In case the title hadn't clued you in, this chapter features sexually explicit content. Reader discretion advised.

Chapter 4. Fucking

"Draco's going to be home soon, I—" Pansy's protest died in her throat, replaced by a moan that overtook her body and shook it to its core. "Oh God, Bella."

The straps of her emerald green babydoll slipped further down her arms as Bellatrix's mouth sucked on her tit hungrily, fingers digging into her waist, threatening to leave the raven-haired beauty branded red and marked by someone other than her fiancé. She tangled her fingers in Bellatrix's dark curls—"D-don't stop." Her skin tingled in delight, goosebumps lining up from her elbows to the crook of her delicate neck.

Bellatrix had always enjoyed Pansy gradually losing all self-control. There was nothing she loved more than a cookie-cutter socialite forgetting all semblance of propriety because she was too caught in her own pleasure—Bellatrix thirsted for that power; she revelled in it so much she could get off on it alone.

But, today, even Pansy's little mewls of pleasure couldn't have that effect on her. She licked, caressed, toyed and rubbed without any feeling—it was all mechanical, instinctual. She knew Pansy moaned if you bit the lobe of her right ear, cried if you teased her cunt with just a finger, that her breathing hitched with a caress on her inner thighs. It was easy, too easy. Much like murdering men, it had become a habit for Bellatrix. And she was bored.

She wanted something new, fresh, exciting. She wanted Hermione Granger. Her mewls, her cries, her moans—she longed for them. The young investigator might not have been a prim and proper lady—but she was much harder to break. There was a challenge in there—something Bellatrix wanted to annihilate so she could enjoy the treasure at the end of the road. At the bottom of the sea. Or on the lost island—the… oh, fuck that. Metaphors were for the weak anyway. She wanted her cunt. Plain and simple.

What little thrill Bellatrix could now find in Pansy was the fear of getting caught by Draco—her dear nephew and Pansy's fiancé. She dreamt of seeing the look of utter betrayal and pain on his face—the confusion that would draw lines along the corners of his mouth; of his eyes; of his eyebrows—the disgust making his nose flinch. Oh, she knew it would be like liquid ecstasy, pouring itself all over her skin and dripping down her cunt.

But Pansy never let it happen. Whatever made Pansy flail with pleasure under Bellatrix's touch had a limit—and that limit was Draco. He could be betrayed, deceived, cheated on (with his own relative no less)—but he could never know. Which, really, if Bellatrix was honest, took all the joy out of it.

She looked down at Pansy, spread-eagled and breathless in the bergère she had just fucked her on, and realised this was the last time. She was moving on to greener, bushier pastures.

She had to fuck Hermione Granger.

For the first time since their little game of cat and mouse had begun, Bellatrix found herself on the lookout for the young investigator—eyes frantically searching for flashes of copper-brown hair, plaid trousers and heavy leather shoes. She trailed every sign of the makings of a man on the body of a woman—but Hermione, it seemed, had stopped showing up everywhere Bellatrix was. She no longer surprised her with a sudden whisper in the ear or a passing hand fluttering above her shoulders.

So Bellatrix stopped waiting and began looking. She gathered it should be easy—after all, Hermione Granger lived in her building, didn't she? It was the entire reason for their meeting.

But Hermione Granger did not live in the building. In fact, when Bellatrix knocked on what she assumed to be her door, she was faced with a most unwelcoming presence: Dolores Umbridge, the fifth neighbour. The one who was supposed to appear in Hermione Granger's stead.

"What is it?" croaked the old toad, a burning cigarette tucked between her lips, curlers tightly wrapped in her thinning hair, a pink robe covering whatever nightmare was hidden beneath.

"Oh, hello Dolores. I didn't know you were back."

"Back? I never left, you delusional floozy!" Then, muttering under her breath, she added: "I knew the likes of you would only bring trouble to the building. Widows remarrying and becoming widows again, what has the world come to? What misery awaits us next?" And, with those words, she turned away and shut the door in Bellatrix's face.

Well, that had certainly been instructive—and perhaps equally confusing. The question that leaked out of that short exchange seeped through Bellatrix's mind, tugging at her every sense: how had Hermione Granger ended up at her apartment in the first place? She could easily assume that the old toad had been out (though, who could imagine such a disgraceful creature ever having a social life in the first place?), but it didn't give her a single clue as to how Hermione knew to show up that evening.

Unless...

Unless she had been followed for longer than she knew.

Unless Hermione had known about her long trail of murders for a while now, and known to follow said trail until she could jump on her the first chance she got.

But how did she ever know to be there, at that exact time, on that exact day?

"Looking for me?"

The voice echoed through the hall of the dimly lit brownstone, electrifying Bellatrix.

"How did you know?"

"Well, I live there. And you were just knocking on my door. Doesn't take a whole lot of investigating to figure out," smirked Hermione, tilting her head in an almost condescending way. No, not almost—definitively.

"Dolores Umbridge lives here," stated Bellatrix in response, flustered by the sudden switch in dynamic. She was not supposed to be the one who was surprised.

"So do I. I rent a room from her."

Bellatrix paused. She had been trailed prior to killing Rodolphus and his brother—renting from Dolores Umbridge was a suicide mission.

"It's not a coincidence, I gather. Neither is the fact that you showed up at my apartment instead of her." These were the facts. It was not a coincidence—it was a strategically concocted plan, a carefully crafted set of circumstances. Without waiting for an answer, because she knew she was right, she finally admitted: "I'm impressed." She watched as Hermione's breath caught in her throat—they were both aware their little game was about to take a turn they would never come back from. "So impressed…"

Bellatrix Black never admitted defeat. She was a tornado, devastating everything in her way—never leaving a single tree standing. The tornado in her called for a disaster—a ravage so large it would loom over Hermione's mind for years to come.

She grabbed her by the waist and shoved her against the wall. "… yes, so impressed, in fact, that I'm going to reward you for it." Destroy you for it. She watched as Hermione's eyelashes fluttered repeatedly; as her body tensed up; as a thin sheen of sweat painted her face with a soft pink glow. That's right.

Bellatrix Black never admitted defeat. "I'm going to fuck you right here, and you better not make a peep, or your landlady will have questions aplenty once you walk through that front door." She brushed her knuckles against Hermione's skin, now and forever tainting her with her darkness. "Don't bother responding;" she smiled, noticing her prey's lips parting ever so slightly. And, to make her point, she slid her index along her jawline before pushing it in her mouth. An exhale of satisfaction crawled through her as Hermione began dutifully sucking, a gentle pop crowding the silent hall every time she pulled her head back. Bellatrix watched as the young woman's rosy lips ate her up; as she licked every morsel of skin presented to her; as she obeyed and followed orders, like she had been waiting for someone to force her to bow down to them.

And, boy, was she going to enjoy making that insolent little thing submit to her. She pushed a second finger in her mouth, and a third. Watching the brunette's mouth expand gradually had her dripping—the underwear of her crêpe georgette boudoir set was already damp with her arousal. God, how she hated the way this pesky young thing had turned her world upside-down—and, so, fuelled with rage and arousal, she released her hand from Hermione's mouth and gripped her by the throat, careful to avoid cutting off her air supply. She watched as Hermione's eyes became wide with shock; as the soft glow from the nearby sconces reflected in the white of her eyes turned from a sparkle to a light in itself. "Did you think I was playing?" Bellatrix's body had sunk into Hermione's; her words travelled from her lips and directly poured themselves in Hermione's ear. "Did you think I would make it easy for you?" She pressed harder on her throat, threatening to crush her larynx. "Answer me."

"N-no. I—" Hermione's words died in her throat, replaced by a sound so visceral, so animal, so profound Bellatrix nearly let her go. "Please." Her voice was raw and rasping. She was on the edge without even having being touched—Bellatrix could only guess what state her cunt was in—and she revelled in that knowledge. The bitch was begging for it.

"Now? When our neighbours might walk in and catch us at any given moment?" she teased languidly before biting down below Hermione's lobe. Her other hand was busy sliding Hermione's dress up her thighs—the red silk muffling in protest as it crumpled near her apex—and raised her right knee until she could feel Hermione's wetness against the skin of her leg. "Are you really willing and ready to be caught amidst such depravity? Maybe I should make sure your public image is kept intact," she snickered. She rubbed her leg against the young woman's cunt, causing unintelligible whimpers to pour out of her.

"N-no. I d-don't care," she finally managed to say.

Right answer, kitten. Bellatrix smiled and let go of Hermione's throat, which now bore a crimson handprint. Her prey had been marked. "Good," she purred against her skin, more so to herself than to the young woman. Her right hand, now free to explore other areas, slid down Hermione's body, teasing her breasts, then her stomach, until it finally reached the opening on the side of her underwear. "We're not going to need that," she chortled, tearing it apart—the sound echoed through the air in ripples, a warning sign that there was no going back now. She was going to fuck Hermione in the hall of their building—nosy neighbours be damned. She was getting what Pansy had been refusing her all along—the risk, the exhilaration of doing something wrong, the peril of being unmasked.

Bellatrix sighed in satisfaction once her fingers finally made contact with Hermione's cunt. It was so slick and soft she immediately lost herself between her folds, the pulp of her fingers eagerly rubbing the wet skin. Hermione was an incoherent mess, blubbering echoes of her pleasure for every neighbour to hear—the final restraints she had submitted her psyche too were broken; her body and mind released out into the wild, ready to accept whatever Bellatrix had in store for her. And it had precisely that effect on Bellatrix: it pushed her to the edge, gave her the final push for her to go through with her final designs.

She brutally shoved a finger deep in Hermione's cunt, prompting the young woman to moan so loudly Bellatrix knew for certain the old toad was now wide awake and listening at the door. As was probably Pansy, which she took a sick pleasure in knowing. "Do you like this?" She had added a second finger and maintained her thumb on the brunette's clit, pumping in and out of her in a steady rhythm. Her own breathing grew more ragged and rasp as she progressed—her body was raw from her violent power grab, eating up every loose screw tossed aside by Hermione's loss of control. "Answer me or I'll stop," she threatened in a groan, desperate for more—more power, more control, more submission.

"I-I love it. Fuck me, Bella, please." Hermione's hands were lost in Bellatrix's hair, tugging on her curls like she was holding on for dear life.

Bellatrix thought that nickname had never suited her as much as it did now, pouring out of the brunette's lips. It was like sucking on a cherry lollipop—lush and sweet and tangy and sticky. She wanted more—she always wanted more. Moans and whimpers and stuttered answers were no longer enough.

"Say it," she groaned, her fingers arching slightly inside the slippery walls of Hermione's cunt. She wasn't even sure what she wanted her to say—she simply wanted to feel words of lust dripping from the brunette's lips and onto her tense body.

"I w-want you, Bella. I want you to fuck me until I c-can't think straight." Intellectual. She should have guessed the girl was a bookworm.

It didn't matter—it was enough. It was everything she had hoped for and more—it was the final nail to the coffin of their dysfunctional dynamic. She could feel Hermione's body tensing considerably beneath her, her creamy neck elongating as she threw her head back, her legs growing wobbly and unstable.

"I'm coming," finally cried out Hermione before letting out a series of grunts so visceral and so animalistic it nearly sent Bellatrix over the edge as well. And this time, she knew the entire building had heard.