She apparates them to her summer home, straight into the bathroom. It's a terrible idea, really. She's Bellatrix Black for crying out loud: she doesn't take people home, especially not people who are also her student. It's a recipe for disaster.
Hermione's hand is firmly held in her own and she stares at it as if it's a foreign object; as if she has no idea what to do with it. It's then that she notices the droplets falling to the ground. They are still naked and when she looks up, she can see Hermione trembling.
Reaching over, she grabs a thick towel and unfolds it. This isn't an action she wants to do magically. Gently, she turns Hermione around and dries her back, her bottom and her legs. Only then does she allow Hermione to turn around once more and she revels in the blush that appears on Hermione's cheeks.
"Still so shy," she murmurs.
In mere minutes Hermione is toweled dry from top to bottom, although her hair is still slightly damp. Discarding the towel in a corner, she grabs a new one and wraps it around Hermione's shoulders to keep her warm.
"What about you, Miss?"
It's a fair question, one she doesn't quite know how to answer. To allow Hermione to repeat those actions on her would be far more intimate than she has ever allowed anyone before. Then again, Hermione has shown her that she trusts her, perhaps it's time to extend that hand. She nods quickly before she starts to regret it.
It feels strange. Unfamiliar. Hermione uses the towel as if even the lightest touch will shatter her in a million pieces. It's not that she objects, it's just new.
Welcomed.
Oh, so strange.
She smiles to herself when there's one part of her body that Hermione has carefully worked around, and she knows that the girl is probably working herself into a frenzy on how to proceed. Not saying a word, she spreads her legs, giving Hermione every opportunity to continue her delicate work. She can see the sharp inhale before she presses the towel between her thighs.
"Drop it," she says.
Hermione drops the towel and her hands are shaking. It's both intoxicating and exhilarating to see that she can have such an effect on her.
She motions for Hermione to stand up, grabs her hand once more and guides her towards the bedroom. With a flick of her wrist the room is illuminated by candles that gently flicker. It leaves the room dark enough for her to feel at her utmost comfortable. She's always preferred the darkness.
"Lay down," she whispers, her voice not unkind.
Hermione follows her instructions to a tee, the towel around her shoulders the last barrier between her touching the soft sheets with her upper body. She doesn't want her to remove it, needs the barrier as a last lifeline, in case it all goes wrong. At some point, it always does.
Swallowing the last of her own nervousness, she straddles Hermione's hips, hyper aware that Hermione is trembling beneath her. Not from fear, perhaps not even from excitement. Perhaps they're both just nervous. It's too late to stop now. She doesn't want to.
She leans in closer and brushes some of Hermione's hair away from her face.
"Time for one of my fantasies," she whispers in her ear. "Tell me, pet. How do you feel about knives?"
"I've–well, I don't think I've ever thought about them."
It's an honest answer she can appreciate. Knives are a rare artform. If used wrongly, they're deadly. Perhaps once upon a time, if she were more in tune with her darkness, she too could have been deadly. But no one is going to die tonight.
"La petite mort," she whispers then. "Do you know what that means, pet?"
"The little death, it has two meanings," Hermione rattles quickly.
"And what are those, my little academic?"
Hermione chuckles at that and it warms something inside of her that scares her half to death.
"A brief loss or weakening of consciousness," Hermione says carefully. "These days more often referred to the sensation of a post orgasm."
"Well done," she says. Her teeth close around her earlobe and tug at it lightly before releasing it. "And which one do you think I'll be referring to tonight?"
"The first one, Miss."
"Well," she says, sitting up straight. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll get to experience them both, hm?"
Reaching over to the nightstand, she opens the drawer and takes out her trusted knife. Some days she feels as if the knife has a strange pull, as if with one well-aimed and timed throw it could take a life as if it's nothing. There one moment, gone the next.
None of that today, though. Today she will use it as if it's her most prized possession and perhaps today it is. Until something or someone else takes its place.
"Safeword?"
"Umbridge, Miss."
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes Miss."
"Close your eyes, pet."
Hermione does and there's a strange smile on her face. As if she's completely and utterly in heavenly bliss, the trembling gives her away, though. A part of Hermione is still scared and it's good. It means she's still paying attention and hasn't gone off into whatever world submissives disappear to from time to time.
"Don't make any sudden moves."
Life or death. She wants to say it out loud but doesn't. Maybe one day she will, when Hermione is no longer scared and needs a new incentive to not disappear in her mind.
She carefully places the knife against Hermione's abdomen, can see the muscles react and relax and only then does she trace it upwards. Pays close attention to how Hermione reacts. Perhaps deep down inside she is scared that she will push too hard, draw blood and have Hermione run for the hills.
Perhaps she should. Leave her with a single scar to forever remember what they almost had. Then they could still pretend none of this ever happened. But she doesn't want to. She wants Hermione. Here. With her. At her mercy.
She traces the knife along the swell of breasts, knows to stay far away from Hermione's mouth and neck. She has learned her lesson. There is no silencing Hermione Granger. Not forcefully, anyway.
Her left hand reaches upwards and takes a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She rolls it until Hermione gasps, but her body doesn't move. Hermione too, has learned her lesson. It makes her proud, but she doesn't utter the words. Not yet.
She rolls her hips against Hermione's. Knows exactly the effect it will have on Hermione. It's tempting the devil to release itself, but Hermione still doesn't move.
"Such self-control," Bellatrix says. "I wonder what would happen if I did this..."
She leans forward and replaces her fingers with her mouth and takes away the knife at the same moment that Hermione's back arches. She grins, so predictable.
"Am sorry, Miss."
"Sshh, you're okay, pet."
And she is. Hermione is fine. She responded exactly the way Bellatrix wanted her to and she hopes that it's just another checkmark on the trust list for Hermione. She didn't hurt the girl. Took away the danger before she even knew it was there.
She sits up straight again and brings her right hand to Hermione's leg. Leads the cold blade down a path to Hermione's knee and back up. It leaves a trail of red, but no blood.
Perhaps she should have been a surgeon. Her blade skills are exceptional.
Repeating the action on Hermione's left leg, she watches the girl like a hawk. Every gasp of breath, every tremble in her abdomen, every flutter of her eyelids, until she knows exactly how Hermione responds to the blade digging into her skin without it ever leaving a lasting trace. Without it ever causing her harm.
Hermione is beautiful like this, completely at her mercy; trusting her. She doesn't think she deserves it. She has been cruel to the girl before, both inside and outside of class. Has been wanting to push her to see how amazing she is, how her talents are wasted on books and knowledge. Hermione's skills are almost as impressive as hers were back when she was that age. Almost.
She puts the knife away. There has been enough teasing for today. Hermione has been patient, and now it's time to reward her.
Leaning forward once more, she captures Hermione's lips with her own. She brushes her tongue over the wet lips and smiles when Hermione almost hesitantly lets her own tongue find hers.
It's no subtle dance, no battling for domination, it's just pure extasy. Kissing Hermione feels like drinking from a well of cold water on an unbearable hot day. She can't get enough of it and only after Hermione is gasping for air, does she release her lips with a pop.
"You're good at that."
Hermione smiles. "Thank you, Miss."
"Thank me later," she whispers.
Miss Black is everywhere. In her mind, above her, beneath her and behind her. It's as if the woman has five hands and knows how to use them to torture Hermione until she wants to scream. She doesn't, though.
She remains still, hasn't been given permission to move. It's getting harder with the way Miss Black's mouth is nipping at her skin. She knows there will be bruises in the morning, or perhaps Miss Black will take them away after it's all said and done.
She doesn't want to think about that. Doesn't want to think about the moment that is inevitable. The moment she goes back to Hogwarts. Tomorrow she's expected to sit in Miss Black's class and pretend like none of this has ever happened.
But it is happening. Right now.
Miss Black's fingers are buried in her hair, they tug and release as she sucks at - and releases her nipples. It's a rhythm that is quickly joined by the pulsating of her clit. She's never been this wet before and Miss Black hasn't even left her upper body yet and she's not sure she ever will.
The only action her lower body is getting is the rolling of Miss Black's hips against her own.
She's desperate for more friction.
Desperate for a touch that will sooth the ache between her legs.
Desperate for anything.
Desperate to hear more words fall from those glorious lips.
"Please."
She hears herself whisper the words and hopes Miss Black won't punish her for speaking out of turn. But she can't help herself. She begs her over and over until a finger is placed against her mouth, effectively shushing her.
"Not yet, pet."
It's torture. Pure, unadulterated, heavenly bliss. It's in the way Miss Black is everywhere at once. Like magic. Perhaps it's exactly that. It makes her wonder about the knife. Was she bleeding? Is Miss Black just tracing those blood spatters with her mouth? Undoing any damage that Hermione didn't even notice were happening to her?
She doesn't think it's possible. She would have felt the knife leave actual marks. Would have winced at the pain. She's no hero, she cries bloody murder whenever she stubs her toe, so she's pretty sure that actual knife marks would have made her cry out.
Whatever thoughts are running through her mind, completely vanish when Miss Black does something with her hand that nearly makes her scream out. It's as if she suddenly has ten fingers and all of them are very intent to create a pathway to where she wants all those fingers the most.
They're creeping down her abdomen, past the trimmed curls and then–
"Oh Merlin, no please, come back!"
Miss Black is chuckling, and the sound infiltrates her skin, wraps itself around her heart as if it's there to stay, forever. A piece of Miss Black that is all hers now. She will cherish it, no matter what happens next.
"Such good pet you've been," Miss Black whispers then. She doesn't even frown at the tears that well up behind her eyelids at the sound of those words.
Her legs spread as if they have a mind of their own when Miss Black moves down her body. Warm arms wrap themselves around her hips and a soft stream of air is blown against her clit and it makes her swoon right on the spot.
Soft, smooth fingers are stroking against her skin but still not where she desires them most. It's top notch teasing and it's both infuriating and delicious. Her fingertips are stroking the inside of her thighs, draw small circles until her skin tingles and becomes numb and it's only then that Hermione realizes exactly what Miss Black is doing.
"La petite mort," she whispers.
"Yes pet," Miss Black says in a long breath. "Exactly."
And it does happen. It happens purely by the bliss of Miss Black's fingertips against her skin, the drawn circles that seem to penetrate every single cell in her body. She loses herself in the rhythm, in the touches, in Miss Black's words softly spoken encouraging words until all sensations just completely overwhelm her.
And maybe, just maybe, this is what heaven feels like, because she's pretty sure she's just left her body and ascended into a piece of heaven that is all hers. There are no words, no feelings, no more questions in the back of her mind that desperately need answers. There is just... nothing. But the kind of nothing that feels good, the kind of nothing she has longed for before she even knew she needed it. The kind of nothing that is being delivered to her on a silver platter by Miss Black.
She exists in an impenetrable bubble until a gentle voice calls out to her. And she doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave her bubble yet. She wants to remain there for all of eternity.
But the voice is stronger.
It reaches for her and pulls her back. Or perhaps the bubble was broken because it could no longer contain her happiness.
"That's it, just breathe," Miss Black coaxes. "Come back to me, Hermione."
And she does.
She comes back and opens her eyes. Miss Black is on her side now and when she makes eye contact, she's sure she can see everything. A second in which all of Miss Black is revealed before those eyes darken over again.
A thumb is stroking against her abdomen, soothing the tremors she's feeling until every muscle in her body relaxes once more. Miss Black's right hand is playing with her hair and there's an actual smile on her face.
"Are you okay?"
Hermione nods and then there's this feeling of dread, as if all the happiness is sucked right out of her body.
"What you experienced was sub space. A little piece of bliss and what you're about to experience is called sub drop," Miss Black says, pulling Hermione onto her side, then reaching for the towel behind her and dropping it onto the floor.
"It's perfectly normal," Miss Black says. "You did nothing wrong. It's a bit like riding a rollercoaster in that muggle world of yours. There was a lot of adrenaline that's leaving your body all at once."
"I feel drained," she says then. "Tired. Like I'm about to burst into tears."
Miss Black chuckles. "Oh, there will be tears."
Warm arms engulf her then and draw her closer until she buries her face in the crook of Miss Black's neck. Her arm draped over Miss Black's waist and a leg perfectly wedged between Miss Black's.
And then she cries.
And Miss Black lets her. Comforts her. Gives her forehead kisses until she feels the pull of sleep.
"Let go," Miss Black whispers. "I've got you and I am so, so proud of you."