lord had come knocking on my father's door looking to speak to me. Regardless of my upbringing, I would not bend, I would not mould to obedience. I would be strung by the age of seven, swinging in the wind. Or I would have taken a pretty little dagger and slit the throat of any who dare call them my master. Do you understand the difference?"
"Because I'm muggleborn, it's in my blood for servitude."
"No," Lestrange growls, fist clenching. Frustrated she's frustrated. "Technically yes, but no. This isn't about that kind of blood. I would not bend, because it is not in my nature. You, however, are similar. You do not bend, you obey, but you do not bend."
"I don't understand."
"Fuck sake."
Groaning, Lestrange moves, pushing Hermione towards the mirror, twirling her around until they are both staring at their reflections. A hand on Hermione's chin, tight, unyielding but strangely comforting.
"Look at yourself." Lestrange orders. "Now, look to me. Good. We are very similar, we do what we must, to ensure our respective masters survive. Yes, your blood is filthy, you will never be the same as I, but we are similar. Do you see it?"
Trying to ignore the insult, Hermione stares at their reflection, only seeing one confused witch and an exasperated mistress. She's trying not to focus on the heat at her back, the hand on her chin. Bellatrix's chin resting on her shoulder, the hand wrapped around her stomach.
The bruise is bright and fresh, she aches to heal it. Bruise. I'd be hanging by seven. Ten years in the institute but you still disobey.
"Now you get it." Bellatrix smiles.
Never apologise, it's Bellatrix's motto, she never backs down. Never one to overthink, she does what she needs to do. The same way Hermione does, when she's enchanting parchment stopping servants from speaking out of turn. When she's creating runes, she does everything in her power to ensure her mistress's survival. It's all a necessity, she may feel guilt, but to anyone else, she never shows it. Because it is her duty.
Both witches are just as unruly as one another. Lestrange had seen kin that day in the institute, someone she could mould, someone she could understand. Someone smart enough to comply, but smart enough to question.
"Two sides of the same coin, you and I," Lestrange murmurs, lips grazing Hermione's neck. "I could hang you; it would be a waste of talent. You die when I let you, curse, or no curse, you should know by now."
"Body and soul," Hermione replies.
"Hmm," The hum vibrates through Hermione's back. "Body and soul."
Closing her eyes, Hermione tries to understand, to catch up. It still makes little sense, but Bellatrix makes little sense at the best of the time. It's hard to focus, however, when those lips ghost across her skin. She cannot help but lean into the touch, wanting more than anything to turn to capture those lips.
She yearns for her mistress the same way she craves Luna. Both witches are so very different and so similar. Both push Hermione, chipping away at her for different reasons wanting to see Hermione, not the Red Kite. She thinks she understands now, what McGonagall had been trying to say.
"There's something about you, pet." Lestrange breathes nose brushing her exposed shoulder. "There's a pull, it's subtle, I can see why Lovegood seeks you out. It's got stronger lately."
Lestrange is a fine one to talk to, the pull she has to the dark witch makes her lose all focus. It's difficult to focus when the witch is so close, teasing her so much. The hand on her stomach, she wishes it would go lower, that Lestrange would give into her basic primal instincts.
"To answer a question, I let you see Lovegood because I can." Lestrange murmurs, the hand on her chin slipping away. "we all have an itch that needs scratching."
Hermione grows still in her mistress's embrace, swallowing. Daring not to meet the eyes in the reflection, daring not to breathe.
"Please, I can smell her on you at times." Lestrange breathes. "You know the rules, though, don't you?"
A nod, subtle, she nods. Swallowing, she tries to relax, but her body is rigid. A hand brushed her hair aside, lightly touching the crest on her neck.
"Why?" Hermione dares asks, flinching as nail nicks at her crest.
"It will pass, this little thing. It will pass."
"How…" She doesn't ask the question, she has tested the waters too much, the shark is circling, following the scent of blood.
"How do I know?" Lestrange questions. "It's always exciting at first, but duty will come before anything else."
Who's duty, Hermione's, or Luna's or both. She wants to ask, wants to question, daring to meet the reflection. Lestrange is looking away absently twirling a piece of Hermione's hair. There's no anger, no malice, it confuses Hermione more. She had always thought, Lestrange had some sort of feeling towards Hermione. I like pretty things. A magpie, that's what Lady Malfoy would refer to Bellatrix as. A collector of pretty things. I want the world to see how pretty you are.
Her heart sinks, had she imagined their connection. Respect is one thing, but she wants more than respect. Needs more than the witch's respect, she needs more. This is the reason Lestrange only shows possessive nature because Hermione is her pretty little thing.
"She also a friend," Hermione prompts, not sure if she's looking for a reaction or something else. "Luna, she's a friend."
A twitch of a hand, the only indication, that Lestrange has heard her, the only movement. She's not meant to be testing the waters, but it seems she's paddling out into the deep without care.
Those eyes, they're like an abyss, into the depths of madness. They regard Hermione in the mirror, lips poised, thoughtful, wondering probably if Hermione is looking for lashings.
"Is she now," Lestrange replies.
More confused than ever, Hermione wonders why Luna being a friend would upset Lestrange more than Luna being a lover. Maybe it's the propriety of it all, a pureblood and muggleborn being friends, it's as though a different world.
"How cute."
Hermione shivers at the word, the growl. She knows, knows that voice, the hand tightening subtly against her neck.
"Tell me do you sit and braid one another's hair, or is your mouth too full of her pussy?"
Flinching, Hermione swallows at the harsh tone, perhaps she misread the situation. She struggles to find her words, and what is there to say.
"I… She's trying to help."
"Hmm, what a knight in shining armour. Whatever you must tell yourself, Granger."
The hands retreat, pulling away leaving her cold in the light of the sun. What does that mean?
"What does that mean?" Hermione demands turning to the witch.
"Watch your tone."
"No," Hermione argues. "What do you mean?"
Her back hits the wall, the hand pressing against her throat, she knows Lestrange has enough strength to snap her neck. The hands flexing, nostrils flaring. Lestrange is the barely controlled fury.
"I may enjoy your disobedience, but do not mistake us for friends Granger, it is not something that could ever be."
"What do you mean?" Hermione demands, unfazed by the anger. "Please, what do you mean."
"Work it out."
Her hand moves on instinct, wrapping around the bicep preventing Bellatrix from moving away. A snarl, the hand on her throat tightening, cornered. Neither witch relenting, Hermione needs answers.
"You're not that thick," Lestrange snaps. "What has Lovegood had to gain from being friends with you. Do you spill our secrets?"
"Of course not, I cannot." Hermione retorts, insulted by the question. "She doesn't want anything, she said, she just wants to be my friend."
"Friend." Bellatrix chuckles pity in her eyes. "When you sit, being friendly, does she tell you the woes of her life?"
Pausing, Hermione wants to retort, annoyed of course Luna does. Luna tells her about her past, they talk about Hermione's writings. She never talks about her family, she talks of Hogwarts, her dreams… Never of her life.
"Ah, I'm not particularly known for having friends' pets, but I'm pretty sure, you're meant to confide in one another." A sigh, tired. Lestrange retracts her hands. "We shouldn't even be having this conversation."
"But we are." Hermione prompts.
"You're not a fool Granger, if you're not friends, then one of you or both of you are using the other."
Moving away, Lestrange continues to get ready for the day ahead. Luna is her friend, this is just Lestrange trying to play with her head. That's all it is, just mind games. Fear, creeps at the base of her neck, struggling to recall a moment where Luna had confided. Maybe she has nothing to say. No, Luna is probably just as worried that's all it is, Luna probably has the same fears as Hermione.