Hermione's POV

The ground beneath Hermione was cold, an unforgiving slab of broken cobblestone and shattered glass. Not even the adrenaline coursing through her veins was enough to warm her extremities, and she shivered against it as she stared wide-eyed towards the woman scowling down on her. Bellatrix Lestrange's features were almost alien; cheeks too hollow, eyes wild and unnerving. The matted black hair flowed wildly as she sneered down at Hermione, wand positioned above her head. "C'mon, Mudblood, cat's got your tongue?" Glass shards dug deep into Hermione's legs as she struggled to rise up, scrambling away from the woman. It didn't get her far though, a swift kick from a steel toed boot sending her sprawling once more. Her vision was fuzzy and fading in and out of focus, though the look of defiance in those brown orbs did not falter. 17 years on this Earth and nothing had scared her this much so far, though staring down the end of a withered wand, it took everything in her power not to question whether or not death was coming soon. The lanky witch paced the circle in which Hermione lay, like a lion stalking its prey.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Where did you get my sword?" she hissed, leaning down close to grab a handful of the younger woman's hair. Hermione flailed against her, praying that she would be able to reach her wand, though it was no use. Her nails caught flesh as she slashed Bellatrix's skin, though the woman only tightened her grip on the curled locs. "We found it, just please, let us go!" she screeched, unaware of the rage that was continuing to grow within Bellatrix. Rip. Hermione cried out as she felt the hair rip from her scalp, a chunk falling to the ground. Lestrange cackled at this, stepping back to admire her handwork. Already she could feel blood dripping from the section of scalp that had been pulled, though it was thankfully along the nape of her neck. "Good riddance. Ugly mop of hair on an ugly little girl," Bellatrix sighed, swatting the locks away as though it were dirt upon her hands.

"Fuck you," Hermione growled out, spitting at Bellatrix. Rage flitted across the ghastly woman's features, and she turned to swiftly land a kick against Hermione's ribcage. "Filthy, disgusting mudblood," she shrieked out with each blow, apparently forgetting the wand that rest in her hand; physical violence was all that was on her mind, "What else did you fucking steal from me, huh? You stole my sword, now tell me the truth before I spill your dirty blood in front of your cohorts". A kick caught her against the hip, her vision fading and ears ringing. She could distantly hear Ron sobbing out for her, straining to reach her, to do anything. "Hermione!" His voice was raw and panicked; she didn't look that bad did she? No, she wouldn't break, wouldn't falter. Once again she attempted to dodge, to rise to her feet. "Tell me, goddammit! Crucio!"

Pain filled her body, white hot and unrelenting. It was as though thousands of needles had embedded themselves in her intestines and they were trying to dig their way out. Hermione's eyes shot open wide as she screamed, writing to get away, begging for help. A flash of white caught her eye through the shocks seeping through her bones, a young man staring at her from the shadows of the chamber. His face was pale with fear, though the sneer that seemed to permanently be plastered to his face remained and he was doing nothing to help her, nothing to stop the pain while her friends were restrained and he himself was free. Bellatrix's laugh echoed as she repeated the Unforgivable curse over, and over, and over.

Until it was no longer a female voice.

The tone was deeper, gravelly in a sense and all of a sudden she was no longer on the floor of a cold chamber but upright, hands behind her back and body tied erect against a solid structure. "Crucio", the man with dark hair and green eyes whispered, his tone almost lazy as he watched her scream in agony. She recognized this room vividly; Crimson Tavern was not a place one could easily forget. The walls looked almost identical to that of the chamber she had been tortured in all those years ago, though the floor was plush, a deep red carpet. It burned the cuts on her feet, though the pain was minimal in comparison to the agony rocking her body. "Honestly, you did ask for this, didn't you Kitten?" She couldn't even protest, for nothing but a scream came out. Hermione's body fought against the restraints, eyes rolling back in terror, body beginning to shake-

"Fuck!"

A yelp escaped her mouth before she even realized what was happening, sunlight beginning to barely peek through the shutters of the humble flat. Hermione's body was coated in a thin layer of sweat, shaking slightly as she stared solemnly at the lines of the floor. It was just a dream. Nothing more. It's safe here, it's warm here, it's kind here. Even reminding herself the affirmations that tended to keep her grounded wasn't really enough to jolt her out of the state she was in, only the soft feeling of fur brushing against her hand enough to rouse her from absolute shock. Crookshank's soft whiskers lightly touched the skin of her hands, and she took the opportunity to scritch him behind the year. 8 years later and he was still by her side; she should have listened to him more, understood that he was trying to warn her against those with ill-intent. Hell, it took Minerva digging up the cat's pedigree before she recognized he wasn't an ordinary Persian and instead some sort of Kneazle cross. Well, no ordinary cat lives 20 some-odd years…

"I'm sorry buddy, did I scare you?" she murmured to the large cat, stretching her sore legs out from underneath her. The clock on the wall above her bed, well, sofa, read 6:45AM. A lot earlier than she wanted to be awake but something about trying to fall back asleep after those traumas reared their ugly heads kept her from trying to rest her eyes once more. No, she could at least get a bit of work done before she had to get ready for tonight. Reaching to snatch the faded silver laptop from the coffee table, Hermione settled into an upright position, scooting the computer forward so that the cat could curl up in her lap while she typed. Of course the overgrown creature took this opportunity to curl against her form, purring hard against her abdomen. He knew when she was worked up; his purring away contested the racing of her heart, body attempting to soothe her nerves. A hand went to absentmindedly stroke the soft orange fur as she opened her emails from this week.

Roughly 500. 500 bloody emails about god knows what, sitting unopened in her inbox.

The Daily Prophet had opened up the ask and answer sections a few years after the war; anything from questions about adventuring in the world of muggles to pseudo-magical remedies to ridiculous illnesses. When she was contacted by Rita Skeeter to interview, she all but told the woman to piss off. Nothing about it felt right, or even logical. Skeeter was a persistent one though, and after six months of chipping away at Hermione's nerves and patience, she sent her resume in to begin writing for the Prophet. Not long after, she was offered her own columns to publish, bringing forth a new creation: Vent with Violet. The rest was history.

Opening up an email at random, she scrolled through, debating on whether or not this one was worth answering. Nope. Another one, further down, almost as drab as the first. Finally, the head subject-line "Intimacy" caught her attention, and Hermione couldn't help but select it.

Dear Violet,

I've been with my fiance for 6 years now and things just seem...well, different. We have tried all sorts of exercises to make things more interesting behind closed doors, but I worry that he's losing interest; he seems to think that he likes being dominant, but I just don't feel comfortable in it and he doesn't feel confident. I miss the days that we were like two dogs in heat and everything felt fun, exciting even! Now it's just the same thing day in and out. It's driving a wedge between us; we cannot afford couples counseling, and he would barely budge even if I convinced him, the stubborn bastard. Is there anything you could recommend to help alleviate this "problem"? I just want to have fun with him intimately again.

From a fan of the column,

Gillian.

Easy enough for her to write quickly, and something she was shockingly well-versed in. It took no time at all for Hermione to think of what to say, and she didn't bother revising the response that she worked on for the woman. While she was personally a fan of exploring every possible variable in terms of spicing up the relationship, such as exploring with other couples or another individual, she got the impression from the phrasing that these two were painfully monogamous. No worries, though, she knew just what may help them in this particular situation. It was what she was paid to do, afterall.

Dearest Gillian,

I'm so happy that you got a chance to write in, and I appreciate the readers of WL, V. As for your intimacy dilemmas, I might just have something that could help. I recall you mentioning that your partner enjoys being the dominant one, the one in position of power. While I am not privy to every detail of your love life, I feel as though it is safe to assume that he has stayed in this position of sexual power throughout the entirety of the relationship. Male dominance is something as old as time, to the point where it is almost no longer taboo!

One thing I always recommend to women in a position such as yours is to reverse the roles. Men love to be in power, until they get a taste of what it feels like to be powerless, to be left without their defenses. You are going to want to put yourself on a pedestal so to speak; you are in control of the sexual situation and he is subservient. With all change sexually, be sure to take it slow and ALWAYS have a safeword. The key to this shift in power will be trust and communication. Start off slow; make him listen to you. If he touches you without permission, even the traces of his fingertips, reprimand the behavior. Maybe include some light spanking, or tying him up so that you are fully in control. There are some truly spectacular resources out there that can help give you some ideas as to how to really bring this fantasy to life; if I remember correctly, Witch Weekly's latest volume included some tips (though take some of them with a grain of salt). The corners of her mouth uptilted; always had to include some friendly competition with their rival newspaper. Skeeter would likely be barking in her ear about that one.

And finally, Gillian, make sure you include aftercare after each scene. It is important for both you and your partner to communicate how they felt following a scene, express discomfort, or simply enjoy each other's time. Even if the scenario was only slight when it came to dominance, breaking that power dynamic down so that you both are on the same emotional level following a scene is of the utmost importance. Remember; sexual fantasy can be separated from reality.

I truly hope this answered your questions.

With love,

Violet.

Hermione's eyes gazed over the completed response, scanning each line to ensure it was cohesive and open-ended enough to avoid giving somebody incorrect information. Her eyes lingered on certain taglines; punishment, aftercare, reality. It almost always made her cringe looking back on a time when she was unable to separate that fantasy from the real world, though she was making enough progress with her infrequent visits to her psychiatrist that it no longer caused bile to spew from her lips at any mention of it. No, that was no longer her life, and the man with green eyes in her dream was never going to be able to get near her again, she made damn sure of that one. Still though, it was difficult to not let her mind wander, to replay the parts of that point in her life that were disguised as happiness. This was a frequent occurrence; tricking herself into thinking that maybe she was the problem, consciousness whispering that she was the one who deserved every ounce of treatment she received, that she was dramatic or exaggerating what went on behind closed doors.

That little voice was a liar though. It was a snake, whispering in her ear the false tales that had sent her spiraling not long ago, though it was easily drowned with distractions. Sometimes it was her writing, her work, the card table in the back corner of the Chateau, the beautiful bartender who's eyes twinkled as she poured the dominatrix shot after shot of the Cherry Firewhisky. Snakes could be drowned, and god damn she would make sure they were.

Draco's POV

Narcissa Malfoy-Black was just as elegant as she was a decade ago. Her form was tall, lithe, adorned to the hilt with the most recent trends. Compared to a decade ago though, she was almost glowing these days. She smiled more, was more open about her distaste and discomfort with situations. The first to speak out if something was amiss and fiercely protective of those she was close to. It was no surprise when she showed up on Draco's doorstep with a stern expression, asking, "What the hell did you say to my Pansy?" Blimey, that woman worked fast, must have given his own damn mother an earful before he even woke up this morning. Typical.

Pansy Parkinson had become an honorary Black following the war, following the loss of her own family. A brother that fought for a cause that he didn't know was futile, killed in the courtyard where he had practiced Quidditch all those years. He was almost completed with his O.W.L.S. Her parents were sentenced to Azkaban, mother killing herself within the first week and father dying at the hands of a cellmate. Within one year, she had lost all of those close to her, all of her blood family. Stepping into their place was Narcissa, freshly divorced and trying her very hardest to get away from the clutches of the Malfoy Manor. It sold at auction within days, as if it was some sort of antique or monument. In a way though, it was, and it took Narcissa under a week to find herself a cottage in London that she now called home.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as the taller woman shoved by him, crossing her arms and allowing the scowl to muddy her timeless features. "Mother, it was nothing-" She was cutting him off before he could even get out his side of the story, to explain the argument. He really couldn't say much though, Pansy certainly had NOT disclosed her profession to her adopted mother. As far as the elder Black knew, Pansy was an accountant working at Gringotts behind the scenes. "It's why I'm never at the front desk! They let me do all the work I need to from home," Pansy had once chirped, earning a raised brow from Draco and a swift kick under the table in response. "If it was 'nothing' then why did I get a call at 8 o'clock this morning about your behavior? How often does she call me to fret about whatever issues you have? I'll tell you, never." Her hand raised to tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear, a sudden movement that warranted a flinch from Draco. Even after years of her never laying a hand on him, he still flinched at any movement. She had never shielded the blows Lucious had dealt, and everything in him growing up screamed that she would do the same thing.

Noticing this reaction, her features softened, cupping his cheeks as she pressed a kiss atop his brow. He wrinkled his nose a bit though he did not pull away; this was therapeutic for her, a way of saying sorry that she had done a million times before. "I promise, it was just an argument after I showed up to Gringotts unannounced." An easy enough lie, enough to shield his friend and mother from the cold hard reality of what had actually happened. A lie that didn't mention tears or screaming, or bringing Pansy's new girlfriend into the mix. Narcissa's hand reached to tuck a strand of blond hair behind his ear, and he could sense the hypercriticism dancing at the tip of her tongue. Appearances still held importance to the woman, and in the last few months, Draco's short scruff had begun to cover his cheeks and his hair brush over the tips of his ears. A haircut was the last thing on his mind though.

As quickly as she had grasped him the pressure was gone, sweeping deep into his flat to fuss over god knows what. "I just worry about you two, is all," she called over her shoulder, beginning to fold a blanket on the back of the couch and straighten the books on his coffee table. "It's always like mediating the beginning of a war whenever you two fight, explosive…" her voice trailed off, deciding what next to try and tidy in his flat. Draco's teeth ground together; not only was he not expecting her, but he did not particularly want to visit today to begin with. The apple definitely did not fall far from the tree though, and the woman was as stubborn as she had been when he was growing up. "Would you like some tea, mother?" He offered, knowing damn well that was what she wanted though was too polite to ask. She gave a small nod and appreciated a smile before finding her seat on the couch, hands folded in her lap as she began to run through her week, chattering on.

As much as Draco did love his mother, these visits were frankly obnoxious at this point. It was a habit for her though, checking in on her son like clockwork; she didn't do that often when he was a kid. Must be making up for lost time, time that she regretted. Occasionally he would offer a nod or murmur of agreement as his mother prattled on, though his mind drifted to the night before. Everything felt...muddy. The apology he was attempting to make, the one he set out to give, absolutely did not stick. If anything, they were back to square one and he was beginning to feel the creeping frustration back into his veins. Hermione obviously still harbored resentment towards him, that was clear, though he couldn't really blame her. Sure, he didn't outright apologize, but she should be bright enough to know why he had shown up to the doorstep of room 13. She should have known, why wouldn't she? The memories were more vivid than they were yesterday; he could feel the shackles on his wrist, the feeling of her teeth against his jaw, the wisps of chocolatey brown hair tickling the nape of his neck. It was enough to bring a blush to his face, and he swore as the scalding water splashed against his wrist.

Narcissa didn't seem to notice her son's frustrations, instead opting to wave her wand over the table, wiping it clean. "Are you even listening to me, dear? Astoria and her parents are requesting that we attend dinner at their manor later this weekend." Draco wiped the remaining droplets with a dish rag, bringing both cups of tea back to where his mother perched. Furrowed eyebrows and a scowl met the regal woman's bright expression. "I have no interest in speaking with Astoria. She has three brain cells, two of which are working their arse off to keep her breathing." Narcissa reached to smack her son's leg, giving a sharp tsk. He didn't flinch badly this time, it was pretty warranted. "Don't be crass, Draco, they're a kind family and of excellent standing in the wizarding community". Of course they were. They were never Death Eaters, never had their name associated with it; quiet bigots, the lot of them, hell-bent on keeping their breeding true and pure. "They're insisting, and come to think of it, so am I. How long has it been since I've seen you with a girl? Months? Years, even?".

Oh if only she knew. This was getting redundant, Draco resting his hand on his cheek and feigning boredom. The idea of a dinner party with one of the most simple, arrogant families was repulsive and an absolute waste of time. "You know I've been working-" the look Narcissa shot him was both pleading and firm. She had the best intentions, though possibly for the wrong reasons. Unless Pansy was even planning on having children, which she wasn't, she wasn't getting any grandkids anytime soon. He couldn't say no to her though, couldn't see her hopeful expression fall. "What time?" He sighed, ignoring the gleeful clasp of the older woman's hands. '"7pm sharp on Friday. Oh, Draco, it's going to be truly lovely. I promise you'll enjoy it, they've redecorated their whole home and even hired a new chef, this time from France!" Fuck. A dinner party, how lovely.

The remainder of her stay, his mother spent the time venting about the drama within her inner friend group, the gossip of those in the wizarding world while Draco flipped through the cases he was covering this week. The names of defendants blurred together, drug cases, robberies, all sorts of offenses. One case involved a massive drug raid, with the suspect having enough coin to pay for a private defender. The offer was enough to make Draco's eyebrow cock, and he placed a small mark at the top of the file to remember to go back to it. Time flew by, and it wasn't until the clock stuck 2 that his mother began to gather her belongings to leave.

"Don't forget-"

"7pm. Friday. I won't."

Narcissa ignored his clipped response, cupping his cheek and gently running the pad of her thumb against the rough skin. He leaned into the comforting touch, closing his eyes slightly. "Love you, mum," he sheepishly said, earning a smile before the woman was gone in an instant. The day was still full of opportunities to get his work done, possibilities of productivity. Unfortunately though, he just couldn't bring himself to do anything of the sort. The couch was too inviting, too comforting. Draco plopped down against it, drawing his lip computer from the bag that essentially lived beneath the coffee table to scroll through it. It was shameful how quickly his mother's visit had disappeared from his mind as it wandered back to the glowing lights of the Chateau. He was much too flustered to really appreciate its depths, and his fingers flew across the keys as he typed in the URL and was directed to their website. A list of photos, devoid of any patrons, was compiled on the edge of the search bar.

From the photos alone, the Chateau was deceptively large. He knew the front desk well enough, saw the staircase leading him up to that second level that he had stalked down so boldly before. The main level was composed of several large stages, primarily lit with soft red lighting. Everything in this building was various shades of crimson or fuschia, blending into one as the lights twinkled on the walls. Strangely enough, there were no actual chairs, only lush couches of velvet and leather; it must be expensive to upkeep. A solid oak bar stood tall along the back right of the room, which appeared to be hexagonal. Across from that was a line of card tables; blackjack, poker, slot machines. Every conventional, sinful task could be completed just on the lower floor. He recognized certain parts of it's layout from the snapshots he had seen from Pansy. His index finger hovered over the booking portion of the website, almost unconsciously as he debated exploring it once more. This visit would be for an apology, to talk, he promised himself, though he wasn't quite sure if that promise was genuine.

The page opened with a single click, and Jade's tag was almost at the top this time through, the outline of that damned flogger beckoning him. It was damn near addicting just observing, the phantom stinging so vivid against his skin that he was almost back in that room. It was terrifying, thrilling, enraging what he had been deduced to. However...it was addicting. A drug that he had tried once and was feeling the symptoms of withdrawal. Maybe it was the implications, maybe the actions. Definitely not her, he assured himself. Still though, the 10 o'clock time slot available for Friday was almost impossible to pass up. Apology. This was for an apology, for a discussion. Nothing more or less, and in an instant, 13 galleons was deposited as a holding fee and his appointment was booked with The Lioness of the Chateau.

For a while, he simply stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys as his mind went blank. He couldn't stop himself from booking that appointment and feared his lack of hesitance, his inability to resist checking that box and letting the income pour out of his account. More than anything though, he feared the effect that being subservient had on him. The power shift had consumed him for the better half of the day, so when he opened a private tab, it didn't surprise him what he had typed into the search bar. It didn't surprise him when he drew his wand to pull the curtains closed, locking the door and the deadbolt about him.

"Dominatrix."

"Female domination."

"Male slave"

Each search yielded witches in total power, subs wearing hoods and masks of latex, their identity unknown. These hoods were intriguing, often matching the gloves that the women wore, elbow length and tight. The feeling of almost suffocating, of feeling the claustrophobic hood against one's eyes and mouth seemed...thrilling. Draco slid his robe off, pulling the long pants down to his ankles with his boxers. His cock was hard and twitching after the first search, though it was damn near throbbing at this point, pre-cum staining the abandoned undergarments. His hand absentmindedly stroked it as he scrolled through each video, not even close to relieving the pressure that was tight against his abdomen. It annoyed him how even when he had narrowed his results, nothing was seeming to catch his eye.

Until something did.

A thumbnail of a tall woman with dark brown curls, a long coiled whip around her shoulders. If he didn't know what his mistress had looked like so vividly, it almost looked just like her. The mane of waves was large and cascaded down her shoulders, resting upon the latex corset that pressed her exposed breast upwards. The video began, a crack of the long whip against a man standing against the wall. He was in a sitting position, bit-gag keeping his mouth open as he endured what Draco learned was called "impact play". Anytime the whip struck his raw skin, a muffled "Thank you, mistress" was uttered through the gag. "Such a good little toy," she purred, voice much more gravelly than Hermione's though with hints of the same taunting tone she had used. Draco's hand began to stroke with much more fervor than it had prior, thumb pressing against the sensitive underside of his shaft as soft gasps left his parted lips. "Beg for me, sweets", she demanded, abandoning her tool to approach him, squeezing his testicles with enough force that Draco could see it on his face.

It wasn't the blubbering man that had this effect on him; no, it was the shine in the woman's eyes, the sharp smile and those goddamn locks of hair. His eyes closed as he remembered her scent; honey and basil. His body twitched as he resided himself to thrusting into his own palms. He had done this to her just a day ago, needy and desperate for release. "Fuck, please…" he begged aloud in a soft whine, thumbing the pre-cum over the head of his cock as he arched against the couch. "You love begging for me, don't you, bitch? You love begging for me to fuck that tight little ass of yours," the woman's voice purred through the screen. He had heard almost those same words, could almost feel Hermione's hands stroking him before she had taken him.

It was enough to send him careening over the edge. Pleasure wracked his form as he came, painting his sweat-coated stomach with semen as it pulsed freely from him. Wave after wave came, like little electric shots as he emptied himself in his palms and stomach. Even the gentle brush of his own fingers caused the hypersensitive organ to twitch upon touch, and it took what felt like hours to recover, lost in the bliss of his own orgasm. It wasn't anything like the Chateau though. It was emptier, less of a thrill than he had personally experienced. It dawned on him as soon as he had fully come-to, slamming into him as the realization became clear: this may be the new normal for him, unable to have the same reaction to any other types of imagery. She had beautifully ruined that for him, replacing it with her own skill set and talents.

It was impossible to remain neutral with that revelation; it was infuriating, terrifying. This may be what he desires now and it was all because of her.