Hermione could see his mood shift. Where he seemed only intrigued before, he now appeared dangerous in a way she never expected Voldemort to be. What was she supposed to do? What would the true Bellatrix do? She was stuck in Lestrange's body, unable to get back, with a wild mix of her own and this mad witch's memories swirling around in her mind.

She should have never touched that damn ritual. Regardless of how desperate their Horcrux search was, it was utter madness to attempt a dark ritual. A blood ritual. But of course, against the combined might of Harry and Ron, she was powerless. She barely escaped the torture in Malfoy Manor alive, only to hear that the boys somehow managed to wound Lestrange and draw blood. Blood that they carefully kept on their clothes and the dagger that initially drew it.

And then they had insisted that there was something they should be able to do with it. Something more than a Polyjuice Potion. That was her suggestion: Brew a Polyjuice Potion to deceive the guards a Gringotts and break into her vault, potentially finding another Horcrux there. But no, that was too risky, they said. The Death Eaters would be on high alert after the three of them escaped with the rest of the prisoners, so there was no chance they would get away with it.

No, the more logical, saner option of course was to read up on what one could do with the blood of another witch or wizard.

It should have been no surprise that Bill Weasley would be able to provide her with all the books about the Dark Arts and blood magic that anyone could ever want. Just as it should have been no surprise that the boys found countless excuses why they couldn't help her read through them all.

She found the Ritual of the Shared Eyes pretty quickly. From the moment she read the first paragraph, she knew that this one would be useful. A ritual that would allow the witch or wizard to experience the world through the eyes of another, without said other noticing. She would be able to see what Bellatrix Lestrange saw, and knowing how close she was to Voldemort, everyone agreed that this was it.

Only when she actually drew the ritual circle and sat down in it, closing her eyes after speaking the words, everything changed for her. What were only five minutes for her friends were hours for her. Whatever this ritual was doing, it did not give her a glimpse into the actual life of current Bellatrix Lestrange. Instead, she experienced moments from days ago, weeks ago. Maybe even years ago.

There was no mention of this in the book, but then again, these bloody rituals never actually described their effects in such a way that the reader clearly knew what would happen.

One day, when she was alone in the room with the ritual circle – Harry and Ron long decided that it was boring to watch her – she spent a whole day with Bellatrix. It was immediately clear to her that this was during the First Wizarding War, as Voldemort looked human. And while she knew from current Bellatrix that there once had been a sexual relationship, she was not prepared for what she witnessed.

Voldemort took whatever pleasure he wanted from the witch, while she obviously did not enjoy a single act. Hermione could not understand why Lestrange would so willingly give herself to him, again and again resuming the activity, seducing Voldemort whenever he was about to leave her bed. She could feel the excitement this witch experienced, a strange and heady cocktail of triumph, power, and devotion that left her breathless despite not being actually there.

Bellatrix Lestrange did not enjoy the act, but she enjoyed the implication.

And Hermione, never having even thought about sex before, with everything going on in her life, was strangely drawn to it all. Lestrange's pain, the cruel hands on her throat, the bindings holding her arms behind her back, it all made her body tingle in a way she did not understand.

Least of all did she understand why she felt this need to be touched by the wizard she saw through Bella's eyes. She knew who he was and she despised everything he stood for. As his hands closed around her throat, around Bellatrix Lestrange's throat, while he pounded mercilessly into her, all she could do was whimper. A rush of heat shot through her body and catapulted her out of the vision.

That night, when she lay on the floor between Harry and Ron in the safety of Fleur and Bill's cottage, she struggled to keep her hands above the blanket. She hated Voldemort, yes, she despised him and everything his Death Eaters stood for. But the image of him, robbing Lestrange of any and all agency, her absolute submission; the way Hermione just knew that under his hands, she would never have to think for herself again. It all whispered sweet temptation.

And it made her hate him even more.

She didn't want to do it again. She told Harry and Ron the next day. It was a bad idea. They didn't get anywhere. She couldn't control what she saw. When she was. But the boys insisted. Harry was especially convinced that if she just kept looking, she would find something. Anything.

So she sat down again after breakfast, trembling and fearing and looking forward to it all. Maybe that was why the ritual went wrong this time.

When she opened her eyes this time, she was in Lestrange's body, as expected. Only, she was able to move. She was controlling Bellatrix Lestrange. Memories rushed into her mind, a wild mix of whatever the witch had experienced up to this point.

She escaped Voldemort's bed as soon as she dared to move. Spent the day locked into her – Bella's – room, trying to force herself awake. Spoke the words to end the ritual over and over. Paced up and down, tried to hurt herself, but nothing worked. She was trapped here, in the year 1972, with no way back.

And now she was trapped under his body, his dark glued to her face, a strangely predatory gleam in them. She wondered whether this was a game he was used to playing with Bellatrix. She would pretend to flee from him while he pursued her until she finally let herself get caught. Some sick perverted sex game that he needed to get it up. The look in his eyes made her shiver, whatever it was.

But it was not only fear she felt. Which made everything so much worse.

"There is no rest for you, Bella," Voldemort purred.

He lowered his lips onto her exposed neck, planting a wet kiss there before lightly biting into her soft skin. Hermione's eyes went wide and she had to supress a moan. Before she could stop herself, her hands shot up and pressed against his chest, trying to move him off her.

"My lord," she pleaded desperately, "please, not tonight."

He didn't move an inch and simply chuckled. "I know you don't mean that, dearest. I can feel your little shakes of excitement."

With too much ease, he caught both her wrists in one hand and pulled them over her head, holding them in place in an unforgiving grip. She tried to struggle free, but quickly realised that it was a vain attempt. This was a younger Voldemort, still in possession of his own body and at the height of his power. Not only his magic, but his sheer physicality was leagues above any strength she had. Maybe if she had been in her own body, she might have been able to catch him off guard. But Bellatrix Lestrange was way too frail, despite all her madness.

Wide eyed, she watched as he pulled his wand with his free hand. Without a single word, without even any movement of the wand at all, he disappeared both their clothes before tossing his wand to the side. Heat crept into Hermione's cheeks. While she knew that this was not her body, she still felt her nakedness. And his.

Afraid to look anywhere else, she fixed her gaze on his face. "I never say no, my lord," she tried again, "I never do. Don't you see I really mean it today?"

The grin that never left his lips darkened. "I know only too well that you never deny me, Bella. And I will not allow it today either. You are mine."

He almost growled those last words. Then, before she could say anything back, his fingers closed around her throat and tilted her head back. His lips came crashing down on hers, devouring her, conquering her mouth without mercy. And when she felt his hand close harder around her throat, making it difficult to breathe, to think, she had now power left to supress another moan.

Heat shot through his body. Voldemort didn't know what he had expected, but certainly not this. Whoever this was, she liked it how he treated her. He stopped the kiss for a heartbeat, trying to manage the wave of arousal that threatened to drown his rational mind. Despite Bella's eagerness to submit to him, she never actually enjoyed it. He thought he liked that. He thought he revelled in her submission exactly because she didn't enjoy it. That it was the height of power and lust that made her full surrender so sweet.

But the urge he felt now to explore every inch of the witch's body, to bury himself deep inside her, to hurt her until she cried, was something else entirely. This witch didn't want to submit. She craved it. She needed it. And whoever this was, she obviously hated him, the defiance in her eyes telling a story that didn't need Legilimency to decipher.

Voldemort knew exactly what he wanted.

Using one of the spells he could do without his wand, he fixated her hands on the mattress above her head and then stepped back from the bed. Standing above her, he could only admire the beauty in this young witch. He no longer saw Bellatrix Black. The way this one looked up at him, the fire in her eyes, the way she gasped for air, it really was a completely different person.

Leaning against one of the beams of his four-poster bed, he crossed his arms before his chest and stared down at the witch. For a second her gaze flickered away from his face, lower, but immediately she stared back up at him. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips in that anxious movement that he found almost endearing. The red in her cheeks was just as amusing.

Whoever this was, it was obviously someone used to a small feminine body. Maybe a young witch, brewing Polyjuice Potion in her spare time, intent on getting close to him.

"My lord?" Her trembling voice broke the silence in the room.

Voldemort tapped one finger against his lips thoughtfully. No, this was no Polyjuice incident. The house very obviously recognised this witch as a true Black family member. Could it be young Narcissa, destined to marry the promising offspring of Abraxas, looking to lose her virginity to the one man her sister so adored?

No, that was unlikely as well. What her sister had in madness, Narcissa had in rational calculation. She wanted to marry the Malfoy boy and would do nothing that could affect her chances.

"Tell me a fantasy." Voldemort did not know whether that idea came from, but it would be intriguing to hear what the mind of this mystery witch was like.

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled. So indignant. She was either very prude or very inexperienced. Possibly both. "I want to do something today that you like. Didn't you say you were sore? I want to be mindful of that. So, tell me a fantasy."

The look she gave him was murderous. Whoever this was, she really seemed to hate him. And she seemed to know him well enough to understand that we would never be mindful of anyone. Waiting, he held her gaze while she studied him with an intensity that could never be Bella.

"What if my fantasy was to do nothing?"

Without blinking, he replied, "I know that's not what you truly want. Don't force me to fetch the Veritaserum."

Her eyes widened briefly, before she settled back into a defiant glare. Interesting. She did not want to be forced to tell the truth. Of course, she was currently pretending to be Bellatrix Black and it made sense that she would want anyone to find out. But he sensed there was more. She was not here to get close to him, that much was clear. She also had made no attempts to harm him, on the contrary, she seemed to want to avoid him.

She wetted her lips again, cheeks flaming red, her eyes determined. "Then just … stay where you are, have a wank, and be done with it."

She was eager to be rid of him. Despite being so reactive, she obviously did not want him to touch her. And before he knocked, he heard her move around in her room, clearly frustrated with whatever was going on.

She was stuck.

This fiery little witch was stuck in the body of Bellatrix Black and did not know what to do about it. Maybe she even was someone from the opposition, someone from Dumbledore's army, someone who tried an ill-conceived spell to spy on dear old Bella and now found herself stuck instead.

Voldemort had to supress another chuckle. He would have a lot of fun tonight, pushing the unsuspecting witch even further than he ever did with Bellatrix. And then in the morning, he would take along, painful tour through her memories, extracting every single piece of information he could gather. He couldn't kill her, so to speak, as he did not want to kill Bella, but he would make sure this invader would leave with a mind broken and no information gained.

"You know, dearest Bella," he purred while he circled to the other side of the bed, "for someone with such a filthy mouth you sure are holding back. You can do better. Tell me a fantasy."