Grey Kittens

by Animekitty2

The summer following fifth year brings some unexpected changes to Hermione's life. Embarking on a new path to a new future and her desire to rescue Harry, whether he wants to be rescued or not (from his apparent and unpleasant destiny) her life changes in ways she had never expected; with people she had never imagined. (Mary-Sue) Hermione/multi. femslash and extreme naughtiness.

2. Second Kata--The Very Next Day

Grey Kittens

And now a brief word from the author:

This chapter was originally part of the first but I found it was growing uncomfortably long, especially for mobile devices like phones, etc . . . In the end, it was likely a good idea since writing and posting fifteen-thousand words reasonably regularly is easier than aiming for thirty-thousand. All the same, it may be a while before I have another chapter to post for this as I refocus on Heirs for the time being. On a final note: Hermione is now a cat. She thinks like a cat; she behaves like a cat but she is not without ambition and while saving Harry is her primary focus for now, there are things she intends to do in the future. Thanks for reading.

Animekitty2

Obligatory blah blah blah:

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

Warning:

This story is rated 'M' and is intended for mature audiences; it contains coarse language, violence, nudity and/or mature subject matter. It also explores acts of graphic sexuality; including—but not limited to—extreme and/or alternate lifestyles behaviors and/or choices that may offend some: Reader discretion is strongly advised.

There, you've been warned; now don't send me nasty-grams if I write something smutty that upsets you.

Second Kata—The Very Next Day

Hermione woke to the sound of a knock on her door and her mother's voice calling to her, "Honey, wake up; we all slept in and if we want breakfast before driving to the Leaky Cauldron we need to move now."

"Okay mom," she groggily replied and, remembering her new look, was thankful that neither parent would enter her room without invitation, "I'll be down after a quick shower."

"Okay dear but put the emphasis on the quick part."

"I will," the young witch agreed.

Hermione heard her mother's light steps fade down the hall while she took a moment to reconnect to the world of waking. The first thing the young bakeneko noticed was that at some point during the night she had curled into a very catlike ball at the head of her bed and was sleeping on her pillow. The second thing she noticed was an eye-opener; the tight ball she was rolled into had her head cushioned on her thigh and her face inhumanly close to her sex. Exploring her feline induced flexibility further, she wondered if the erotic possibilities she was considering were even possible; to test her theory she curled tighter and her nose drew nearer to her rapidly moistening lips and her undeniably feminine scent. What little was left of her human modesty, fled, as her odor overwhelmed her and invited her to taste her smell. With the tip of her tongue, she gave herself a tentative lick and was rewarded by an intense wave of pleasure brought on by the sandpaper surface of her feline lingua sliding up her slit and licking her clitoris. I can't believe I taste so fucking good, she thought as her senses kicked back into overdrive and the flow of her reborn arousal tried to drown her as she licked, lapped and plunged her tongue into the place girl's own was never intended to go.

Master, Crookshanks' mental voice intruded into whirling maelstrom of Hermione's sex addled mind, while I'm enjoying the way you're pleasuring yourself—after all, I do feel the echoes of whatever you feel—you'd best stop before your mom returns because you're not at breakfast. Besides, I'm hungry too and since I don't have a thumb, I can't open a can and get my own breakfast.

Being called back to responsibility by one's pet was a new experience for cat-girl Granger but she had to concede that Crookshanks was right; she had things to do today other than exploring her newfound and ribald boundaries—regardless of how sinfully addictive that activity was. With a final lick for good measure, she uncurled and stretched before hopping from her bed. She donned her bathrobe and was about to pad to the bathroom when her familiar wordlessly reminded her to change to her human form before leaving the bedroom.

Thanks Crookshanks, Hermione thought to him and shifted from her now naturally bakeneko body to the old Hermione but for her eyes—she had her bakeneko's eyes. She silently padded from her bedroom, down the hall and into the bathroom, where, upon closing the door she realized she really needed to go. The young witch-cat promptly proceeded to the morning's first order of business and let her mind wander aimlessly until she had a sudden flash of curiosity. Crookshanks? She thought to her furry friend.

Master? She heard his reply in her head.

You mentioned a way to travel, fading I think you called it, she thought to her cat who replied in kind. What about it master?

How do I do it?

Are you asking about the mechanics or the theory, my empress, came his thoughtful reply.

Empress? That's a new one Crookshanks, what did I do to warrant such respect from my cat?

I've always held you in the highest esteem, master; why else would I choose you as my servant?

Ha, ha, came Hermione's droll but silent reply, I'm the one with the opposable thumbs, remember?

My point exactly, Crookshanks tittered in reply and sent an echo of his hunger to his bakeneko partner.

I get it, you're hungry, I am too but I really don't need to feel your hunger on top of my own, she wordlessly retorted while finishing her business and flushing the loo, damn, I should've waited; now I've got to wait until the tank fills if I want decent shower pressure. Humming tunelessly, Hermione stripped off her bathrobe, stepped into the shower and waited; as soon as the toilet was full she turned on the shower, adjusted the water temperature and immersed herself under the flow of almost too hot water: content, Hermione began to purr as water cascaded over her head and body.

Master, your mom just called you again, she heard Crookshanks think to her.

Tell her I'll be out of the shower in a jiffy, pussycat.

Tell her? Um, master I hear your thoughts, you hear mine; how can you expect me to tell your father's queen anything unless you plan on making her too?

Sorry Crooks, wasn't thinking but back to the fading technique, Hermione silently asked without considering the last part of her pet's thought and its inference; she began washing her hair.

I suppose it's easy, came her pet's unspoken reply, all you need to do is clearly picture your destination and then imagine yourself there.

That's it?

That's it, cats hate complicated things; complicated things require too much of our easily distractible attention. All your bakeneko abilities will function pretty much the same way, I would hazard to guess; you want, you think, you do—that's it, simple.

I wish everything was so easy; Hermione ruminated as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair before turning off the shower.

You'll still need to practices; like a kitten practices to hunt, Crookshanks thought to her.

So, I'm a kitten now, Hermione thought flippantly as she considered her familiar's words.

How else should I describe you, her cat mused, you've barely scratched the surface of your new abilities but at least you won't have a cat's aversion to practice, study or effort.

Thinking about Crookshanks' words made the bakeneko-witch smile inwardly as she stepped from the shower and dried herself off. Hard work and practice never bothered her when the rewards were high and with that thought, she cracked open the bathroom door and glanced up and down the hall; it was empty, allowing her to happily slink back to her room carrying her bathrobe wardrobe. She reached the privacy of her room without encounter, stepped in, closed the door and sniffed the air; the smell of sex lay languidly on the air, making it hard to focus as she stole ghostlike to her dresser.

She looked in the mirror and the girl who looked back had changed more than just her eyes; it wasn't so much that her physical appearance had altered—she still looked like Hermione Granger, eyes notwithstanding—it was her mien that had changed. No longer did her reflection show a girl obsessed with study, marks and teachers' approval but a carefree, whimsical but still intelligent, confident young woman, who happened to look—sexy, intruded upon her thoughts—like a cat sometimes. Hermione smiled and then noticed that she not only bore her bakeneko's eyes but her fangs as well. Gonna haf'ta remember that or people will think I'm a vampire, she mused as she dressed in the shorts and t-shirt—both pastel pink to properly offset her sapphire eyes—she had pulled from her drawer. Captivated, her feline narcissism viewed her reflection in rapt self-absorption.

"Kitten, you coming down for breakfast any time soon?" Hermione heard her father call.

"I'm coming, dad, I was just thinking about something," she called in reply.

Hee, hee, Crookshanks chuckled in her mind, thinking about something? You're thinking you're a pretty kitty.

Was not!

Was too, master, came the familiar's mental riposte.

Let's go get breakfast, Hermione thought as she crossed and exited her room, she felt her cat's fur brush her legs as he passed but was so fast that all she saw was a blur of orange; she thought after him: My, my you are one hungry kitty this morning.

Aren't you? His unspoken response followed. Especially after last night's . . . performance, I'm surprised you aren't walking funny; I wonder if your mom is?

Crookshanks!

What? I'm innocent.

Innocent my tail, she mentally countered, I bet Mrs. Norris would say otherwise. Should I ask her if we return to Hogwarts? Besides, who got his face all wet—on my arousal, I might add—last night and then gave himself an indulgent tongue bath . . . If? Where did 'if' come from?

Soft silent footfalls marked her passage down the hall as she headed for breakfast and pondered the meaning of the surprise conjunction that had intruded unexpectedly into her conversation. She reached the top of the stairs and unconsciously bypassed the tedium they represented by leaping over them and gracefully landing—very catlike—at the bottom with nary a rustle from even her clothes.

"K . . . kitten?" The surprising sound of her father's uncommonly quiet and questioning voice rose from near the kitchen, "did I just see you jump all the way from the second floor and—not to mention—over the stairs, that's easily twelve feet; only to land soundlessly at their foot, on all fours?"

Busted! Hermione heard Crookshanks' tease in her head.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," Hermione tried to redirect her father's attention but failed, miserably.

"I'm not mistaken, young lady; now, please explain what I just saw because, obviously, what happened affected more than just your eyes—and the fact that you now purr."

". . . um, well . . . yeah, I guess . . ."

"I guess!" he replied forcefully, "A bit of an understatement I'd say."

Hermione stood and faced her father but the little girl he thought of as his daughter was gone; before him stood a confident young woman bearing a mien both regal and proud who demanded respect and, astoundingly, a dash of fear. Where did my little kitten go, I swear she was here only yesterday? He thought with a touch of noble sadness; a sadness echoed by parents the world over as their children pass to adulthood, overnight as it always seems.

"What's up, Dan?" Emma asked as she stuck her head out of the kitchen and saw her husband staring at their daughter.

"Hermione's eyes aren't the only thing that changed, dear; it seems our little girl has acquired a cat's grace, agility and dexterity too," he replied with a bit of awe.

"Huh . . .?" was her puzzled response, "a cat's?"

"A cat's grace . . . never mind, you need to see it to understand, Emma."

"See what?"

"Well . . . um, kitten," he said scratching his head, "can you do that again, please, safely of course, I don't want you hurting yourself or anything."

Go ahead my queen, Crookshanks mentally urged, he had returned to the top of the stairs, it's easier to show than explain but I'd keep the bakeneko bit to myself for now; I'm sure that'll be too much for them, at the moment.

Hermione looked at her father with a smidgen of feline disdain and thought, is he asking me to do a trick?—I'm not a dog, you know—but relented; it was her mom and dad after all. Without premeditation, she turned from her parents and effortlessly vaulted the stairs while pouncing to the second floor; Hermione landed silently beside her pet, to her family's—the human side that is—shock and awe.

"Ahh . . . well now . . . that's a little . . . um . . . well . . . you know . . . extraordinary, I'd say," her mother responded, quite unlike her usual and articulate self.

"Kitten," Dan Granger addressed, "I . . . well . . . that wasn't exactly what I had in mind but serves the same . . . err . . . purpose, I suppose."

"Does that mean we can eat breakfast now," Hermione responded nonchalantly, "I'm kinda hungry and Crookshanks wants to eat too."

"I . . . I guess," her mother replied.

Again, their daughter acted before thinking and leapt from the top landing; once more alighting, very catlike, on all fours and as noiselessly before standing: Crookshanks opted to use the stairs, normally, two at a time.

"I guess that's a relief," her father commented offhandedly.

"What is?" Emma asked.

"Well," he began in an amused, albeit flippant tone, "if the whole witch thing doesn't pan out for kitten; she has a future in dance."

"Dad!" Hermione exclaimed and followed her father into the kitchen. She fed her familiar and then joined her parents at the table and began to eat.

Breakfast was an abnormally quiet affair for the Grangers as they considered the implications of Hermione's recent bout with accidental magic; at least it wasn't hers this time but it was worrisome all the same: hopefully it wasn't irreversible.

"Hermione honey," Mrs. Granger began; it was so quiet that she almost seemed to shout, "This person you mentioned yesterday; do you think they'll be able to help?"

"I wish I could answer that, truthfully, mom but I honestly don't know," she replied wistfully. "Still, I think if anyone knows, he will; so it's the best place to start."

"Well, since it has to do with magic; we'll obviously defer to you, honey, but we're still concerned," her mother said with a touch of resignation; as a parent she resented not being the person her daughter could turn to but she could support her at least.

"Thanks mom."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"For trusting your sixteen year old daughter," she replied lovingly.

"Of course we trust you, kitten," her father insisted, "you've never been anything but responsible; maybe too responsible, sometimes: you're only sixteen, it's okay to be a little irresponsible; you learn from your mistakes too, you know. At least you have friends now; we were really worried before you went to Hogwarts, almost as worried as when you're there."

"Do you really worry that much when I'm at school?"

"Of course we worry," answered her mom. "You spend the better part of nine months at a place we can't go to, no matter the reason, and we're more than capable of reading between the lines of your letters, you know. Hogwarts is not nearly as safe as Professor McGonagall led us to believe and you came home with a nasty scar this year—don't think we haven't noticed—we'd really like to know how you got it but we respect your choices on that matter."

Hermione blushed and looked away; she didn't know how or when her parents found out about Dolohov's little gift and so soon upon her return too. At least it's gone when I'm a bakeneko, she thought abstractly but glad, her other form had more than a few benefits to it—if it wasn't for her eyes, while in her old form, she'd probably not care in the least that she was now a cat-girl; part time at least.

You're always a 'cat-girl' now my queen, Crookshanks' offhanded comment intruded upon her mind, your old look is your other look; you're part time human now, master, not the other way around.

"We're your parents, honey, give us some credit when it's due, especially when it comes to our daughter," Mrs. Granger said with a loving and concerned smile.

"Thanks mom," she replied, her mother's smile making her feel all warm and furry—at least on the inside that feeling on the outside would lead to some difficult questions.

"Now, why are you thanking me?"

"I guess, just because you're mom," Hermione replied.

"Thanks honey," Emma Granger warmly replied, "now, if you're done eating; why don't you pop—or should I say hop . . . no pounce, definitely pounce—upstairs and get ready to leave; for some reason your dad and I didn't want to get out of bed this morning, so we're running a little late. I'm a little achy too, must be age creeping up."

"Okay mom," she replied, rose from the table and, after taking her dirty dishes to the kitchen counter, left to get ready.

)(

John Smith wiled away his morning, only half-reading his book, as his thoughts kept turning back to the young Miss Granger and the not so young Mrs. Lestrange. He hoped, sincerely, that no evil had befallen the girl but the arrival of Voldemort's leading lady had definitely upped the ante when it came to Miss Granger's safety.

"There's nothing I can do, really," he thought out-loud, his voice heard only by the store's fixtures and years of accumulated dust, "besides, The Society frowns upon members intervening in the mundane affairs of everyday life , which normal people—magical and non-magical, alike—worry about. Still, we're talking Bellatrix Lestrange here—a witch on The Society's watch list—and a girl who'll likely be invited to The Society in a few years, if my instincts are correct: providing she remains alive that is."

He tried to focus on his book but soon found his mind straying from the lines and pages before him; forcing him to close the book in frustration. John Smith hated uncertainty, above all else, and the fact that the Kamisama no Neko took so readily to the young witch, after collecting dust for so many years could be interpreted in a number of ways: none of which suggested the status quo would remain standing. 'May you live in interesting times' were the words of an old Eastern curse he remembered and felt, with some certainty, they were about to come to pass. Into this twinkling of self-reflection, came a faint hum and the smell of ozone, to interrupt his pensive thoughts; it drew his attention to the center of the store and, with mounting curiosity, he watched as something akin to heat ripples rose from nowhere and began taking shape. Moments later, sunglasses—mirrored muggle type no less—faded into view and were shortly followed by the robed figure they belonged to; it looked like an average sized witch from what he could see.

"Good morning Miss Granger," he said, reasonably certain it was she since her arrival was similar to yesterday's sudden departure. "How may I help you this morning?"

"Two things," Hermione asked, forcefully, as soon as she had fully faded in. "Where's my wand and what happened to me?"

John Smith regarded the young witch before him and saw an entirely different person from the girl essential begging him for help yesterday. It was a surprising transformation and truly astounding that her demeanor had gone from uncertain to regal—which was the most apt description he could think of—in barely a day and she oozed power far beyond her previous, and already substantial, levels of yesterday.

For the first time in many years, John Smith faced someone who might actually be a threat, power wise; thankfully, experience was on his side should this newly born Supreme Witch choose to become hostile: hopefully she wouldn't, he thought her too smart to be impulsive.

"Your wand was taken by Bellatrix Lestrange just after you . . . um . . . left yesterday," he replied forthrightly, "I can't say what happened to you without more details, my dark princess."

Hermione removed the sunglasses she was wearing, her sapphire cat-eyes bore into him.

"My, what pretty eyes you have kitten—all the better to see me with, eh?" He replied; surprised that he was actually surprised.

"Dispense with the pleasantries," she commanded, "explain!"

"About your eyes or about your wand?" he asked, knowing he was suddenly playing a very dangerous game—it was actually rather exciting; it had been a long time since he had felt that, too.

"Well both . . . but first; why does that hag Lestrange got my wand?"

"She stole it after you left," the wand-smith replied, indifferently.

"Why didn't you stop her?"

"It's not my wand."

"No, it's mine; need I remind you who took it from me? That makes you responsible."

"You were the one pointing it; I merely defended myself. If you weren't so quick to whip out your wand—like some cheesy adolescent wizard—you'd still have it. Besides, you left yesterday—rather abruptly, I might add—with a wand I gave you; where's it?"

"It didn't arrive with me; I don't know where it went, which is why I'm asking about my wand."

"Like I said, Mrs. Lestrange has it; see her about it: I have no inclination to retrieve a wand that isn't mine for a girl who can't hold onto her property," John Smith replied.

"You dare be glib with me Mr. Smith?" Hermione said and the force of her tone was echoed by her magic; the wand-smith was swept from his feet, magically thrust against the rear wall of Wiccan's Wands and Rods and suspended at a height that allowed his closely cropped hair to touch the ceiling. He looked at the young witch before him and smiled; the sight of her surprise and confusion was worth the momentary pain and incarceration he had felt before he casually dispelled both and landed effortlessly on his feet.

"Well, my dark princess," he began as if nothing had happened, "if you're able to do to her what you just did to me; I'd say Mrs. Lestrange is unlikely to pose a problem for you, even if she does have your wand. Given time and practice, I'm sure your internal focus will supplant any external focus you might need, remember that my dear; you've moved beyond being an everyday witch and stand at threshold of being a Supreme Witch—one of a very few in the world: the whole world not just this little corner called England: congratulations."

"I don't understand."

"Hermione, dear, there are witches and wizards and then there are 'Witches and Wizards', the young woman heard the obvious implication in inflection. Your average witch and wizard—Lestrange, Riddle aka Lord Voldemort and the highly, but questionably vaunted and lauded Dumbledore, notwithstanding—know nothing of us and should remain ignorant. You've stepped beyond them, kitten; so far that if they knew they'd see you as a Morgana—in your case or a Merlin if you were a guy—and fear you. You must hone and hide your skills, now, as you embark on an entirely new path; a path that will inevitably lead you to The Society and their invitation."

"I'm really confused now, what's this society you speak of?" she asked.

"The Society, my dear," he replied, "and it's—I don't want to say council that's too formal—a gathering of Supreme Magi who monitor The Balance in an effort to keep the two worlds, magical and non-magical, apart."

"But . . ."

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it, my little grey kitten; you'll understand in time and when you face Lestrange, the retrieval of your wand will be the least of her worries. Now about this 'what happened to me' thing; I can't answer if you don't tell me and I'm sure it goes beyond just your eyes—which are really quite fetching—my dear."

Interested—something of a rarity for John Smith—he watched the young witch before him begin to change. In seconds, he watched her human ears dissolve and re-sprout—furry, pointed and catlike—on the top of her head while a tail grew—from a strategically cut slit in the her robe—to a length proportional to her body. Well I can see she isn't a Manx, he idly thought as he studied her. Apparently, but not quite as obvious, it looked like she had grown some fur too and—surprised that he noticed what was likely a sore point for the young woman—a reduction in her bust size. Overall, Hermione Granger—a reasonably attractive young lady to begin with—had become, in his mind, stunningly beautiful even if rather catlike. How ironic, he lightheartedly thought, considering how often I've referred to her as 'kitten'.

"Crookshanks says I've become a bakeneko," she stated, "what do you know about this?"

"Who's Crookshanks?"

"My cat—well he's a cat/kneazle hybrid, actually—told me."

"Your cat told you."

"Yes, is there something wrong with that? He's very smart, I only just found out just how smart he is but I always knew he was smart, Sirius knew too."

"And he called you a bakeneko?"

"Who . . . Crookshanks?"

"Obviously," John Smith replied, his voice resonating with the excitement he felt, "So, what's a bakeneko, my dear?"

Hermione stared at him blankly for a moment. He gave me the wand, shouldn't he know, she thought before answering; "A bakeneko is a feline/human amalgam yōkai—a Japanese spirit being—sometimes known to possess humans and for mischief; it was your wand that changed me, shouldn't you know this, already?"

"I told you yesterday that that wand had sat unclaimed for years. I'm as surprised—though not nearly as affected—as you are, kitten," he immediately regretted referring to her as kitten; thankfully, she didn't seem to notice or care.

"Whatever, can it be reversed?"

"Don't know," the wand-smith replied cavalierly. "Anyways, is it really an issue? You arrived this morning looking more or less human and just by your arrival, I'd say the pros outweigh the cons; what else can you do?"

"Well," she unwittingly began, "I have a cat's agility, dexterity and likely speed and strength—I haven't checked those but I'm pretty certain, about the speed and strength that is—I also seem to have a cat's hearing and night-vision, in both my natural bakeneko and human form . . . hey! That's not the point; I want to be human again!"

"Why?" John Smith simply asked.

"Well . . ."

"Well, what?" he retorted, "You've yet to give me even one compelling reason to change back; it's not like you're a werewolf who can't control his change or any other changeling type being for that matter and, from what I saw, your shift between forms looks relatively benign and painless. Just the changes you've mentioned would be enough for me to want to remain bakeneko and your transformation has obviously unlocked your latent power and abilities; why change?"

"But . . ."

"No buts, my dear," he interjected, "you're part of the magical world, weird things happen all the time; it's just usually malignant when they do, be thankful that—from what I can see—this isn't the case here. Besides, who knows what else you might be able to do and if your new eyes are a huge problem just use a Glamour or a Notice-Me-Not charm or those muggle sunglasses of yours—I'm sure you can do the charms both wand-less and silent if you wanted to. Anything else, aside from that kinda nifty bit of apparition you arrived with, you'd like to tell me?"

"I haven't had the opportunity yet to find out but Crookshanks told me. . ."

"Your cat again," he interrupted; he was smiling.

"Yes, my cat," she parried. "Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Smith?"

"Not particularly," he teased, "most of my conversations with cats have been generally brief and decidedly one sided. I've obviously underestimated our fine feline friends and their fount of wisdom but, then again, I don't speak Felinese."

"Speak? Are you messing with me?"

"A little."

"Well, you're being silly," Hermione said as she stamped her foot and put her hands on her hips; a reminder that she was still young and immature, "cats don't talk: they think to you."

"Think to you?"

"Of course," she replied rather forcefully. "Anyways, Crookshanks told me that I should be able to turn myself invisible, perform what he described as a magical pounce—a short range, line of sight teleport—and perhaps pass through solid objects, like walls."

"That's all?"

"Well, yeah," was her rejoinder, "I've yet to check everything but I can obviously Fade-Apparate."

"What's that like?"

Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment before answering, "I'm not sure what you mean by that but basically where I was fades out and where I'm going fades in, why?"

"I hate apparating, I'd love an alternative: can I be a bakeneko too?" He asked rather frivolously, he regretted it immediately. I'm glad 'if looks could kill' is usually only an adage, he thought as he felt a strong jab of magic from the girl, I'm glad she's newly elevated, too, or else it would be more than just a saying.

"Will you be serious, I'm dealing with some major life-altering issues here and you're cracking jokes."

"Sorry, Miss Granger, the novelty of your situation is getting the better of me; I'm not meaning to be dismissive or unsympathetic it's just that it's novel: novel is a rarity for me these days," he said unrepentantly, "have you noticed anything else, my dear?"

Hermione turned crimson and looked at her feet but she still managed to answer, "I'm very . . . well . . . sensitive now—um . . . in a certain way—and kinda really really flexible too."

Her mortification was obvious, albeit short lived, and the wand-smith had a pretty good inkling on how to interpret what she meant by 'sensitive' but the word 'flexible' seemed out of place and context to her response; he'd not pursue that for now.

"I think I've got the general picture but I don't know what to say," John Smith stated. "Unfortunately, your . . . shall we say . . . unique situation is outside the realm of my experience and knowledge; I honestly can't think of anything to alter, permanently, your physicality but I'm willing to help you, Hermione. If you want, I'll speak with some of my associates, if you don't mind, that is. Anyways, that shouldn't be a big deal to you; you'll likely meet them sooner rather than later now, anyhow: you're a Supreme Magus after all; they wouldn't have missed that rather large and obvious ripple in The Magic when you elevated sometime last night. I felt it, didn't know it was you, but I'm not really surprised, I could sense your latent power yesterday."

"But what should I do?"

"Are you asking for advice, my pretty kitty?" he said with a warm and respectful grin.

Hermione Granger—aka: the smartest witch of her generation; perhaps the smartest since Rowena Ravenclaw—the bakeneko could only nod her response.

"Well then," he began, "I'd say explore your newfound abilities and accept yourself for who you are, I fear it's unlikely to change so you may well become comfortable with it; who knows, after a little while you may prefer it—I'll say it again, I don't think I'd want to change back—and it won't be an issue anymore."

"But what about Hogwarts?"

"What about it?"

"Being a muggle-born has created enough problems for me, I'm a little worried about being a half-breed on top of it," she replied; obviously the whole blood issue had affected her deeper than she might believe, he concluded.

"Why worry, I doubt you'll find a teacher—let alone a student—who can stand against you, especially now," he said, "make them respect your power—especially those inbred impotent purebloods from families with waning power and intelligence—and if they won't respect you: make them fear you; that's my advice."

"But what about my friends?"

"If they're real friends they'll accept you for whom and what you are; if they can't, well, perhaps they weren't really your friends to begin with."

"But I might get in trouble."

"So?"

"But I might get expelled?"

"Again, so?" John Smith erupted into laughter; once he regained his composure, he continued, "Expelled? Don't make me laugh; you're already beyond the limited curriculum Hogwarts offers these days and even if your power and skill never grow beyond what they are today you're already formable, just inexperienced. Practice, practice, practice, my little grey kitten, that's what you need now; not your wand, not a truncated education that is intended to train sheep but pure practice. Anything you can do with a wand you can likely do without, now; believe in your power, believe in your abilities but above all believe in yourself."

"What makes you sure?"

"What makes you not, Miss Granger?" He countered, "The only real weaknesses I see are in confidence and experience. The first you must overcome yourself; the second I can help you with and as for Hogwarts: by the time September the first rolls around; school may not even be an option you'll wish to consider."

"But what about my future?"

"Ah . . . well . . . about that; I'd seriously spend some time rethinking that this summer," was his response as he scratched the back of his head. "I'd say any future that included being part of the mundane magical community or its neutered ministry will unlikely satisfy you now and while you're not a member of The Society; I'd suggest you follow its members' example: personal growth and research for your own enjoyment."

Hermione stared at him blankly and suddenly realized her new circumstances had just wiped her future clean of any preconceptions or ambitions she once held; John Smith was right, she really needed to rethink her future.

"I guess my mirrored sunglasses and I will be spending the better part of the summer together or at least until I learn to cast either a glamour or a notice-me-not, wand-less," she abstractly said as she grasped that an easy solution to the whole bakeneko thing was not forthcoming nor anytime soon.

"Thank you Mr. Smith, I appreciate your candor," she said formally polite, "I'll take my leave for now but expect me to return, I'm reasonably certain I'll need your mentorship but I've no wish to intrude upon you if my presence is unwelcome."

"Miss Granger," his voice sincere, "I doubt I'll ever find your presence unwelcome and if you wish mentorship, I'd be honored. By the way, give my regards to Mrs. Lestrange, when you see her."

"Why would I see her?"

"I thought you wanted your wand back," he replied, "I doubt you can do one without the other."

"Thank you again, Mr. Smith, I'll keep that in mind," she said as she donned her sunglasses and shifted to her human form. Fast change, he observed.

"What does it feel like, my dear?" he asked with idle curiosity.

"The shift? It's hard to explain." She began, thoughtfully; carefully choosing her words to explain intelligently, "it's like I become gelatinous and then flow from one form to the other; does that help?"

"Immensely, thank you Miss Granger," the wand-smith replied before adding, "Make sure you learn and practice either the glamour or notice-me-not charm and don't worry about the underage magic business; wand-less casting can't be easily detected and your average ministry employee is too lazy to watch for it. It may be a moot point anyways; your magic may have a bakeneko's signature now, magical creatures cannot be monitored, that's why the ministry tries to control them through isolation and registration; that's why they fear them."

"Thank you again, I'll keep that it mind, too," the young witch and bakeneko replied as she turned and exited the store.

"Good luck, Miss Granger," he said quietly to her back as she left his store.

)(

Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's right hand man—woman—and most ardent supporter hung in the shadows of a grimy café trying to sip something that was supposed to be coffee. If she'd had had a choice, she'd be anywhere but here but—besides being Knockturn Alley's only café—it offered an unobstructed view of the comings and goings of Wiccan's Wands and Rods, which obviously saw very little traffic. Grimacing, she took another sip and absently fingered the wand she had liberated yesterday; it had aggravated her to no end, especially once she realized that the little mudblood and her shared cores. I can't believe her wand contains such a noble core, a core truly fitting me—a descendant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—why would it accept a mudblood of all things. She scowled at the offending item with hate. Bloody thing won't even let me use it, her miffed and flabbergasted thoughts growled, even when I just hold it—like now—I get an unpleasant tingling in my hand and it's downright painful to try, only to utterly fail, to cast even the simplest spell. I can't wait to get my hands on that little, flippant mudblood; I'll show her what happens when she disrespects her betters with crafty little tricks like what she did to her wand. Not only that, she's flaunting our laws what with her under-aged apparition and magic use yesterday. Little mudbitch needs a lesson in knowing her proper place—though, I gotta respect that ballsy disregard of hers. Pity, she's not pure, I'd love to get a piece of that young ass of hers—what am I thinking? Belletrix mentally blanched with that thought and briefly hated herself for it; the feeling passed quickly. Yep, a real shame, I bet The Dark Lord would find her to be a suitable ally; if only I didn't have to worry about him sleeping with her: she is kinda hot. Aaugh, this is insane; what am I thinking!

As the dark witch's inner turmoil swung from one extreme to the other; the source of her irritation stepped from the wand shop. Naughty little mudblood must be apparating again. Her thoughts raged for a moment before settling. Is she wearing muggle sunglasses? It's not like Knockturn Alley ever really sees the sun, why would she need those? Bellatrix continued to study her prey and noticed that Granger was somehow different. She seems pretty confident for a mudblood teen; far more so than a month ago. She seems more powerful too, somehow—really powerful: this sudden flash of insight sent an unwelcome twinge to her husband neglected quim. Morgana's nipples, she silently cursed in surprise over what felt like her body's betrayal, a frigging mudblooded little girl is making me hot. I'm definitely going to play her hard before giving her to my master, she's gonna pay for making me feel all dirty and sinful and hungry for her—likely virgin, unless she's spread for Potter or that Weasley mongrel—tight and filthy little twat!

Fuming, The Dark Lord's Right Hand watched the object of her ire—not to mention unwanted desire—gracefully and, odd as it seemed, nobly walk towards the alley's exit; a notorious and bizarrely obvious blind spot known for nefarious deeds. Good, she thought with evil glee, a quick little apparition, a hex to her back and a quick little sidelong hop with my booty . . . but where to? Bellatrix Lestrange considered and then snapped her fingers as a useful destination came to mind; the out-of-place sound drew unwelcome attention from the lowly barista who dared to look her way, she scowled fiercely in response before popping out in apparition. The barista frowned when she departed, the dark witch hadn't paid for her coffee; still, he was glad she was gone and there was no amount of Galleons that would make him give chase for a Knut's worth of crappy coffee drunk by Bellatrix Lestrange.

)(

The most feared witch of her generation looked hungrily at her shackled guest, the one and only Hermione Granger; the smartest witch of her generation as her useless nephew had scoffed repeatedly—ad nauseum—since their family's recent reunion. Draco's such a fop, just like his useless daddy, she thought, licking her lips in anticipation of the sensual wonders her and this young witch would soon embrace. It didn't matter how much he made fun of my little muddy, here, and her friends—Potter anyways—he, and his loyal failures Grabbe and Goyle, were always on the losing side of every encounter they ever had; what a fool. Oh well, they do say that doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting different results is a hallmark of insanity; he definitely inherited that from poppa Malfoy: poor Cissy, dregs for both husband and son, not that I can claim any better, mind you. Sisters Black, she mentally jeered in disappointment, my how the mighty and noble have fallen.

She shook her head, hoping to cast away such pointless thoughts, and looked at her captive and smiled lasciviously. She had spent the better part of two hours treating the unconscious girl as a dress up doll, conjuring one skimpy and enticing outfit after the other until she found just the right one. Finally, she knew she had found it when the sight of the bound and surprisingly naughty Granger girl made her wet. Naughty, because Bellatrix had discovered her little muddy had been wandering Knockturn Alley, minus nickers and bra—not to mention a very unladylike slit in the rear of her robe; at quite the debauched height, no less.

"Wakey, wakey; muddy," the dark witch teased, pointlessly, before adding, "Ennervate."

Waking, the first thing Hermione noticed was that her wrists were bound over her head and that she was almost not standing on a cold floor that barely touched the soles of her feet. Worrisome and uncomfortable were words that came to mind, immediately, but she didn't really feel frightened, which was definitely odd; she should've been freaking out about now, at least she would've been yesterday—well, perhaps the day before—but today, today she felt oddly calm. She sniffed the air and whiffed the obvious odor of pheromones, from someone she didn't recognize, and her cat-sensitive ears made out the sound of slightly labored breathing and a rapid heartbeat. She opened her eyes, finally, and looked around.

"Welcome back to the land of the living muddy . . . hey, what did you do to your eyes?" the young witch immediately focused on the shadow from whence the voice came; she found an obviously aroused Bellatrix Lestrange sitting on something reminiscent of a throne. She smiled, the young bakeneko held no fear for the witch most would find quite terrifying and considered her options as the older woman exclaimed, "What the hell! Why are you smiling?"

"Good morning Mrs. Lestrange—or is it afternoon now?—I was sorta hoping to find you; after all, you've got my wand," the young witch said very politely. "As for my eyes . . . well I was kinda exposed to some unexpected magic yesterday and the eyes were . . . are . . . part of the result."

"Morgana's sodden quim, muddy!" the elder witch exclaimed, this was not how she had pictured this play out in her mind at all, "You're shackled, nearly naked and in an unknown place; you're facing your mortal enemy and you're—what—being . . . polite?"

Upon hearing 'nearly naked' Hermione tried to see what she was wearing, which had prompted Lestrange to make the comment; from what she could see, the young witch liked it. Bellatrix seemed to have gone out of her way to make her look and feel sexy, what with the tight fishnet; black leather trim and cup bustier with laces—not to mention the super short leather miniskirt, which—thankfully—wouldn't impede her tail when she changed. Hurray for no knickers, she thought as she casually considered her circumstances

"Wow, I look sexy, thanks; it's a good look for me," the bushy-haired witch surprisingly said, "All I need now are a pair of stiletto heeled ankle boots—like yours—and I'll have the boys drooling and maybe a few girls too. By the way, Mrs. Lestrange, you have a very enticing scent about you this afternoon and you look pretty hot too—I never knew I was attracted to mature ladies. As to polite? Would being rude serve me any useful purpose, whatsoever?"

"Are you frigging insane, girl!" Bellatrix screamed, "I've got you completely at my mercy and you're what . . . bloody hell . . . you're hitting on me?"

"Are you interested?" Hermione purred playfully, "I'd love to lose this edge I just can't seem to get rid of by myself."

"Crucio!" Voldemort's first lady screamed and spittle almost hit her crazy captive.

The young witch turned bakeneko and her feline enhanced reflexes saw the pulse of magic leave the older witch's wand and cross the distance—fifteen feet maybe—between them like it was in slow motion and had she not been shackled she'd have easily dodged it. She braced for its impact—perhaps goading this evil and crazy bitch, I mean witch, wasn't my best idea, after all, she thought in resigned humor. This is gonna hurt . . . a lot, she thought as the magic washed over her and hurt it did—at first anyways—until her body took the magic and transmuted it into a giant wave of ecstasy, which coursed through every feline sensitive nerve she now possessed: Hermione Granger threw back her head and yowled.

The rush of seeing another writhing in pain had not lasted near long enough for the witch (who usually got off on the sight of young women in pain; even as her obviously messed up self, of which Bellatrix was fully aware, wished it was her) and she was sorely disappointed. The alluring sight had started right—undeniably, the mudblood had begun to scream and thrash in pain, appropriately—but then suddenly, this . . . this Hermione Granger, lost the alluring look of agony. Somehow, it seemed she had replaced it with a look that the dark witch could only describe as bliss and that euphoric look was accompanied by a scream, which only came from extreme pleasure. Becoming exceedingly displeased—not to mention frustrated—by this odd turn of events, Bellatrix Lestrange stopped casting the Cruciatus Curse and watched her target's breathing begin to slow; she noticed a shine, which could only be the liquid gleam of arousal on the girl's inner thighs. What the hell just happened? She asked herself in a daze.

Still panting a bit, Hermione opened her eyes and looked at her captor through a haze of lust, "That was . . . wow . . . beyond incredible . . . more than anything I've ever felt before; I'm so wet I could be swimming: do it again!"

Bellatrix just stared at the girl.

"Please?" her question sounding so innocent to the elder witch's jaded ears that she couldn't answer, "No? Oh, very well then; my turn . . ."

Before Voldemort's first lady could respond, she watched as the girl's wrists passed through the leather shackles, which were binding her; Hermione leapt towards the surprised witch. As the girl soared effortlessly through the air, Bellatrix watched—awestruck—as the Granger girl shifted into something she could only describe as feline, before vanishing. Suddenly, the cat-girl thing was behind her—she could sense her there, even though she had landed without a sound—and before the woman could act; strong fur-backed arms tightly embraced her as something plunged painfully into her bare shoulder. It was Bellatrix Lestrange's—the most feared witch of her era—turn to scream and not in rapturous release, either; blackness claimed her.

)(

Grey replaced black as light filtered through Bellatrix Lestrange's eyelids and the world of waking called to her. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on the floor and, unexpectedly, not secured in any fashion: even her wand was within reach. Sitting up, she felt off—like her body wasn't her own—and it forced her attention on herself; hoping to discover what was wrong.

Focused on herself; she noticed a steady thump, thump, thump, which she knew was her heart but counterpointing it were the beats of another. Her hearing was off too, as if her ears had turned to point at that unexpected sound. Curiously, she felt the side of her head; shockingly, her ears were gone. Slowly, her palms rose but she already knew what she would find and, upon reaching her scalp, she felt something that hadn't been there before. Aghast, the dark witch discovered she had kitty ears, furry ones no less—and likely cute looking to boot—on top of her head. For the first time in a very long time, Bellatrix Lestrange felt the stirrings of what could only be panic.

Upon finding her ears, the witch hurriedly began checking for other changes and the next one was found virtually immediately; the Dark Mark she had been so proud of was gone, replaced by an equivalently sized tattoo of a kitten in the very same spot. Adorable, she thought and couldn't believe that that was the first thing to come to mind. What did my empress do to me? She thought, her mind swirling in confusion. Empress! Merlin's balls, what did muddy . . . And, as her thoughts turned derogatory, she felt stabbing pain in her head. Whaa? Was her less than lucent notion once the pain subsided; she resumed her self-exploration.

I've got a frigging tail now, was her next discovery when the new appendage unexpectedly flicked her in the face; and fur too! She silently screamed while noticing the backs of her hands and arms; with an extreme twist, which should've been impossible for her, she caught sight of her now furry hind: her newly grown fur grew silky smooth in shining black and stretched from her head to her heels. From her back, she turned her attention to her front. My boobs! She immediately lamented as her mind agonized over this unwelcome discovery. They've shrunk . . . they can't be more than a B cup; I haven't been a B cup since I was twelve or thirteen, I hope my queen likes small breasts—at least they're perky. She took a little solace in that thought before being hammered by yet another unwelcome realization. Queen! She's a mudblood, her thoughts were interrupted by another burst of pain, which almost made her pass out this time; it was nausea inducing too.

What did she do to me! A thought that bore repeating, what will my Lady—I mean Lord think, as she felt the shift in her allegiance, a shift that forced her to realize that she now loved Hermione Granger, unconditionally. Confused, Bellatrix Lestrange began to cry for the first time since she was seven or eight—that a Black never cries, especially when others can see, became a forgotten lesson. She sobbed, literally, and curled into a tight ball, tucking her new tail in; earnestly hoping that she was having a bizarre dream but knowing she wasn't. Eventually, calm returned; she uncurled and unfurled her tail, which continued to twitch with anxiety. She looked around and noticed a snoozing ball of fur, comfortably lying on the hard floor nearby and purring. Bellatrix grew angry.

"Granger!" She yowled more than screamed humanly and pounced towards the lump of felinity that she knew was the girl and cause of her grief.

If the dark witch thought she could mount a sneak attack on the girl, she was profoundly in error because as she soared through the air; Hermione woke, pounced and met her half way. Bellatrix—her tail having bent back awkwardly on impact—painfully caterwauled as the young cat-girl forced the elder witch firmly to the ground. Amidst her cries of protest, Voldemort's most loyal now former follower was pinned to the ground by a girl with kitty ears: it seemed absurd.

Hermione studied the witch beneath her and approved of Lestrange's new looks—she was hot and feline and oh so tasty smelling—and she needed to exercise all her self-discipline to keep from ravishing her former enemy; she hadn't been able to suppress her wanton smile, though.

"Well, well Mrs. Lestrange, you're looking inordinately exotic this afternoon," Hermione purred as she casually leaned closer to the elder witch before licking one of the woman's new pointed and furry ears; which she then gave a playful nip: Bellatrix shuddered beneath her. "I was a little worried earlier—you seemed almost dead, you know—when it looked like you weren't going to wake up. Quite the conundrum for me, too, since neither of us—especially you—would be welcome at St. Mungo's the way we are now. Thankfully, you eventually began breathing like you were sleeping so I thought I'd take a little catnap and wait. So, how do you feel?"

"What did you do to me you filthy mud . . ." Bellatrix let loose with a pained yowl.

"Tsk, tsk Mrs. Lestrange let's not get insulting here; let us be civil with each other, we are in what you could say was the same purrroverbial boat," the younger witch said with a grin that displayed the fangs the elder witch had felt earlier.

"Wh . . . what did you do to me . . ." she began; before virtually spitting out, "my Empress?"

Hermione briefly purred very loudly before saying, "Empress? I like that but we needn't be so formal amongst our clowder; if we adopt this stiff and ritualistic rigmarole: how will we properly play together? Meow . . . my Bellakits Lestrange you look maybe twenty-five and like a total and willing slag; do you have any idea how hard it was to not give you a tongue-bath while you were sleeping? No? Well let me tell you, I had to lick furiously to ease my heat and my whiskers, if I actual had any, would have been drenched—hurray for being a cat!"

The pinned witch had been about ask the Granger—girl?—what she had done, again, when the graphic images of what was lastly implied came crashing into her thoughts. Nimue's knickers, she can do that . . . can I? Bellatrix asked herself, as impure visages—for a proper pureblood that is—briefly flooded her mind; these phantasmagorias were creating a pent up itch of arousal she'd soon need scratch, unless she could force her thoughts back to her present circumstances, which seemed intent on rending her from her prior and known self.

"Wha . . . what did you do to me?" Bellatrix, after a bout of id wrestling, managed to ask again and with increasing desperation; she was really beginning to enjoy—shamefully for a properly raised witch of Black descent—having cat-girl Granger sitting on her.

"I made you—you're my kitten now, my Bellakits; not that half-blooded maniac Voldemort's," Hermione whispered sultrily and her face was so close that the older witch clearly smelt the younger's own arousal on that youthful face; it answered Bellatrix's former self-query and fanned the forge between her legs, Hermione added. "I'll treat you better too . . . mee-oow, you're one erotic kitty, Bellakits; I bet you taste good too. . . can snake face even get it up—if he has one—or was he neutered? What a waste."

"M . . . made me?"

"Yes, my purrretty kitty, made you," said the girl that Bellatrix had assumed was Potter's pet. "I can do whatever I want with you or, conversely, have you do whatever I want you to do to me but I'd never hurt you—unless you like that sort of thing, I'm pretty frisky now after all. Being a cat is quite liberating you'll find, my sweet little kitten, a lot of things you once thought were important become far less of a concern."

"What are you . . . me . . . us?"

"Crookshanks calls us bakenekos," Hermione-cat replied.

"Who's Crookshanks and what the bloody hell is a bakeneko, mudbloo . . . yeoow!" she yelped from the flare of agony in her head.

Hermione flinched and then gave Bellatrix a sidelong stare before answering, "Crookshanks is my cat, a bakeneko is a part cat part human from Japanese folklore and what's with the 'yeoow'; it was startling, did I hurt you?"

"It seems," the elder cat-witch felt compelled to answer, "that if I think or speak ill of you, I get a shooting pain in my head. Crookshanks is your cat and it told you about this bakeneko thing, huh?"

"He's a he, not an it; he hasn't been fixed ya know," Hermione countered, "I had a similar conversation earlier about him and yes he told me—well, thought to me—he's really quite knowledgeable, he thought a lot to me."

"So—according to your cat that is—we've become . . . what was that again . . . ahh yes, bakenekos."

"Yes, that's what he called us," replied the cat-girl from her dominant position.

"Turn me back!" Bellatrix demanded.

"Can't, don't know how," Hermione answered with a feline's indifference.

"You knew how to change me, didn't you?"

"Hurray for instinct, now—that's what it was; I didn't think about what I was doing when I bit you, I just did it. I like the results, though, I was so worried I'd be alone I'm glad it happened and you have a fine feline form, kitten: let's play," the young femme-feline invited as she rolled off the older witch and onto her back. Bakeneko Bellatrix pounced—surprised to have managed it while lying on her back—and landed on Hermione; she now pinned the younger cat-girl to the floor.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you it's suicide to turn your back on your enemy or let down your guard, my empress?" The dark witch growled, before scowling. Morgana's saggy tits, what the fuck's wrong with me . . . empress? . . . again?

"I know that, I just felt I'd give you a purroper chance, Bellakits," the younger witch rumbled, seductively.

"Are you sure you're not insane; why would you give me a chance?"

Hermione smiled, her fangs clearly displayed, and answered, "It's for the best of our clowder, kitten. You weren't the only one to lose consciousness when I bit you; I did too. I was out for about five minutes and while I was out, my mind filled—I'm guessing here—with what I'd call the racial memories of what we are; what Crookshanks called the bakeneko. I am our clowder's queen, right now . . ."

". . . what the hell's a clowder?"

"A clowder is a colony of cats, silly, don't you know anything my purrretty kitty," she replied in full know-it-all regalia. "We are only two now so we must have the strongest queen if we are to survive; if you defeat me our rolls will be reversed, I'll be yours and together we'll carve out our own sensual niche in this world—I'm so excited; I'm so glad I'm not wearing nickers."

"You're not only insane, you're a total and utter slag, my nephew Draco told me . . ."

". . . Draco? Give me a break," Hermione kitty-hissed, "That little useless ponce who struts around as the epitome of purrblood elite? I'd bet my tail he called me a good for nothing mudblood who's obsessed with rules and grades; who's not being properly dutiful and spreading her legs like the whore she should be."

Bellatrix gazed into the sapphire eyes that stared up at her and said, "He called you a frigid teasing prude, actually."

"Frigid and teasing, like that makes a lot of sense, but prude? Well purrhaps . . . before," she retorted with a shameless smile before—feline fast—she groped the older witch's breasts and gave them a hard squeeze.

The elder witch threw back her head and yowled sybaritically, "Mee . . . oow!"

The dam that had checked Hermione's avarice ruptured as Bellatrix's rapturous caterwaul went straight to the younger cat-girl's quim and set her aflow. She threw away the last shreds of human modesty and with more strength than bakeneko-Bellatrix could counter; she forced the older witch back onto her back, ripped open the women's corset and crushed her lips against her new playmate's in a heated kiss while her hands found the exposed mounds, which were the breasts of Britain's most feared witch.

Merlin's ballocks, a frigging mud . . . ahh . . . muggle-born bitch is raping me. Agonized Bellatrix silently, torn between fear and eager submission.

I'm not bitch, I'm a queen you former Death Eater fuck toy; your queen, not some slobbering canine! Thoughts undeniably belonging to Granger intruded as their sudden intimacy breached the ether between their minds.

Get out of my head, Granger. The older witch thought, pushing at the presence invading her mind just as the cat-girl's rough tongue invaded her mouth, only to encounter—to Bellatrix's horror—a traitorous tongue that seemed to welcome the intrusion.

Make me kitten: remember, this for our clowder; prove you're stronger and force me from your mind and body and I'll submit. Hermione's thoughts pressed upon Voldemort's first lady's ego incessantly; threatening to crush it.

If I only had my wand, I'd . . . Bellatrix desperately thought.

. . . teach me a lesson? Show the little mudblood her proper place? The young bakeneko thought in derision. After all, you still have my wand, I'd be defenseless; is that what you're thinking, Bellakitten?

Hermione broke their kiss, leaned towards the fearsome witch's pointed kitty ears and said quietly, "I was told something early today that I didn't believe because it sounded utterly outrageous but when I made you and had my little bout of educational unconsciousness; I awoke feeling far more attuned to my magic than I ever had before."

Bellatrix managed to say breathlessly, "S . . . so?"

"Let me, Bellakits, teach you a lesson that will forever shatter your stupid superiority beliefs," Hermione said before softly whispering into the dark witch's furry ear, "Crucio."

Every fiber and ever nerve in Bellatrix Lestrange's bakeneko enhanced body was set aflame to a degree that only the Dark Lord—in his most angry and insane moments—had ever managed. Reverently awed, her queen drove her to willing subjugation and was doing so without a wand and barely a whisper. Thankfully, her empress was merciful and stopped the curse when bakeneko-Bellatrix arched her back so severely that—had she been human—her spine would've broken; it threw the younger witch from the older's writhing body though. With undeniable agility and feline grace, Hermione Granger-cat arched backwards through air and landed silently on all fours. The elder witch turned cat-girl remained on her back, bent her arms up and her lightly fisted hands down, instinctually; Bellatrix Lestrange—the most feared witch of her era—willingly took a pose of feline submission.

Hermione knew she had won her place as the clowder's queen when she had cast her whispered and wand-less Cruciatus Curse. Her unsuspecting foe turned subject and playmate now posed tamely, a few feet before her, awaiting her queen's pleasure and command; bakeneko-queen Granger approached Bellatrix without standing; she would obviously indulge herself fully in the older witch's offer but first studied the kitty who was now hers. Submission without humiliation, that's good. Hermione thought as she looked upon her subject.

Thank you, my empress, Bellatrix thought in reply; that this conversation was taking place in their minds seemed distant and irrelevant to either.

You may prowl with your tail held high, Bellakits; the outcome of our little battle was a forgone conclusion but was necessary to teach you something very important, Hermione thought to her new playmate and ally, we live for the clowder now. If I ever weaken, I expect you to challenge me again but first, do you still wish to be human, Bellatrix Lestrange? If you do, I'd understand because that was my wish only a few hours ago; for me that desire is gone, I think it's because you're here and bakeneko, too.

I think not my queen, Bellatrix thought in reply. I am, was and always will be a servant to those of greater power; it's why I joined Lord Voldemort, his power called to me; I willingly placed my wand in his service: my wand is for you now, my empress.

Bellatrix heard Hermione's mental giggle and then her surprisingly irreverent yet heated thoughts. You don't have a wand and while my clitoris is larger and unhooded now it will never be mistaken for a wand; I doubt yours will be either but—all naughtiness aside—a bakeneko's focus is in herself and not in an artificial artifact created by humans: it's one of the things I learned when I made you. The wand-smith at Wiccan's Wands and Rods called me a Supreme Witch but it's the bakeneko, which focuses my power; I'm sure you'll be the same.

Bellatrix Lestrange looked up at her new master and queen, stunned; remembering what the guy in Wiccan's Wands and Rods had said about her pretty kitty empress and felt awe: she had never witnessed a whispered, wand-less unforgivable as either a spectator or victim.

I've heard legends about Supreme Witches and Wizards, Bellatrix thought as she opened herself to Hermione's power and bathed in it, but I thought they were myth. In all the stories, I heard as a kitten—did I just think kitten?

Get used to it Bellakits, thought the cat-girl with amusement, you're entire perspective will be adopting a cat's view and from a cat's point of view, humans harbor a lot of pointless worries, not to mention inhibitions. Meee . . . oow, do you know how much I want to satisfy my heat with you; that thought would've been unthinkable and kinda disgusting two days ago but it only makes me wet now.

Kinda disgusting? That's sorta surprising to hear you say—think—my queen; I'm honored.

Well . . . yeah, I guess but after what happened at the Ministry; I realized how quickly death might sneak up on me. She replied. Even before my rather unexpected metamorphosis, I was shedding my inhibitions and intending to enjoy myself, even if others thought I was a slag. Bloody hell, I wasn't just thinking about boys either, there are a few girls who tickle my developing genderless desire too and now that I'm bakeneko; I'm pretty much ready for anyone or anything if it's fun and feels good: except for dogs—I was never a dog person, anyways—but a big cat, well in the right circumstances . . .

You're not just a slag but a perv too; a big cat?

Hmm . . . feeling a tom's barbs in my purrussy, I get wet thinking about it; too bad Crookshanks isn't bigger. Were Hermione's uncensored thoughts through the link between them. What about you, kitten, what are your unspoken fantasies? You're bakeneko now, lose your inhibitions; since society's mores are now meaningless noise to us, we're free.

I like . . .

You like . . .?

Nevermind.

Nevermind? Tsk tsk Bellakits, do I need to Crucio you again for an answer? Hermione mentally threatened before receiving a flash of desire that was not her own. Oh, you'd like that my Bellakits, is that it? Do you want my little kitty tongue in your pussy while you're being Crucioed—such a dirty kitty.

The elder turned bakeneko witch flushed like a schoolgirl and mentally replied with a touch of shame. Yes my queen, I'd like that very much; pain makes me feel alive, a gift from Azkaban I suppose—there I felt nothing but abandonment, detachment and an unending soul-sucking and bone-numbing blackness.

Poor kitten; that sounds awful.

It was, Bellatrix thought in reply. You feel nothing good where dementors abound, even masturbation only leads to a chaffed clit.

Your mine now, kitten, and a chaffed clit will never be your reward for the things I'll have you do, Hermione mentally assured.

Is that a promise, my empress? The older yet younger bakeneko mentally blanched; she had questioned her queen and now expected a well-deserved Crucio.

"My Bellakits," Hermione began, sounding inordinately regal, knelt and looked upon her first made, "I'll never punish you for asking a question, even if it's irreverent; I want your respect not your fear, I'm not your former half-blooded master."

"My empress," Bellatrix began, as curious as the cat she'd become, from her place of obedience, "this is the second time I've heard you refer to the Dark Lord as a half-blood, why?"

"Kitten, 'I am Lord Voldemort' is nothing more than a semi-clever anagram for 'Tom Marvolo Riddle,'" the young cat-witch told her clowder-mate. "He is the orphaned spawn of Merope Gaunt and a well-heeled muggle named Tom Riddle and was begot as the result of a love potion; he even grew up in a muggle orphanage."

Bellatrix's old loyalty flared but the feelings for her queen quickly crushed them, she asked, "How long have you known this; who told you?"

Hermione smiled and replied, "I've known since the end of my second year; Harry told me after I was unpetrified following my encounter Slytherin's basilisk. He found out from the solidifying memory of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle that was inhabiting a diary; an unpleasant gift from Lucius Malfoy to Ginny Weasley before her first year—it almost killed her."

"A solidifying memory sounds like very dark magic, perhaps the blackest," the elder witch replied, her tone displaying an intelligence never ascribed by history.

"My kitten," Hermione began in welcome awe, "I never knew . . ."

". . . that Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black was as smart as she was insane?" She playfully retorted from her pose of capitulation. "Like you, my queen, I was top of my grade and loved learning: my goal was to read every book in Hogwarts' library before graduation—didn't manage it but I bloody well tried. Unlike you, I'd been taught arrogance, which was embodied by the faux vestige of my former lord. I never questioned him or his vision—couldn't really—and became a faithful follower: I feel so dirty."

"I'll give you a full body tongue-bath later, Bellakits," cat-girl Granger purred alluringly before asking, "now that you are mine, what do you want?"

Bellatrix smiled lasciviously.

Other than that, you dirty little kitty you, Hermione thought to her new playmate.

"My desires are yours, my queen," the older witch replied, "let me help you fulfil yours."

"I'm not sure if you feel your bakeneko instincts the way I do, yet, my first kitten," replied the brown-furred teen, "but I intend to bring back our noble and divine race. Our yowls—the voice of The Bakeneko—will be heard in the halls of power, nevermore hidden in legend, and if we're not respected we'll make them fear us. We will not hide behind masks—though we may lurk in shadows—and people will know of us and our aims by our words and our deeds. We'll be merciless to those who cross us; tales of out fangs and claws will grow and once we've swept aside those guardian fools of history, who think themselves better by blood, we'll rebuild our world and it will welcome those of open heart and mind and difference."

"My . . . queen," Bellatrix said breathlessly, Hermione's vision was so much bigger than her former lord's.

"And you, my first kitten; my Bellakits," the younger bakeneko said maternally, "will be the matriarch of your own family line within The Divine Claws and Fangs of Clan Granger. Together we'll turn this world on its head and we'll have fun while we do it."

Hermione growled and pounced on Bellatrix; their lips came together and rough tongues explored without fetters as pure blissful bakeneko instinct took over: when they finally needed air, their blistering kiss reluctantly broke. Panting, they nuzzled and licked each other's faces and as the younger cat-girl's lips and tongue explored beyond her lover's face, the older cat-girl nibbled one of her ears and sent shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her queen's body. Hermione's licked and nipped her way down her first's neck and when she reached the junction of the elder's shoulder she bit, her force just shy of drawing blood. Bellatrix yowled and pushed her bare breasts against her queen in ecstasy as kitty-Granger's tongue and lips explored the older witch's shoulder before continuing down. Agonizingly slowly, Hermione's kisses and nibbles reached and then began ascending the firm mounds of the B sized breasts that the queen and her kitten now shared and upon reaching Bellatrix's large and hard nipple, she seized it with her teeth and bit.

"Yessss . . ." Bellatrix hissed, "har . . . harder Her . . . Hermione, harder. B . . . bite it . . . it off . . . if . . . if you w . . . want; d . . . don't c . . . care."

Hermione's mind crashed through Belletrix's thoughts of pure and utter abandon and was shocked to discover the elder witch had meant what she had said; she mentally chastised her playmate. I intend to lap up your milk, when the times come. I will share it with your young so we mustn't do anything to deny your queen or kitten your cream. Still, she did bite harder, just not that hard, and the other for good measure.

"Ahhh . . . a . . . alive; s . . . so f . . . fucking alive!" The sable haired bakeneko exclaimed in revelry before forcibly rolling—leaving the torn garment that had been her corset behind—and pinning Hermione on her back. The elder witch made short work of the now loose bustier she had clad the girl in; her lust-hazed mind drank in the beautiful sight of her topless queen, and her pearly white youthful breasts that looked to be B sized as well.

"H . . . have you been t . . . touched, my empress?" Bellatrix asked with misplaced curiosity, it reminded her that she was bakeneko now, and breathlessness.

"Only by h . . . ealers and m . . . me," was her heated response, as her sapphire eyes—now shared with her ebony-furred playmate—begged silently and permissively.

"No Potter, no Weasley ever tried to grope you?"

Hermione shook her head but hearing Harry's name fanned the fire being stoked by her Bellakits.

"Fools, the both of them," Bellatrix whispered, "haven't they noticed that you are a luscious witch in your own right—even before your gorgeous change? Mee . . . oow, I saw it at the ministry; I've even had a few sadomasochist fantasies of you and I sharing a Crucio's blissful agony while fucking."

Hermione felt stunned and yet—peculiarly—not fearful by the images that flooded her mind when she heard the confession.

"Yes, I'm fucked up, my queen," Bellatrix freely admitted, "I know that and have been for a very long time. I've played many dangerous games in search of release; you're not ready for those kinds of games yet, empress."

The younger witch shook her head in agreement.

The older witch smiled and her grin was more feral than ever, she had a feline's fangs now; she purred lustfully, "Should I make you yowl, my queen?"

"Y . . . yes, m . . . make your qu . . . queen yowl, Bellakits!" Bakeneko-Hermione replied both pleading and commanding.

Bellatrix chuckled and thought, who's the dirty kitty now?

I am, kitten.

How far can I go?

I'll stop you if you do something I don't like, Hermione thoughts radiated her heat to her lover. After hearing my parents last night, I'm feeling frisky—really frisky.

Naughty kitty, were you listening to your parents fuck last night? Bakeneko-Bellatrix teased.

Cat hearing now, kitten—in human and bakeneko form—couldn't not hear if I wanted to: they were filthy but so hot; I want that.

Bellatrix mentally giggled with disrespect, filthy muggles, before thinking to her queen; perhaps you should 'make' them too.

"I . . . I never thought of that!" Hermione exclaimed and surprised her playmate by saying, "My dad's great and he's smart too, he'd make a wonderful tom for our kittens—I wonder if my mom and dad can be made."

My queen, are you thinking of bedding your daddy? Bellatrix thought to the younger witch; she wasn't sure her furry ears had heard her queen correctly.

Well . . .

Just how much have we changed, empress? I should find that thought repulsive—even pure-bloods don't mate that close, cousins maybe but never siblings or parents—but thinking about you being fucked by daddy makes me feel hot.

I think; Hermione silently replied that our change to bakeneko has completely altered out DNA . . .

. . . What's dee-en-eh?

It's . . . it's complicated; DNA is the fundamental building blocks for life on Earth, I keep forgetting most magicals don't follow muggle science.

Perhaps not, but what does this have to do with me not feeling disgusted?

The easiest way to explain it is that my change to bakeneko has made me not my parent' daughter by blood anymore, Hermione thought in response. I'm genetically not related to them so when I see my dad I see a strong, smart tom whose seed will make strong, smart kittens. He knows how to treat his queen right too; you should have heard my mom last night—meow!—she was begging: I want that!

Then let me give it to you, my brazen empress—let me show you how filthy your Bellakits can be. Bellatrix thought, licking her lips in anticipation of tasting the breasts of the half-naked bakeneko between her knees. She looked at her queen and knew words or thoughts of consent were unneeded; the torrid gleam in young kitty-witch's eyes said more than speech could convey and compelled her to action. Lost were thoughts of gentleness—not that she actually had any—as the older witch seized Hermione's breasts in the manner that Bellatrix preferred to be taken, rough and almost brutally. Squeezing hard, she felt the younger witch push into her hands and felt as much as heard the deep rumble of a hungry purr demanding more. Bellatrix complied with a shift in her position, which allowed the black-haired bakeneko to take her queen's nipple between her teeth; she bit, reasonably hard and her efforts were rewarded by a feline hiss that seemed to vacillate between warning and welcome. Loosening her bite, she began to suck and lick, pulling as much of the younger witch's breasts into her mouth as humanly—or bakenekoally—as possible. Her empress' arms wrapped behind her head and with smothering strength pulled older witch tighter into her youthful and first time ravished bosom; Hermione moaned through her purring. Releasing the first breast, Bellatrix turned her attention, mouth, tongue and teeth to the second; eliciting a similar but more heated response from her young queen when she nibbled, licked and sucked.

"D . . . don't st . . . stop, more," Hermione begged breathlessly as Bellatrix mouth came away from her chest; allowing the cool air to playfully caress her wet nipples.

Her bakeneko playmate said nothing as she trailed fiery kisses from the younger witch's breasts and down her stomach stopping briefly to lick and nibble her bellybutton and its sensitive surroundings. Hermione gasped—she hadn't thought that that area was so sinfully sensual and her body responded accordingly. Bellatrix, taking her lead from her lover's body, smiled in a manner that bordered on evil and she felt the echoes of her queen's pleasure resonate with her own; it drove her on and further down. With lips tracing a line across Hermione's abdomen, the dark witch's slow and teasingly enticing descent at last reached and began to climb the hairless mound of soft flesh that preceded the younger witch's sex. For a merciless moment, Bellatrix's rough tongue played the sensitive lines where the pubic triangle met Hermione's legs and felt her queen's squirm of erogenous overload.

"N . . . no t . . . tease me," Hermione stuttered breathlessly.

With the scent of her queen so close to her nose, Bellatrix's own hunger overrode her teasing nature and forced her to Hermione's engorged, hoodless and somewhat large clitoris, she licked the nerve packed nub and heard the yowl of her bakeneko playmate that accompanied the strong hands pulling her head between her queen's legs. Held firmly, Voldemort's former dark courtesan frantically began licking and sucking the small organ and felt her empress pleasurably thrash beneath her. Knowing it was she giving her mistress such pleasure, Bellatrix doubled her efforts as her face grew increasing sodden by her queen's copious flow and began licking her queen from perineum to clitoris and then back again, while probing as deep as her tongue could reach while spreading Hermione's lower lips in passage. More moans and an unabashed yowl escaped from her queen when Bellatrix added a finger and pushed it inside. She felt no resistance; actually the opposite: it felt as if the younger cat-girl's quim was hungrily drawing the intruding digit deeper inside.

"D . . . do each oth . . . other," Hermione almost incoherently stammered.

Bellatrix the bakeneko heard her lover's words and felt her own sex clench as Hermione willingly offered to pleasure her; it had been a long time since someone freely offered to go down on the dark witch and her empress' request was intoxicating. Shifting from between her lover's legs, the older witch moved and turned about, her knees not feeling the hard, unrelenting floor on either side of Hermione's head. Properly repositioned, her tongue and finger resumed their interrupted efforts as she lowered herself to a young and eager mouth.

Hermione only half comprehended what she had said and it wasn't until Bellatrix knelt over her face did her sexually addled mind fully connect to her situation. Above her, glistening and as hairless as her own her; Bellatrix's sex was the first—other than her own—she had seen up close and her eager eyes took in every fold and detail of the delight presented to her. In a moment of lucidity, she was thankful that she had had the opportunity to explore—with her tongue and lips—her own pussy and felt that her first time giving oral sex would not be fraught with uncertainty nor hesitation. That moment quickly fled, as the scent of Bellatrix's arousal grew stronger and nearer and, expectantly, she stretched out her tongue to await the first pearl of her lover's delight.

Bellatrix didn't hesitate and the first touch of her queen's tongue on her fully engorged lower lips sent her to blissful oblivion that had her raising her head and yowling herself. She felt Hermione lick and suck on her quim like a seasoned lesbian slut. The girl's tongue roamed and wormed its way about her most sensitive spots so thoroughly that Bellatrix's effort to please her empress was replaced by her own need to grind against Hermione's eager mouth. She felt roaming fingertips through the soft fur now covering her hind and an unhesitant tongue willing to lick her anus as freely as her slit and clit. Suddenly, Voldemort's former first lady felt her queen's hand take hold of her tail at its base and then pull very hard. Bellatrix yowled again and her release poured into her empress' mouth as the crushing orgasm gripped her body in countless waves that fed back upon themselves; to become fuel for the next. At last, the waves became ripples and spent, bakeneko Bellatrix flopped to her side; her body was limp, she was barely conscious and panting furiously.

Hermione took almost as much pleasure from her playmate's orgasm as Bellatrix had and the bountiful torrent streaming from the older witch. Her body resonated to the throes of ecstasy felt by her partner as the younger witch valiantly struggled to breathe through her nose while her lips remained sealed to her lover's quim. Hastily swallowing and swallowing again, Hermione fought to keep pace with the copious flow filling her mouth as Bellatrix's release, inhumanly cycling, went on far longer than the inexperienced teen had ever expected. The shallow breaths, which were the best she could muster through the deluge she was receiving, began to take their toll; she felt lightheaded and dizzy. Finally, her playmate grew limp, her well ran dry and she collapsed to the floor; it allowed Hermione to inhale finally in the manner her body was urging. The younger cat-girl quickly regained her breath and rolled to her side, her lover lay beside her and looked spent; Hermione felt frustrated and from that sprouted anger. How dare she deny her queen's needs, the bakeneko fumed silently.

Her empress' thoughts forcefully intruded upon Bellatrix's barely cognizant mind and her queen's displeasure became her primary concern; she opened her eyes to the sight of Hermione's crotch, mere centimeters from her face. A stab of guilt pierced her pleasant afterglow as she remembered it had been her queen's idea to unselfishly do each other but she had allowed herself to be swept away in the joy of having a willing and eager playmate after being denied for so many years. Rolling Hermione onto her back and herself to her knees; the dark kitty-witch Bellatrix crawled and knelt between her liege's legs. I wish she wasn't on the floor, the older witch ruminated, if she was higher I could really express my gratitude. Upon that thought's end, a circular mattress took form beneath her sexy kitty-witch queen and raised her to the perfect height for a thorough quim plundering.

Stunned, Bellatrix asked, "Did you do that my queen?"

"No," Hermione breathlessly replied, "you must've."

"I'm not holding my wand . . ."

A bakeneko's focus is in herself, Bellakits, and not in an object, Hermione thoughtfully reminded, I'm glad that trait was passed to you; we'll need to explore our powers further—we can do that together, later—now, get your tongue and fingers working: please your empress!

As you command your highness, Bellatrix silently conceded from her place between Hermione's legs and the heady scent of her young lover's arousal was met by the sable-furred cat-girl's experienced tongue. Rewarded by her queen's yowl, she resumed pleasuring her playmate and absorbed in the hedonistic waves emanating from her mistress Bellatrix Lestrange began to purr. Those low rumbling vibrations added an extra dimension to the rough textured lingua playing upon the teen's clitoris drew further—and most unladylike—yowls and growls from the brown-furred bakeneko. Hermion's heat fed the older witch's actions; a finger joined the already active tongue and pushed inside. Hermione gasped and thrust herself upon the intruding digit and Bellatrix again noticed that her empress' quim seemed to try to pull her finger in deeper. She added a second and then, without considering her queen's inexperience, a third; another yowl tore from her young lover's throat and thinking she had hurt Hermione she quickly pulled back.

"D . . . don't stop," Hermione panted.

"I don't want to hurt you, Hermione," Bellatrix replied, surprised that she was concerned and using a muggleborn's first name, intimately.

"I . . . I'm not made of glass, y . . . you know; you c . . . can't break me."

"But . . ."

Don't worry, Bellakits, the older which heard her queen's thoughts. Even if you hurt me a little, I'll soon heal—we're witches after all.

Hermione's reassurance melted Bellatrix's concern and without further hesitation, the older witch plunged three fingers past her lover's labia knuckle deep. The young witch arched her back and yowled again as she clenched upon the bliss inducing intruders that were playing with and exploring the deeper recesses of her core. She pushed hard against the fingers and face that were driving her pleasure; encouraging her lover to abandon any thoughts of gentleness. Hermione's act of invitation was answered as Bellatrix began to thrust her fingers into the young quim she was pleasuring in the manner she preferred: almost brutally and fast. The young cat-girl's release quickly followed the hard pounding of experienced fingers against her inexperienced 'G' spot. She exploded both physically and figuratively as her orgasm gushed and an errant pulse of raw magic knocked her lover back. Bellatrix caterwauled in pain; her tail had bent too far back when she landed on her ass but Hermione didn't hear: she'd fallen to a blissful sleep.

Picking herself off the floor, Bellatrix rose on her hind paws—feet—and padded soundlessly to her queen's side. Gently moving the sleeping bakeneko fully onto the mattress, she conjured two pillows—sans wand and words without realizing it—and joined her queen in a well-deserved catnap. Purring and cuddled into the side of a filthy mudblooded half-breed, Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's right hand and most feared witch of her era fell to the most restful slumber she had had since she was a kitten.