CARPE NOCTEM / SINE NOMINE / CH. 23
Hermione was sitting at the breakfast table, her sensitive loins tightened in between her crossed, bouncing legs. There was a fresh spill of Earl Grey right in front of her, missing her teacup and pleated skirt by mere inches; over the muddle, it was her trembling hand clutching the handle of a steaming, blue-glazed teapot, the undeniable culprit. Hermione took a sharp intake of breath before retreating and setting the pot back on the tray. She grabbed hold of her robe instead and shut her eyes, scrunching and squishing the thin fabric until the tension in her fingers became unbearable. She could hear a jovial noise of chatter, students chewing on the crunchy toasts and sipping their coffee while she sat among them, different and in a tizzy, unable to concentrate on anything but the sensation of Blair's saliva inside her mouth.
Étoiles Filantes.
The steamy images held Hermione petrified until the sky outside the lattice windows turned lilac grey. Only then did she dare untangle herself from the drenched sheets and slip into the prefect's bathroom without fear of getting herself in trouble. She ran a shower, turning the water as cold as she could bear and ridding herself of the sullied attire before she stepped in. For a few, both, excruciating and blessing moments her mind went completely blank; then the water ceased flowing and it was just her again, swaddled in a woolly towel torturously sliding over her famished, needy skin; and as she stood there covered in goosebumps and desperation, she thought of the lips tasting of bitter ice-cream and melting inside her mouth like salt crystals; she thought of a warm, balmy neck and arching collar bones; the supple hips inside her thighs...
It was enough to make her adductor muscles flex; it was enough to make her realize how helpless she was against the carnal frustration pulsing through her like the undercurrent of her heartbeat. But it wasn't enough to make her do things—and not because she lacked the knowledge of how to do those things. Hermione was well acquainted with human anatomy; she had read enough books to know how certain organs worked and what had to be done in order to achieve their muscular contractions. It's just that the concept of being so intimate with herself made her extremely uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the fault of London's Estate library. Hermione remembered being ten when she stumbled upon a detailed article in 'Catharsis', a psychological magazine she'd borrowed for a bit of personal research. A child squeezing literature aimed for individuals twice her age—perhaps that's why the old librarian gave her a baffled look. He gave her another one when Hermione returned the magazine the next morning with a stiff, shameful expression—that kind all children acquire upon finding their parents weren't really playing a sandwich game in the middle of the night as they had initially stated.
'Nymphomania as a mental illness' was the title of the article Hermione'd read—Jocelyn Fitzgerald was the name of the fifteen-year-old patient who tore her inner walls by putting a rusty knife sharpener inside herself and died of infection. The story didn't sit well with Hermione then and it didn't do now, six years later. It was as though Jocelyn had instilled this aversion into her mind which made such natural act look like something filthy and while Hermione knew it was anything but—knew there were ways to do it other than using old unsanitary objects—she couldn't help feeling afflicted at the idea of easing sexual frustration with her own hands.
She had never really put much thought into the idea of being intimate with someone else either. What would be the reason? She'd never had a boyfriend, never liked a boy—never liked anyone, for that matter. Hermione remembered all those times she'd hear the girls in her dorm, huddled on one of their beds, giggling and whispering while she lay in hers, wishing they would stop appraising Cedric Diggory's body and rather invested their time into something much more productive. Still, her eyes curiously darted their direction once or twice during those midnight rendezvous. There was a part of her that was a little envious of their flushed faces and puerile carelessness. Deep down she wondered why it was taking so long for her; she was the only girl who had nothing to say when it came down to romance. Hermione could easily recall the nights she'd spent worrying about her lagging maturity—or perhaps that she'd skipped it altogether and jumped straight to the mental age of seventy without really tasting the youth.
However, all the doubts and questions had cleared up after meeting Bellatrix, which triggered that initial wave of her epiphany; then there came the second of the revelation that her childhood sympathies toward her mother's best friend had always been so much more than that—even if she hadn't recognized them as such at that time. It was that first brick that laid the foundation, a silent, growing promise of something stronger to come.
And Hermione kept asking herself, how could she not have noticed before when 'tiny 'Mione', as Blair used to call her, longed for her nearness more than anything such a young girl could even long for. She still remembered how she wanted to sit on Blair's knees instead of her favourite taffy chair and snuggle in her arms the thready hem of her shirt with her tiny little fingers; play the game of blowing into each other's faces and as Blair's eyes squeezed shut, watch the tips of her lashes graze the peachy skin just below her brows—she'd scrunch her nose too and grit her teeth in a smile that always made that one faint line in the middle of her lower lip flatten. Hermione remembered looking at her and thinking she must be the most mesmerising creature there was; she remembered telling her so, too, but mispronouncing the word 'mesmerising' so bad it made Blair tilt her head back in laughter—and despite the fact Hermione hated being mistaken, this time she didn't mind one bit. She laughed too, then tore a couple of wild daisies from the grass beside her imprinted knees and, drawing closer, tucked them gently into Blair's lustrous hair, completely unaware that each stalk she touched planted a seed inside her too. That it would wait patiently and bloom with time, making a lush garden out of her body as soon as their paths met again.
Maybe those seeds were the reason why she preferred Blair over her own mother to kiss her goodnight anytime Blair spent those very few days at Grangers'. Hermione could still see her sitting on her amaryllis-printed bedsheets, next to her small arm which always managed to sneak up close and press against the warmth of her thigh. As a bedtime story, Blair would choose to read to her from the Little Women instead of Rapunzel which her mom left for them on her nightstand; Blair reasoned Jo would teach Hermione much more valuable lessons because unlike little miss Goldilocks, she didn't wait around for anyone to save her bum; she saved it herself. And Hermione would listen attentively and wish for something wicked to happen so that she too could chop off her hair and by selling it earn some money for her parents so that Blair would feel proud of her. She'd listen to her lips shape more and more words and would forbid herself to fall asleep before Blair had placed the book down and brought her mellow lips to her forehead—then she'd hear her apologise and feel her warm palm wiping the sticky lip balm kiss off—it never came off entirely though, Hermione could still smell mint and roses on her pillow the next morning.
It was all so painfully obvious that she thought her being surprised at how her feelings turned out was painfully stupid in itself; goodness, she'd do anything for her even as a child—she'd stop breathing if that's what Blair asked of her; and last night, she didn't even have to ask.
That glimpse—it almost killed her; all she could do was flex her stomach and hold her breath, pushing it back into her lungs as though she had no need for it; perhaps she truly didn't. Because there was a part of her that bubbled with euphoria, making her dizzy and likely to bite her chapped lips until they bled at the possibility of the dream being a bona fide reality—a possibility that somewhere out there Blair had let her kiss her and she'd let her get close and touch her in a way she would never let her otherwise.
But then there was this other side to the story which prompted her hands to punch her feverish face into passing. Because if that kiss truly was no dream, Hermione should feel ashamed rather than happy that she had the guts to inflict herself on Blair like an unhinged, wild savage—she was being invasive and rude, too preoccupied slaking her own desire to register whether Blair felt comfortable or not. God, she had begged her for that one kiss and despite the fact Blair didn't halt her touches, something was off, Hermione could see it crystal clear now. Those lips she'd covered with hers were still—she kissed them but they did not kiss back. They let her in but didn't really move—Blair hadn't initiated anything.
Putting one and one together, Hermione hoped for the whole thing to be just a figment of her imagination—the way her mind dealt with the longing she'd felt before she'd fallen asleep. Hermione would hate herself knowing she or some version of her was capable of disrespecting Blair in such an awful way. She was too dear to her to be treated as just a skin to be taken advantage of.
But what if she actually did force herself on Blair; what if it was a glimpse of some distant parallel universe? It could be—the basis of the dream was identical with reality: they'd been sitting in the exact same room that last night in Greece, in the exact same clothes and talking about pride, the only difference was that Blair hadn't touched her hand. That only happened in Hermione's dream. Taking the theory of multiverse into consideration—did it mean Blair had thought of conforming her like that? And if she did, was this what would have happened if she had acted on it?
Butterflies: Purple Emperors, Swallowtails, Marbled Whites; Hermione imagined it was them maneuvering through her ribs and bumping into the walls of her stomach just like birds into the glass, their wings flapping and tickling everything they touched.
She couldn't help wondering how far Blair would let things go with her; with her and—wow! No, no, no! No!
Somebody had just called her name but it did not matter.
Hermione pinched her flank as her hand gripped her robe even tighter. She skimmed the teacher's table; she'd checked it five times when she arrived into the Great Hall just to make sure Bellatrix Lestrange truly wasn't present. She didn't feel like facing her just yet. The woman too had made her appearance in her dream, acting rather amiable with Blair, while Hermione couldn't do anything but stare at them, arousal sliding onto her thighs. And she couldn't lie to herself, she liked what she'd seen very much; in fact, she—
"Hermione," a patient voice to her right repeated, making her snap out of her reverie. Her gaze fell over Luna Lovegood hypnotising her face with those big teal eyes of hers.
"What," Hermione peeped guiltily.
"Oh, nothing major." The girl shrugged, holding a spoonful of thick chocolate pudding in front of her mouth. "It's just that your elbow is in butter."
Hermione looked down. Cursing, she jerked her arm, noticing the melted grease painting her already black robe even darker. She heard a snort of laughter from behind her and turned, her eyes landing on a leather corset; she felt no need to look any higher. Her cheeks immediately flushed, partly because of her dream and partly because Bellatrix had just seen her with her elbow parked in a butter bowl-
"We need to talk," the witch opened her mouth without any greeting, a perfect way to send Hermione's heart galloping into her throat because the first thought that popped into her mind upon hearing the 'we need to talk' was that Bellatrix knew. Hermione quickly sobered up though, figuring that that would be practically impossible given she'd been keeping her mind closed since she left the bathroom—with such dreams, she'd be a fool not to. Bellatrix probably wanted to discuss the diary; nothing else… nothing except—and Hermione's heart galloped even faster—except for the dream.
"I'm afraid it would have to wait," she quaked, turning back to the table and taking out her wand; she cast a quiet 'Tergeo', which sucked the grease out of her sleeve. "I've got Herbology in five minutes."
There was a group of passing students who each said their polite hellos but Bellatrix ignored every single one of them. "I've talked to your professor," she stated. "You may bunk."
Hermione's stomach clenched. She seriously doubted Bellatrix had bothered asking professor Sprout to let her skip, not to mention taking the time to find out about her timetable to learn who to approach in the first place. "Er… I don't know about that," she began avoidably. "I think I'd rather—"
"But I'm not asking you, butterfly, so move it before I make you," Bellatrix interrupted and despite her warning sat down right beside Hermione, facing the aisle between the Ravenclaw's and Slytherin's tables. Hermione automatically moved a couple of inches closer to the placid Luna, feeling as though it was a troop of monkeys that started jumping inside her belly. The proximity! That damned proximity and—wait, did she just say she'd make her go? What did she plan on doing? Dragging her outside?
Hermione swallowed hard, trying to focus. "You—people are watching, you—" Unable to talk with her so close, she passed Luna a helpless glance but the girl's face stayed deadpan.
"I think you've got a pretty good idea how much I enjoy using nonverbal spells," Bellatrix stated casually and Hermione's eyes pierced the still present puddle of the tea next to her empty cup. "Impervius is my favourite; so if you fancy kissing… let's see... ah, Longbottom boy right over there on our way out, then by all means."
Hermione got the point immediately. She wasted no more time questioning whether Bellatrix would or wouldn't use the unforgivable curse with all the teachers around, or use one at all for that matter; firstly because the risk was too high and secondly, Bellatrix here was most certainly insane; better not test her. "All right, all right, I'll go."
Bellatrix chuckled. "On second thought… might be actually entertaining to watch."
"Please, don't! I said I'd go!" Hermione held out her hands and shot the still silent Luna a dirty thanks-for-the-help look. She'd never liked the girl and her current lack of solidarity toward Hermione's situation only emphasised the feeling.
With a swooshing sound, a whirlpool of owls streamed into the Great Hall, one of them a pretty barn owl landing in front of the anxious Hermione. She rushed to untie the letter marked with her mom's handwriting while the bird pecked the stray toast laid between the bowls of porridge and scrambled eggs. She'd finally loosened the ties and shoved the letter into her pocket. Bellatrix stood up from the bench. Hermione got to her feet a couple of seconds later, still trying to come up with an excuse so as to avoid the conversation but failed. She followed the dark mane of curls out of the Great Hall, disregarding the curious looks of the students as they passed them by. Her eyes landed on Lee Jordan at the Gryffindor table, who was just licking his palm only to smash it into the bowl of cereals the next thing and, accompanied by a loud roar of encouragement, tried to eat as much of those stuck to his hand as he could before they fell off. Frowning, Hermione looked away; she needed to concentrate—only a moment divided Bellatrix from asking her to show her the dream and the young girl was drawing a blank as to how to save her skin. Perhaps if she had utilised the time better and hadn't spent the night etching the dream into her memory, she'd have had a good chance to whisk a decent plan.
'Irresponsible!'
Hermione anxiously scurried behind the witch, her heart beating wildly. She prayed they wouldn't go far in case she would need to make a run for it; Thank Merlin, they didn't—Bellatrix chose the exact same classroom in which Hermione chatted with Draco yesterday; a couple of doors away from the Great Hall and just one door away from Professor McGonagall's office. Upon entering, Hermione briefly scanned the room; the daylight revealed how crumpled it actually was: there was everything from oil paintings leaning against the scrappy wallpaper and refracting telescopes to the centaur statues and taxidermied animals, which she immediately looked away from. Her gaze fell on Bellatrix instead, who stood just a few feet away from her and Hermione for the first time today got a full view of her face. The witch looked dreadful. Her eyes; scleras, eyelids, the skin underneath them; it was all red, her complexion almost transparent, showing off the faint blue veins snaking along her jaw.
Hermione blinked a couple of times, reflecting whether she'd ever actually seen Bellatrix in broad daylight. She didn't think she had. And while the witch might have had that constant worn-out look about her, it had never stuck out as much in the dark as it did in the light.
Concern flooded Hermione's chest.
"So? Any news in Potter's universe?" Bellatrix started and, leaning against one of the colossal paintings, folded her arms.
"Not really… no," Hermione replied, tearing her eyes from the reddened skin, and instead focused her energy on whipping some sort of an explanation. For the first time in her life she wished to have the imagination of someone like Luna Lovegood; that way she'd come up with five different ideas every two seconds... Wait; Luna—like for the moon…
"I didn't sleep well, I had a lot to think about after our conversation," Hermione presented carefully. "Besides it was a full moon, perhaps that's part of the reason why the dream didn't come." She shrugged. The statement sounded stupid even unspoken but she went with it regardless—at least it was something.
"It wasn't a full moon, sweetheart, surely you must know that," Bellatrix winked and Hermione had to look away. "Even if it was, it has nothing to do with those glimpses. I've gotten through the moon phases, constellations, and planet motions trying to figure out why on specific days there were no dreams; from what I've gathered, the full moon doesn't have any impact on them."
Hermione's face faltered; she too had done the exact same thing and came to the same conclusion but in her case, it took whole weeks. She also knew she should be interested in whether Bellatrix had worked something out or not, but strangely found herself concerned with something completely different. "You did all that in one night," she asked with an uneasy twinge. "Did you get any sleep at all?"
Bellatrix raised her eyebrows, which managed to put more heat into Hermione's cheeks—she shouldn't have asked anything.
"What did you dream about," Bellatrix inquired again, thankfully ignoring the question. "And no lying!"
"I told you the truth," Hermione objected, trying to shake off the senseless worries—it was her life on the line after all; the only argument she had up her sleeve had just blown up in her face.
"So you had no dreams whatsoever, is that what you're saying?"
Hermione's hands started perspiring. "I did have one," she confessed slowly. "But it was just a regular dream. It wasn't connected to those I've been writing down in the diary."
"How come you know it wasn't?" Bellatrix voice sounded low and interrogating.
"Because it felt different," Hermione stated truthfully—the dream did feel different and had nothing to do with the world of the other Hermione who had no idea somebody like Blair Alderidge even existed—Blair and Bellatrix both.
"It felt different…" The witch made a short humming sound, feigning hesitation. "I don't know, we should perform Occlumency—you know, just in case." Lowering her eyelids, she bore her gaze into Hermione. "I can tell the difference by the frequency—"
"No!" Hermione felt her whole body tensing. "Why can't you just believe me?! It's enough I had to share the venor floccus dreams, why can't these few I have aside from those stay mine and mine only?!" she finished with a hint of hysteria and immediately understood: snapping like that was a fatal mistake. Hermione risked looking at the woman: her head was tilted, face gleaming with a curious smile.
"Why so defensive? Is there something you don't want me to see?"
Hermione folded her arms, feeling as though her ears were about to emit hot clouds of steam; she dropped her gaze to the ground. "Yes—I mean no! I—I just prefer to keep some things to myself."
"Some things? Did you have a sweet dream about Weasley?" Bellatrix teased and Hermione parted her lips, confusion and indignance mixing as one. She blushed even harder. "Oh, you did!" Bellatrix was laughing now, most likely thinking she'd hit the nail on the head.
A heavy sigh escaped Hermione's lips. She would rather eat a dozen snails than admit to such a lie but knew her options. She should be grateful actually... Hermione reasoned it would be much better to leave Bellatrix thinking she'd dreamt of Ronald than of a three-way kiss Bellatrix was very much part of, herself. Yeah… she'd better remain silent and try for that hopeless busted look.
A weird sound, something between gagging and snorting left Bellatrix's throat as her laughter died. "Well, since I don't trust myself to be capable of enduring something so repulsive, I should just take your word for it, shouldn't I?"
Hermione's breath hitched: could Bellatrix eat that up? Just like that? She regarded the woman with a quick look and immediately let her gaze fall back to the wooden floor. A tremendous wave of relief washed over her upon seeing Bellatrix's scrunched but convinced face—she did, dear God! Quick, as to not risk the woman changing her mind, Hermione slowly took a few steps back. "Right… so if that's all…" she began, trying to reach the door. "I should probably get to the Herbology class now."
"Not so fast, Muddypie." Hermione's eyes jolted up. Bellatrix was smirking again, her left hand pulling at a loose curl of her hair. "I've got a surprise for you!"
The young witch could feel her stomach tightening—she fancied no surprises, especially not those coming from Bellatrix.
"You see, that diary of yours was quite helpful; I thought I should repay you," the woman purred sweetly and, pushing her back away from the golden frame of the painting, rubbed her hands together. Hermione let a part of her mind wonder at how graceful the movement looked, how Bellatrix's slim fingers curled and slipped over—focus!
Pursing her lips, she shook her head. "That's all right, I'm glad I could be of help."
"Don't be so modest, deary," Bellatrix tsked, shamelessly enjoying the unease she was inflicting on the girl. "You deserve a reward!"
Hermione caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A tall man of an unguessable age emerged from behind a heavy-looking renaissance painting on her left, slowly walking forward. He was poised and clad in a simple black robe, covering him from neck to toe. His ivory face had an excessively gaunt glaze but the skin seemed smooth and healthy without any traces of time. A fleeting look would suggest there wasn't anything unusual to him; a closer one, though, would draw the attention toward his eyes. They were empty, as though blind; the dark pupils were missing, leaving just empty rings in the middle, almost as fair as the thick slate hair meandering down his arms like boas.
Startled, Hermione backed away, her eyes jumping from Bellatrix to the man. A sharp gasp drew out of her throat as her shoulder blades collided with a harsh pointy something behind her back.
"Surprise," Bellatrix sang and stepping closer, gave Hermione a sweet but all the more disturbing smile.
"What's going on," Hermione asked, her right hand reaching inside her robe, fingers brushing against the letter from her mom before they closed over her wand. The man bore his terrifying eyes into hers and she instantly obtained this odd feeling that he could see, that he knew about the tiniest little thought occupying her mind; it made her spine break out into goosebumps.
"She cannot project," he averted his eyes and declared in a clear, tranquil voice, which strangely seemed to ease up the paralysing fear inside her. Project? Project what?! Her fingers loosened the grip on her wand.
"What do you mean she can't?" Bellatrix took a few quick steps toward him, her cheerful mood suddenly gone. The man did not repeat himself.
"Why not? What's wrong with her," she demanded.
Hermione's eyes were shifting between the pair like a metronome, from Bellatrix to him, then back to Bellatrix. What were they talking about?
"She's not in a relaxed state of mind," he explained finally. "It could be dangerous."
Dangerous?!
"Excuse me," Hermione interfered, beginning to feel aggravated at being the subject of the conversation without actually participating; besides, she had a right to know what was going on; especially if she was required to do something risky. "I—"
"Oh please," Bellatrix cut her off. "Just let her try!"
"The girl is sexually aroused; She might end up in places which are not necessarily safe," he said placidly as though talking about his breakfast.
Hermione froze with her hand half-way out of her pocket. Her eyes widened and her face became so hot she thought her skin would melt easier than the wax under the burning knot of a candle. She could not believe her own ears! The man—did he just say she was sexually aroused?! And in front of Bellatrix?! If given a gun, at that moment Hermione would most likely shoot herself—or better—she could shoot him… How the hell could he know anyway?! She opened her mouth, wanting to defend herself but the words couldn't find their way out of her mouth.
"Aroused," the surprised voice repeated.
"Yes, the aura's very vibrant… it wouldn't be wise to do it now."
"No, no, no," Bellatrix pressed. "It can't be that much of a problem, you can take care of that somehow, can't you?"
Hermione glanced up in alarm and flinched because the fair man was suddenly right in her face. He placed his bony hands over her cheeks and she instinctively locked her eyes with his eerie ones, losing herself completely; she felt a warmth, so much warmth and serenity that the worries and embarrassment blew out of her body as though by the wind.
Then his hands retreated. "You need to leave," he spoke and the dizzy Hermione furrowed her brows.
"Wha—where do you want me to go," she asked wearily.
"No, not you."
"Excuse me?!" Bellatrix's angry voice roared from behind the man.
"You're making her nervous," he announced and Hermione immediately recovered from her dizziness, blushing even harder than before. Please say no more, please, please, please just don't tell her anything!
"I'm not making her nervous," Bellatrix snorted as though it was the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. Her gaze jumped from the man to Hermione's burning face. "I'm not making you nervous, am I Muddy?"
Hermione let out a nervous chuckle. "No, of course not."
"She is lying," the man proclaimed placidly. "If you want her to project, you must leave. She won't be able to relax in your presence."
What the hell was wrong with this man?!
"I'm not going anywhere!" Bellatrix objected defiantly and Hermione would bet that if she regarded the witch with a look, she'd see her pout.
"Then I'm afraid I cannot do anything."
There was a moment of silence. Then, swearing under her breath, Bellatrix strolled out of the room, slamming the door behind her so hard the force knocked a small paraffin lamp off the coffee table right next to the entrance.
Neither Hermione nor the man moved or did anything to clean up the tiny pieces of glass that shattered across the floor.
Mortified but still oddly relieved, Hermione only gripped her upper arm and sunk her fingernails into the skin covered by the thin sleeves. She couldn't stop her mind from rumbling. He knew. He bloody knew. He must have seen the dream inside her mind—but in that case she should thank heavens he hadn't told Bellatrix explicitly. Dream or not, Hermione supposed she would not approve...
"It was a dream—nothing else." The man startled her and, sauntering into the middle of the room, conjured a long wooden board out of thin air. "It wasn't an insight into one of the parallel universes. Your mind made that up."
Hermione's eyes bulged. How come he heard and went through her mental barrier? How come he talked about parallel universes and projection? She watched the lauan coloured wood float above his outstretched arms before it slowly landed on the floor below. She was speechless, oh and surely a bit disappointed while so, so embarrassed—she'd never felt more embarrassed in her entire life…. outed against her will like that. He must have thought she was a harlot! Dreaming such dreams and—
"It's not my place to judge," he reacted to yet another of the unspoken, kneeling down and beckoning her with his left hand. Hermione felt a hot flash wash over her face. Her feet moved, carrying her reluctantly forward.
"I'm here to teach you how to astral project," he spoke, his long grey hair spilling over his shoulder as he inclined over the board. "I've seen your mind and I know you're capable of doing so unconsciously while you sleep. Now you're to learn how to do it in a meditative state but instead of being unaware of yourself..." his hands ran over the wooden surface. "...you'll stay wide awake, observing the other world with an open mind—lucidly."
Hermione listened with her lips parted. She didn't even realise that she'd sat down onto the cold floor beside him. Teach her? This in front of her must be a venor floccus, then—a real venor floccus. But how did Bellatrix manage to get him here? From what Hermione knew, they never interfered with the outside world.
"Lie down onto the board."
"I..." Hermione started and, turning her face toward him, cleared her throat. "Could we talk a bit first? I mean, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions."
"Lie down onto the board," he repeated calmly.
"And then we'll talk?" Hermione waited for an answer but the man stayed quiet. "You didn't say what your name was," she tried again.
"I don't have a name. None of us does." He turned to her and she instantly retreated under the pressure of his gaze.
A venor floccus indeed.
"Excuse me, I don't mean to come across as rude but I don't really understand the reaso
n behind all this," Hermione blinked, trying to focus on the spot in between his brows instead so as to at least appear she was looking into his eyes. "I know you said I'm here to learn how to astral project but why is it necessary? I mean, did Madame Lestrange say anything?"
"She's said a lot of things of which she doesn't wish to share anything with you," he stated and despite the biting meaning of the words he managed to present them kindly.
Hermione bit her lip. "All right, I understand." She nodded more out of politeness than honesty, thinking it was unbelievably unfair of Bellatrix to keep her in the dark like that. "But what am I supposed to do while astral projecting?" Once again she was met with silence. "Could you at least tell me if learning it is supposed to provide me with some kind of control over the dreams? I mean, if I learn it—which is, I'm afraid, close to impossible, since I've never done it consciously and the Great book of Transmutation mentions it cannot be done without everyday training sessions for at least four decades… which actually brings me to another question—how—"
"Your mind is too noisy," he cut her off and motioned toward the board, letting her know for the third time he wanted her to lie down onto it.
What was she to do?
"Can I ask one more question," she gulped as she crawled onto the surprisingly warm and comfortable wood, slowly lying her back flat against its surface; it made her feel as though she was floating on water.
"You want to ask more than one." He leaned over her. "I've seen all the questions poisoning your mind; to many of those, you already know the answer. You just need to dig deeper."
Hermione furrowed her brows, stirring as his face came far too close to hers. "Be still," he warned and she squeezed her eyes shut. Surprisingly smooth hair, smelling of sage and winter air, fell over her skin. "As for astral projection, you know enough to get you by; you also know I cannot choose the place where you're going to go: it's the vibration of your thoughts— your energy, that is the driving force," he merely whispered as his finger touched her jugular notch and gingerly pressed down. Hermione resisted the urge to push his hand away. "That's why it's imperative to do this with a clear mind." His finger slid higher along her neck and chin, over her lips and bridge of her nose until it stopped right in between her eyebrows. Then he pressed down again. "You have to let go of all the distracting thoughts and feelings." Breath brushed against her pursed lips and Hermione heard him suck in the air. Her eyes snapped open in shock as she felt the oxygen being forcefully drawn from her lungs, too. The man's face was dangerously close, his eyes, those terrifying eyes, digging into hers. She couldn't breathe, the panic spiraling through her like a maelstrom. What was he doing?! Her lips parted and her back arched as she tried to inhale but it seemed impossible. Body writhing, she grasped onto the man's arms. Her throat released a sharp choking sound but it only rebounded off of the man's lips. There was a pressure travelling through her entire body, so strong it made her head spin. Her widened eyes couldn't blink, only plead helplessly but all to no avail.
She thought she was dying.
But the pressure suddenly disappeared and Hermione bounced off the wooden board before bolting straight upright and inhaling the air in long deep breaths. Her shoulders were heaving back and forth as though pushed by two forces of wind from each side but her previously tensed muscles seemed to have relaxed now and she could feel a strong rush of warmth flowing into her chest.
"Your breathing was too fast," she heard. "It didn't give you any time to exhale fully and the excessive air kept piling inside your lungs, taking too much space. You needed to get rid of it in order to calm down. You'd never relax quickly enough if I hadn't done it."
"A warning would have been nice," Hermione choked out of her and, coughing, lay back down onto the softness of the board, feeling profusely lightheaded. Her eyes started closing.
"How do you feel," the peaceful voice whispered somewhere above her.
"Tired…"
"Good… try to stay calm."
Hermione gulped, blinking a couple of more times before everything went pitch black.
"Wherever you go, you're safe—as safe as you can be, remember that," the voice echoed through her mind, so calm and soothing it lulled her into sweet tranquility. "Now… I'd like you to imagine this room… in as much detail as you can… the flooring, the objects all around you… imagine yourself standing up and touching things..."
Hermione concentrated on visualising herself getting to her feet: her knees bending and elbows propping her so she could push herself up. She felt herself walking toward that small piece of a blank wall above the broken glass at the entrance, her fingers reaching out and feeling the harsh texture of the stone. She could see all the old lamps and statues, all the colours of the paintings and the patina on their frames as she passed them on her way to the oriel windows. Her hand pushed onto the glass. It opened easily, letting in the cold winter air which stirred through her hair before moving past her.
"... try to visualise your astral body," the mellow voice suggested. "Imagine everything you possibly can. Your limbs, fingers, and toes. The way your arms and legs move. Imagine yourself lying within the physical shell…"
And Hermione did. She felt it; she felt it so that the sense of her physical body almost disappeared. There came the waves of tremendous heat and buzzing, every inch of her tingled as if covered by moving ants. The loud white noise filled up her ears.
"Imagine yourself moving…"
There was a heavy pressure in her eyes, head, torso, and her knees—she felt as though her skin was breaking apart, except there was no pain whatsoever. And then she descended; through the darkness and light, she could not fully perceive due to their speed and capricious motion—both trying to lure her in, battling in a full swing. She was falling faster and faster until something very close to elastic by structure pressed against her and pulled her through.
And just like that, Hermione found herself surrounded by deep darkness—not a terrifying kind, nor horrible; it felt strangely placid, a sort of a familiar place, letting even her eyes see, as though it was a clear day. Hermione observed her form: it appeared exactly like her physical one, dressed in her school robe of a black skirt and a starched shirt, except there was a sangria tint radiating about ten inches above it—the aura. Hermione tried to keep her excitement about seeing the colour at bay because she knew strong emotions could shove her right back into her body. She moved her hands, bringing them together, and found she could feel the touch.
Now, that was highly unusual. The astral body was not supposed to feel solid, for it was based on pure energy. Maybe she didn't do it right? Hermione felt uneasy. What if she'd fallen asleep and this was just a dream? No… the man told her to always go with her guts—this was real; she felt it was.
A sudden noise filled up the room and Hermione cast around, finding she wasn't in the dark anymore.
What the…?
From all the ethereal places of rainbows and galaxies she'd have imagined the astral world could offer, Hermione would have never guessed she'd anchor in one that would resemble a positively earthly trippy bar. The neon lights of colours she'd never even dreamt of existing shone brightly over the motion of shadow figures that started to materialise and surrounded her like an expanding wall. Hermione had to remind herself to stay calm; she couldn't afford to lose her head. Giving them a closer look, she tried to figure them out to shake off the growing fear of the unknown. They appeared as man-like shapes of ash smoke, intertwined with one another just like lovers. The psychedelic music was blasting loudly and they were moving in torrid sync—Hermione herself felt an abrupt urge to join them. The sound wasn't just around her but permeated into the very core of her being, vibrating and drumming like a ghost of an absent heartbeat inside her chest. It felt strangely alluring.
Taking a few steps forward, Hermione felt the atmosphere thicken and fill her nose with the scent of fruity gummy bears and sweet booze. Booze—in the astral realm, not to mention the sense of smell itself—unthinkable! Hermione glanced at the nearest shadows, seeing their blank faces transforming right in front of her eyes. It was profoundly unsettling but she managed to keep her shock under control. She didn't want to wake up without seeing as much as she could—who knew when she'd have another, if any, chance to experience it again. She skimmed through the peculiar faces, their eyes yellow and soulless. A few of their owners pulled away from each other, watching her and as she walked by, their heads tilting and twisting on their airy necks as if they were made of rubber. Hermione could see those who hadn't spotted her just yet making out heavily: in pairs, groups, altogether, moving from one to another and blending into each other better than mixed up paint. Normally, Hermione would look away but there just wasn't any shame to hold onto.
She felt a touch on her forearm and, puzzled, turned around. Behind her stood a creature of towering height and amethyst irises covering at least one third of their chiseled face; etched across their brow ridge gleamed a variety of geometric marks of which Hermione recognized just the two: the Metatron's cube and the flower of life; both very powerful sacred symbols. Their naked body appeared indigo blue and plasmic and it was proportioned peculiarly: the waist, too thin compared to any human's, was belted with metallic scales of diverse shapes and Hermione couldn't even put her finger on their gender for it lacked both masculine and feminine attributes. (She didn't feel one bit embarrassed as she ran her eyes over the skin, flat at the chest, flat at the groin too.)
The oddity did not scare her; those six years at Hogwarts had made her immune to getting frightened at certain types of appearance; she'd surely seen stranger—besides, there really was nothing to worry about. None of those beings could cause her any harm unless she'd let them. Still, her intuition urged her to stay alert, for there might be something dusky going on. Their energy didn't feel true and Hermione had a strange feeling they were only trying to lead her up the garden path with all that amour fou—why, she had no idea. And while she knew dishonesty wasn't a good sign even in astral realms, her feet didn't move an inch. It was that damned curiosity of hers that kept her rooted to the spot—after all, it might be just a once-in-a-lifetime chance; wasting the opportunity to learn about different entities first-handed wasn't an option she was willing to go with.
Hermione locked their eyes. "Who are you," she asked and despite the loud music could hear herself perfectly clear.
'A friend.' The soundless voice resonated through her mind after moments of intense eye contact which only deepened the feeling of wary inside her and suggested that the being might be lying but she still chose to ignore it.
A hand slipped into hers and as Hermione glanced down, she could see her own radiating much brighter aura than the blue one. High on confidence that nothing could happen, for her energy was more vibrant—more powerful; that in case of need she'd be able to defend herself easily, she let herself be pulled away.
They were walking through the crowd of shadows which seemed to be fading with their each passing step. Then everything darkened and Hermione found herself all alone in the midst of a pure void.
A bad feeling settled inside her. She looked to her right, then left. Nothing. She took a hesitant step forward but retreating glanced behind her.
In a flash, there grew a magnificent room around her, dimly lit and familiar, smelling of gardenia flowers and white tuberose. If Hermione had any breath in her, it would definitely hitch. Because she recognized the sleigh bed, she recognized the French vanity, and turning around, she definitely recognized the soft satin drapes flowing in the wind in front of the half-opened balcony door. And there, behind them—
The excitement arose in her like a plunging wave. Hermione tried to tame it instantly for she knew even the slightest stir could wake her up and that was something she mustn't let happen; not now when she needed to see—because behind the door, she could definitely see a silhouette. Hermione advanced forward, every step she'd taken feeling like a risk to the unceasing thrill that infused her being at the hope that—her hand reached and slowly pulled the drapes apart.
It was her.
Attired in a jet black dress, she was leaning against the white steal of the door and holding a cigarette of which the lace smoke curled up in splendid whorls; there was an enigmatic smile upon her lips as she slowly turned her face to Hermione. The salty breeze was blowing kindly through the locks of her golden hair, bringing their sweet scent right toward the emotional girl who wanted nothing more than to cry stupidly as the outpouring of love flooded her entire being. A part of her knew; the rational part knew this wasn't her Blair, yet she still couldn't help coming up to her, and reaching her hands tenderly to caress the blush-covered cheeks with her fingertips first, before allowing her palms to touch the burning skin fully.
Could it be…?
Hermione let her eyes hunt for all the little things: the line in the middle of her doused auburn lips; and those seven beauty marks on her lovely face—two beside her nose, one below the outer corner of her right eye; one on her bronzed cheekbone and one on her jaw; another above her upper lip and the last one no bigger than a pencil dot on the left side of the tip of her nose; not one was missing.
She glanced into the sapphire eyes, oddly depleted of their signature vibrancy and childlike spark and almost fell to her knees in madness. Those depths—they were looking at her so heatedly, there wouldn't be an atom found in her body that wouldn't have stirred upon recognising the frenzied lust radiating off the woman like the wildest of flames. At that point, she was certain the sight alone could pull her back into her body any second now even though she desperately wanted to stay here with this creature who logically couldn't be Blair but looked every bit like her and that was somehow enough even if Hermione was to just stare at her. She wanted to engrave the blessed moment into her memory for this was probably the first and the last time she'd ever see Blair looking at her as though she was the missing breath inside her lungs.
Backing away, her hands left the beloved face, knowing she needed to swallow the emotions down; but the more she tried, the more they flourished inside her. And so desperate she waited as if sitting on an electric chair, anticipating the end which somehow wasn't coming…
'You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to,'
It was Blair's deep modulated voice inside her head; she pulled herself off the door and cast a seductive smile before lifting that delicate jaw of hers and keeping her eyes on Hermione who could go just crazy, took a drag of her cigarette. The girl watched her cheeks hollow as the little flame consumed a bit of the tobacco rod.
She was mesmeric.
Keeping the smoke inside her mouth, Blair sashayed forward and paused just as she was mere inches away from the overwhelmed Hermione. Slowly, very slowly she leaned in and, pursing her lips, blew the hot fume into her defenseless mouth, a few fluffs of an exotic coconut scent straying into her nose.
Hermione inhaled erratically, eyes closing.
There was breath in her body now, and there was a pained heartbeat inside her chest. Could it be that she… did she wake up? Please, no! Not yet!
Snapping her eyes open, she let out a helpless moan that cut through her belly like a knife.
Because there in front of her still stood Blair, biting hard on that juicy lower lip of hers, her teeth glistening in the pale moonlight; and as she tilted her head and shifted forward, Hermione's newly acquired senses lost it completely. The luxurious room span and her stomach dropped as though she was falling into a bottomless pit without any chance to survive. She felt a firm, lingering kiss just below her left cheekbone, the heat of it spreading across her skin and making her exhale hungrily against Blair's hair. Hermione ached to kiss her too, to take her face into her hands and taste every inch of it but as she moved, Blair retreated; she locked their eyes in a silent promise before turning and sauntering into the room, having Hermione follow as though an ocean after the Moon.
Maybe she shouldn't have.
A single voluptuous look over the slender shoulder and the last traces of logic and sobriety left her mind because there was nothing that would matter anymore except those deep glowing eyes.
Inside the room Blair paused beside the soft brocade armchair, grazing its backrest with her manicured nails while waiting for Hermione to come to her; and she was smiling like only angels did when the barely breathing girl stopped a step away, unable to keep a further distance. She took a strand of the frizzy hair in between her fingers and slid them along its length before tucking it behind Hermione's ear. The young girl let the faintest gasp escape her lips as the painful warmth spread through her lower belly; her hands bolted up and trapped the graceful palm within hers. She brought it to her face and, closing her eyes, nuzzled the smooth skin with her cheek before kissing it once, twice—again and again, hastily running her lips along, trying to pour all the love she felt for her through.
Without freeing herself from the grip, Blair reclined down onto the white brocade behind her back and Hermione let her teary eyes slid over her body. She could see Blair's thighs opening and trace the dark fabric over them with her free hand. She knew instantly that the woman was offering that timeworn privilege of her arms; that privilege Hermione used anytime when given a chance as a small girl.
She let the hand slip from hers, waves of a hot flash washing over her body. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't dreamt of similar scenarios at least five times a day ever since knowing—but now, when it was happening, the certainty didn't come as naturally as she had imagined. There was no confidence in her body, no clear focus. She'd dreamt of the way her hands would move across the olive skin but they became heavy and stiff as stones, afraid of making a wrong move. What was she to do?
She took an unsure step forward and trembling all over settled in between Blair's legs, gingerly placing her knee pits over the woman's thigh. Her side pressed against the soft breasts and there was nothing she could do about the sudden raspiness of the breath leaving her throat in such short audible gasps it must have sounded as though she was running to the other side of the world and back. Was she being too bold? A gentle hand reassured her she was anything but by making her left temple rest against the heated neck. The scent, the warmth of her skin—it was a bliss bordering with insanity. Hermione's eyes closed, her insides suddenly burning.
"Just like when you were little," Blair whispered above her. "My little girl…"
Hermione shivered. The way Blair had presented that innocent childhood memory with a voice, heavy with lust—though of course, perhaps she was mistaken; but if she—if she discerned it correctly… it would be deeply unsettling; she was only a child then; the suggestion—that deeper meaning was just wrong on so many levels. Though what felt much more distressing was that something about that perverse idea made Hermione's loins respond in a totally unexpected way. She didn't understand it: how could she feel aroused by something so sinister? Hermione had never felt as sickened with herself as she did now. What was it with her? This wasn't right, this wasn't right!
"Shhh…" Blair's hand slipped over the heaving ribs, her arm almost touching the small breasts as she tried to keep the shifting girl tightly against her. Hermione froze immediately. The first rush of wetness slid down the throbbing folds and she couldn't help another pained whimper, softer but more desperate this time. She could feel Blair's nails brush her hair aside and, moving to her neck, briefly slide across the goosebump-covered skin, down the tensing arms toward her wrists. Unbuttoning the sleeve of the white shirt, she gently pushed the fabric up and ran her nails along the sensitive skin of Hermione's forearm.
The breath, thick and moist fell against Blair's neck, the audible plea—she was being destroyed; physically, mentally, emotionally.
"My beautiful girl," Blair murmured and the barely alive, barely anything, Hermione pulled away ever so little just so she could look at the gold-dusted face to find whether she wasn't mistaken, whether she wasn't misreading the signs. And it took just a single glance into the large lustrous eyes for the frustration inside her to turn unbearable. Because in those depths she had found no motherly love, no endless empathy—she hadn't found anything besides the dark desire and corruption.
This wasn't reliving the childhood memories and there was no more innocent affection.
Hermione stirred in between the unmoving legs. Would she…?
"Ask me," Blair's husky voice brushed up against her cheek, answering the unspoken. "Tell me you want it and I'll—"
"I do," Hermione interrupted hastily, her stomach twisting in excruciating lunacy. "I do; I've never wanted anything—anyone as much as I..." she faltered, unable to tear her ardent eyes from Blair's—didn't she know she was the sun, the moon and everything in between to her? She wanted to surge forward and take the entirety of her body and soul but she… she could not; not before she knew she wasn't alone in her misery.
She asked her just so, blushing, her voice childish and breaking. She was breathing heavier and heavier at the mercy of the intense, unreadable gaze, gravely afraid of the two simple letters. What if she rejected her? Again. How would Hermione ever survive that?
Blair didn't answer; she kissed her, surrounding, hot and open all over her lips like a liquid flame, destroying every little doubt inside her head. She was soft; so soft as though she was made of almond blossoms and Hermione groaned into that sweet mouth, tasting so much heat and saliva she could not think straight anymore. It felt like breathing fire; her chest, her stomach, lower belly; everything burnt and she had to grasp onto the slender shoulders for support. The arousal was sliding down her thighs like thick honey and there was no way it wouldn't get onto Blair's legs. But Hermione forgot to care. She opened her mouth wider and tilting her head, slipped her cupid's bow into the corner of Blair's lips before surging up and savagely going after the pouty upper one. Ravenous and clumsy, she didn't exactly know what to do and her cheeks kept getting hotter and hotter with each unsuccessful try to seize her delicious mouth properly. She touched Blair's face and braided her fingers into her smooth thick hair, keeping her as close as she could, feeling she was slipping away from her.
And she did; Blair pulled away and, locking her eyes with Hermione's desperate apologetic ones, giggled.
She didn't like it, rang in Hermione's mind, she wouldn't have drawn back if she did. But Hermione was doing what she could… Her hands fell into her lap.
"Slower," Blair whispered and to Hermione's delight leaned back in, giving her another chance; her parted lips came in between Hermione's and the girl placed a tentative, quivering kiss onto the dewy flesh. She kissed her lower lip next, then both at the same time, gently, kindly as though Blair was a fragile violet. Hermione wanted to drown her in the tenderness the parts of which she'd buried, forlorn and needless in the corners of her lovesick ribs and arid lungs. She ached to show her how much love she'd awoken; that she was the reason of the blossoming field inside her and how all those lush flowers belonged to no one but her.
"Open your mouth," the woman breathed against her, making the hair on Hermione's arms stand on their ends. She did as she was told; opened her lips without breaking apart, letting them glide over Blair's. Then the world spun uncontrollably as her loins began pulsing with frenzied spasms. An agonizing moan drew out of her throat because a soft, delicate tongue had slipped into her mouth. It slid across her own for the first time, then the second and third, grievously slowly as though testing how much Hermione could bear; and what thin line Blair was treading, for Hermione was already halfway into purgatory through the heavenly fires of hell. Because now she could taste her everywhere; the sweetness came upon her tongue, her teeth, her lips, and chin; all covered by hot saliva.
It was agony.
A hand tugged onto her hair, tilting her head to deepen the intimate touch. (Menacing, menacing woman.) And Hermione couldn't keep the moans under control any longer as Blair's teeth grazed her jaw and nipped, the swollen lips teasing hers the next thing. And as they brushed fleetingly, the unhinged groans were falling into Blair's mouth with every desperate breath Hermione managed to take and release. Hands reaching to the swan-like neck, she leaned in closer but the woman pulled away. Breathing hard, she blinked. Blair's eyes were half-closed, tongue running across her own glistening lips.
Hermione's heart ached at the sight.
She had never thought of having sex before. But now… it was the only thought inside her desperate starved mind.
"Come," Blair whispered as though she'd heard, pushing her off her knees and, standing up herself started walking toward the large bed opposite them.
Knees shaking, Hermione followed closely behind. She was so broken she could no longer think clearly. Her hands touched the small waist and, halting the woman's steps, came in front of her. A sloppy kiss landed on the puffed up lips, asking for more, but Blair placed her hands over the rounded balls of the girl's shoulders, forcing their lips apart and pushing her onto the bed; and as Hermione hit the velvet sheets, Blair climbed right next to her, leaning over. She glanced at the feverish girl with an odd so unBlair-like look before caressing her cheek with her index finger. Something wasn't right… The first drops of tears poured out of Hermione's eyes, but there was more—she was giving out something more.
She was weakening.
There was a tiny spark of clarity inside her mind. What was she doing?! This wasn't Blair! This wasn't her! She had to stop this immediately!
But the pliant mouth pressed against hers again, firmer than before, blending and sliding so smoothly, so passionately that Hermione lost the touch with herself altogether. The next thing she knew, Blair's face was against her neck, the silky hair caressing her skin before the teeth bit down. Hard. Gasping, Hermione stood no chance. She jolted up and rolled the woman over, her body lying down onto the warm, soft one. Instantly her knee tried to force Blair's legs apart, but couldn't because of the long dress standing in the way. Frustrated and burning, she grasped at the fabric, violently pushing it up, her knees bumping into Blair's as she shifted gracelessly to get the dress from between them. Then their legs touched; skin on skin and it was as though her insides were poured over by gasoline and lit on fire. Crying out, Hermione buried her face into the smooth shoulder as the soaked underwear came into the first contact with a bare thigh.
Ecstasy.
Because the intense pleasure hadn't stayed only in between her legs; it moved into her entire body as though all those sensitive nerves that were supposed to be solely there spread along her skin like a heat rush.
Hermione lifted herself just a little bit, grasping at the prominent jaw; she wanted to look at her, she wanted to see her reddened lips and gleaming eyes as she would—she wanted—
But Blair turned her head aside like a restless puppy. Pushing forward, she switched their positions and pressed her thigh firmer against the throbbing groin. Practically sobbing, the worn-out Hermione curled her calf over Blair's leg as the wave of pleasure hit her folds, her chest, the tips of her fingers. God, she could feel it everywhere.
She'd closed her eyes for just a second before opening them and yelping in horror. Because where there was strawberry blonde hair before there was now an outpouring of curls falling over her flushed face like a dark curtain. At once she tried to prop herself on her elbows and crawl away but the firmness of Bellatrix Lestrange's body against hers wouldn't let her.
What happened? Did she wake up or did the woman perform some kind of Legilimency spell Hermione didn't know about just to make her return?! If the latter, was she taking too long in the astral realm then? Maybe so; Hermione had no idea how much time had passed anyway.
But then… Bellatrix must have seen everything!
They were inches from each other, Hermione's heart on the brink of blotting her out. Was it fear? It must have been. The dark eyes were boring into hers with a silent promise of a hell of a storm coming and all Hermione could do was gulp in the air and wait for it.
"Missing your fox blonde?" The woman smirked as Hermione tried not to move with a firmly placed thigh in between her legs. "I bet I could do a much better job at making you scream."
Oh dear God!
Hermione could feel a touch of fingers crawling up her upper stomach and gasped in shock as the woman yanked at her shirt and tearing it open sent the buttons flying everywhere. Hermione's hands sprung up, trying to cover her exposed chest but Bellatrix seized her arms. A strangled whimper escaped her throat upon feeling a smooth tongue running across the naked curve of her breast all the way up to her jaw, the glossy hair leaving a trace of painful goosebumps behind. Hermione was already so aroused, so weak, she had no chance to fight it. Her shaky hand sprung up, lingering above the ebony locks not even knowing whether it was for keeping Bellatrix there or pulling her face toward hers when the excitement suddenly became too overwhelming. She couldn't endure any more of that, and, feeling herself fading away from whoever was making her feel all these emotions, her eyes snapped open. The sharp light hit her irises, making her blink a couple of times before being able to see Bellatrix still leaning over her.
Swimming in the tides of intoxication, Hermione bolted up, wanting to kiss her dry lips and cover them with moisture when she froze in mid air, reality hitting her hard.
She was back in the old classroom. She had been astral projecting but she was back now and this—this—
She could see the shocked witch trying to pull away from her but without much success, because something seemed to be preventing her from moving further than a few inches. They both glanced down, seeing Hermione's perspiring fingers gripping Bellatrix's cold pale wrist. Gravely embarrassed, Hermione released her immediately and crawling backwards, crushed into something solid, hitting her elbow. There was no room for perceiving the pain, no room for anything other than panic.
How on Earth could she explain?!
"You're lucky you've woken up!" The quiet voice said somewhere from behind, making her head turn. It was the venor floccus man, standing actually not that far from the old painting Hermione had just smashed into. "I could feel your energy draining but you got away just in time."
Breathing hard, Hermione furrowed her brows in confusion.
"Incubus," he explained. "He was successfully trying to seduce you into having sex, in other words, to steal your energy."
The rush of blood filled Hermione's ears. No. He did not say that out loud for everyone to hear. Hermione refused to believe he would be so cruel. She was dreaming. She surely was dreaming!
Her eyes watched his jump to Bellatrix. "I told you she wouldn't get where you wanted her to go, for she wasn't in the right state of mind. Not the smartest to force things. It could have knocked her out for a couple of days. It's not all fun. The demons, I mean. You saw what it did to her; how infected she was, she went for you straight away even after waking up."
Hermione wanted to cry. Inhaling sharply, she got to her feet, spinning and springing for the door. She grabbed onto the handle and yanked but the door wouldn't move. Shoving her shaking hand into her robe, she hunted for the wand, fingers brushing against a small parchment. She managed to whisper the Alohomora when Bellatrix called after her.
"Where do you think you're going?!"
"Away," she snapped, trying her best to keep her voice from breaking.
"No, you're not," Bellatrix's voice was moving closer. "Let her try again," she added, clearly addressing the man.
Maybe it was the frustration, maybe it was the long-repressed anger, maybe all mixed up together. But suddenly, Hermione burst like a volcano. "No! I'm done with this! I'm not constrained into doing every little thing you say! I'm neither your family nor your sidekick or bloody marionette without any brain. I'm done with helping you!"
In a second, Bellatrix's face was in hers, Hermione's feverish breath grazing the long curl across the snowy temple. "Don't you dare—"
Hermione was too pump to get scared off now. ""But I must dare! Otherwise I'll end up a coward, just like your husband."
The words were out before she could stop herself. In a second her body slammed into the door under the force of a heavy slap which had landed across the right side of her face. Ears ringing, she could hear dim voices, someone arguing and shouting but all she could do was hold her hand to the burning cheek and count the little lights flicking across her eyes like Perseids.
Come on, Hermione, stand up, she encouraged herself.
Clumsily getting to her feet, she wouldn't give Bellatrix or the man a single glance as she slipped out of the classroom, not at all bothered to close the door behind her as she started running forward the curled up staircase.
First of all, I'm really sorry for making you wait for almost two months! One day I'll tell you all about the story which goes behind (or maybe I won't) but for now I'll keep it quiet.
Anyway ^_^ I really hope you enjoyed the new chapter; it's almost as long as the previous one and I seriously planned on making it even longer but then I realised it would probably take me another month to finish with all the scenes I wanted to include, and so not to make you wait any longer I decided to sacrifice those scenes and update without them. /breaks my heart, mind you, but I'll find a way to sneak them into the next chapter/. All purely out of my love to you. Which reminds me—thank you for being so patient and SO sweet! I honestly can't even express how grateful I am and how greatly your words improve my days! You are my hottie-po-totties and I couldn't love you more!
Special thanks to Irymia, who's being the best beta reader in the entire world!
Also I don't know how many of you've seen my tumblr post about Blair. But if anyone's interested in who the fox blonde was inspired by look no further. ( youtube — /watch?v=FEZlf_AbEMA)
On a bit of a bitter note—I'm not sure when I'll be able to write again for there might be a couple of changes going on in my life right now but I want to reassure you that even if it's taking me ages, I'm NOT abandoning the story. If I ever decide to do so, I'll tell you. Promise!
Love, AP