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jingabitch · 8 months

Text

Collared - Harry Potter

SUMMARY: The war ends with a complete victory by Voldemort. Hermione is captured as a prisoner of war, and gifted to the Black sisters who were on the right side.

PAIRING: Narcissa x Hermione; Bellatrix x Hermione

GENRE: dark erotica

WARNINGS: dubcon; mind control; D/s dynamics; gratuitous use of the term mudblood; rimming; whipping

WORD COUNT: 7.4k

A/N: This is not a nice fic, please heed the tags. The Black sisters do not suddenly grow tender feelings towards Hermione, and to the extent that she consents, it's due to magical mind control.

I see this more as a verse where more exploration can be done, rather than a fixed narrative. I'll update as and when, but each part can stand alone. Kinks explored in every chapter will be listed in the chapter notes.

This is cross-posted on ao3 under the same pen name.

Hermione knelt on the cold marble floor of the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, her eyes blank and glazed over, a dead giveaway that she was under the Imperius curse. She was fully naked, her hair a mess of riotous curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back, her arms hanging limply by her sides.

Voldemort stood next to her, his hand resting lightly on her head. He wasn’t hurting her, just… demonstrating his ownership, Hermione thought to herself in the small corner of her mind where her consciousness was tucked. She wasn’t able to control her body and actions, but enough of her remained that she could follow what was happening.

High-ranking Death Eaters were crowded into the drawing room, surrounding Voldemort and Hermione. If she were still in control, she would have shivered, drawing in on herself. But she wasn’t.

“It has been a trying year,” Voldemort crooned in that unsettling, high-pitched voice. “Yet all of you are still here, my friends. Triumphant.”

He paused, and the room filled with dutiful applause.

“All of you will be rewarded handsomely for your efforts, of course. I am a generous master.” The tension in the room could cut a knife, everyone in attendance straining to hear every word, on edge waiting for the next announcement.

“The spoils of war will be distributed, not to worry,” Voldemort continued, waving his wand hand - the hand that wasn’t currently on Hermione’s head - carelessly. “But for the fairest of trophies, Potter’s mudblood whore…” His hand tightened in her hair. Pain, flaring through the nerves in her scalp.

Hermione remained utterly still, no trace of the discomfort she felt anywhere in her body language. The Imperius curse wouldn’t allow it.

“Narcissa!” Voldemort called. She was standing near the back of the crowd, but as he said her name, the Death Eaters obscuring her from vision stepped aside and looked at her.

“Ah, sweet Narcissa. Our gracious hostess,” he purred. “You have sacrificed much to the cause.” Including her husband, who had survived the war, but was clearly not the same. Not her Lucius anymore. A shadow moved across the clear cerulean of Narcissa’s eyes, before her neutral expression returned.

“Perhaps this will provide some comfort for you.” Voldemort’s hand in Hermione’s hair loosened, and he patted her on the head. “Use her as you please, but do share her with your sister.”

Bellatrix. If it were possible, Hermione retreated even further into the tiny corner of her mind that she currently inhabited. No, God, no…

She could still hear the sound of Bellatrix’s laughter ringing in her ears, the awful, hot feeling of her body on top of her as she Crucio’d her relentlessly, writhing against the cold marble floor - this floor - and trying hopelessly to buck her off.

Even as terror rose inside her, Hermione tilted her head to observe the Black sisters, holding hands as they stepped forward into the circle. Under Voldemort’s control, her face rearranged itself into a sultry little smile, directed at her two new mistresses.

“Lovely,” Bellatrix said in a lilting tone, grinning at Hermione in a way that had Narcissa tightening her grip on her older sister’s hand. It wouldn’t do to have her sister breaking their new pet too early, after all. With Lucius gone, she needed someone to warm her bed.

“My Lord, we humbly thank you for this gift,” Narcissa said, bowing her head slightly in deference. She tugged gently on Bellatrix’s hand until her sister followed suit. Bellatrix, despite her slavish devotion to Voldemort, seemed to have forgotten the basic manners that the Black sisters had been taught as girls long ago.

“I trust you will ensure she behaves appropriately,” Voldemort said as he lifted his Imperius curse, handing her over to the sisters.

“Of course, my Lord. We have just the thing.” Bellatrix actually winked at Voldemort, the demented bitch, Hermione thought a little hysterically.

Before she could do so much as take a breath by herself, Narcissa had placed a silencing charm on Hermione. It didn’t stop her from screaming, hurling abuses at the pair, at Voldemort, and everyone in the room, but thankfully, no one had to be bothered by the silly outburst.

With a nod, Voldemort dismissed them, and the sisters left the room with Hermione levitating behind them, still under the silencing charm. As she felt herself floating, the stream of empty threats and curses changed to a small scream, and then hysterical begging. God, she hated flying, and this was somehow even worse.

---------

The item that Narcissa was holding in her hands was a Black family heirloom, fished out of the depths of the Gringotts vault for this very purpose. It looked like a plain leather strap, but fairly hummed with powerful magic as she brought it closer to Hermione.

She’d been released from her Imperius curse but was still in a full body bind - Bellatrix’s idea, as the older woman had been keen to see the terror in her eyes, fully aware of what was going to happen to her.

“Dirty little mudblood,” Bellatrix cooed. “We’re giving you the most precious gift you’ve ever gotten.”

Narcissa smirked as she walked up to Hermione, standing next to her sister, and didn’t make any move to disagree. “A Black family heirloom,” she explained, dangling the strap in front of Hermione. “Really, we’re sullying it by putting it around your filthy neck.”

Anger at the insult flashed across Hermione’s eyes, but she wasn’t able to say anything in protest. In truth, she was slightly intimidated by the magic that emanated from the piece of leather, so powerful it seemed almost sentient. Having it so close to her made her recall those terrible months of spending hours on end with the Horcrux around her neck.

“In days long past, before house elves,” Narcissa took on an almost scholarly tone, sounding for all the world like she was a professor delivering a History of Magic lecture at Hogwarts, “it was common for lowly-born wizards and muggles to take on jobs as servants to wealthy, Pureblood families. The Black family prized ourselves on having the best, most loyal servants.”

Of course they did, Hermione thought almost hysterically. Only the best for the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and that extended to magically bound servants. She was sure now that the collar contained black magic, intended to turn its wearer into a mindless supplicant. Don’t put that on me, she wanted to scream, but she couldn’t.

“I’m sure you’ll be interested to know how it works,” Narcissa continued, as if she were totally unaware of Hermione’s inner turmoil.

“You little swot,” Bellatrix interjected, smiling cruelly, as she took one end of the strap. Narcissa continued to hold the other. “What an opportunity this is, for you to experience firsthand what real magic, from those with pure blood, can do.”

Narcissa picked up immediately where her sister had left off, continuing her explanation. “You see, the Imperius curse is almost impossible to hold long-term, and it requires the caster to consciously nudge the person the spell is cast on to do everything. Not ideal for a servant. This collar binds the wearer to the will of the person who put it there, making them totally in tune to their master’s needs, and unable to control the urge to meet every. Need.”

For the first time in her life, Hermione wished she didn’t know something. Feeling her mind, her individuality, seep out of her soul while she was fully aware of what was happening, but utterly helpless to stop it… the alternative, she was sure, was better.

The sisters smirked, totally in sync as they reached around Hermione, wrapping the collar around her neck. The moment the ends of the leather strap touched behind the back of her neck, they fused together, and the leather got hot. Hermione would have cried out or struggled if she could have, feeling like the collar was branding the delicate skin. She was going to blister, there would be scars forever, she thought desperately, as she gritted her teeth against the pain.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, it ended, and the sisters stepped back. Instead of a plain black strap of leather, an intricately braided collar now adorned Hermione’s neck, with a pendant of the Black family crest engraved on one side, and an N and a B on the back. The pendant was comfortable against her skin, the same temperature as her body, but she could almost feel it vibrate as the spell worked to bind her to the witches who’d put the collar on her.

Already, she could feel her sense of self slipping away, as Bellatrix waved her hand in her direction, releasing the body bind spell. Even though there was nothing physically preventing her from moving anymore, she found herself totally uninterested in getting up, or even shifting to alleviate the pressure on her knees and let the blood rush back to her toes, which were completely numb by now.

Instead, as she blinked up at them, she couldn’t help but bite her lower lip as arousal curled, warm and tight, in her lower belly.

“Good night, Bellatrix, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Narcissa breathed, never once taking her eyes off Hermione.

“What? I wanted her first. I’m older,” Bellatrix whined.

“Need I remind you why the Dark Lord thought I was in need of a new companion, Bella?”

Sulking, Bellatrix exited the room, slamming it with a wordless flick of her wand to demonstrate her displeasure. Hermione flinched at the loud noise that echoed throughout the room, before returning her gaze to Narcissa.

They were alone. Seeing the heat in Narcissa’s cerulean eyes, Hermione swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, understanding in a flash that the desire she felt coiling in her body was merely mirroring what her new mistress felt. What she wanted from her.

She wished she could say no, scream in horror and beg for mercy. But the collar was working its magic, and she found herself wanting to please Narcissa just as much as Narcissa wanted to be pleased.

“Come here,” Narcissa instructed, her voice calm and cool, and Hermione hated how affected she was. Instinctively, she shuffled over, still on her knees, not bothering to question why she didn’t get up. Of course Narcissa wanted her on her knees.

“You’re filth,” Narcissa informed her, so matter-of-factly it was like she were telling her what the weather was like right now. “Do you think you deserve to touch me?”

“No, mistress,” Hermione forced out, hanging her head in shame. It was true, she knew, what her mistress was saying. How could she, low-born with dirty blood, ever think herself worthy?

With her wand tip under Hermione’s chin, Narcissa forced her new pet to look up at her. “I’ll give you a chance to earn it,” she purred. Hope and joy sparked incandescently in Hermione, and she strained towards Narcissa almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, I will, I’ll do anything,” the words spilled from Hermione’s mouth.

“We’ll see about that.” The cruel tilt to Narcissa’s lips made Hermione’s pussy clench in on itself, slick already starting to seep out. Was that the magic collar, or was that her? The difference was already blurring.

With her empty hand, Narcissa raised her robe ever so slightly, and looked down meaningfully. Hermione’s gaze followed, landing on her beautiful ankle boots. They were impossibly expensive, Hermione was sure, probably a custom order. Dragonhide leather, the upper was Slytherin green, with a black square toe and low heel. The scalloped edge lent the boots a feminine flair, while the shiny onyx buttons added a touch of luxury.

“Kiss my boots,” she ordered, her voice low and sultry, and Hermione immediately bent to do just that, pressing light, delicate kisses along the side of her foot, and up towards her anklebone, trembling slightly.

Narcissa smirked down at Hermione. After the years spent in constant fear and worry - for herself, for her family, and for the world that she knew - the relief of knowing that the good and just had won, and that her son was safe, was heady. And here was one of the key perpetrators of the war that had wreaked such havoc on her life, a mudblood, finally acknowledging her rightful place in this world. At Narcissa’s feet, worshiping her boots.

Her elation and her arousal fed into each other, twisting into a ball of tension in her core. Her toes curled in the boots that Hermione was currently dragging her lips against.

“Enough.” Narcissa’s voice cracked like a whip in the room. She stepped away from Hermione, and went to sit on the armchair by the fireplace. “I’m ready for bed.” She reclined in the armchair, her hand pulling on her robe slightly, exposing her boots again.

She looked at Hermione expectantly, and that was all the cue Hermione needed to start moving again. The brunette crept to Narcissa’s feet again, and started undoing the many buttons on her boots, as Narcissa watched on, satisfied. There were spells she could use to instantaneously undress, she knew, or even house elves she could call on, but watching Hermione slowly, painstakingly, undo the buttons on her boots sent a shiver down her spine.

Finally done, Hermione pulled the second boot off and set it to the side, next to its sister. Without being prompted, she knew what to do next, picking up first one, then the other foot, and giving Narcissa a brief foot massage, working out the tension in her feet and the discomfort from being in the heeled boots all day.

When Narcissa decided that she’d had enough of this, she used her foot to nudge Hermione away then stood. “Undress me,” she said, and Hermione rose to her feet for the first time since all of this had started.

Because a pureblooded witch like Narcissa wouldn’t dream of putting something as Muggle as a zipper so close to her body, Hermione found herself working to unfasten what seemed like an endless row of tiny concealed buttons all down the back of her long dress.

As she worked diligently, she chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her wits about her as each unfastened button revealed a little more of Narcissa’s soft, snowy white skin. She wanted to touch it, she thought, put her mouth on it and…

Catching her wandering train of thought with horror, she gritted her teeth. The magic in the collar was truly something, winding itself deep into her psyche. Soon, she knew, she wouldn’t be able to distinguish between her own thoughts and the magic.

Finally undoing the last button, she reached up and slid the robes off Narcissa’s shoulders. The rich black fabric pooled around her feet, and she stepped out of it. Hermione went to pick up the robe, but Narcissa stopped her. “Leave it,” she said, her voice commanding. “The house elves will get it later.”

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded silently. She knew there was something there that she should object to about the elves, but the thought slid away from her stubbornly, eluding her the harder she tried to grasp it in her mind.

Despite now standing in front of Hermione in nothing but her underwear, Narcissa continued standing before her, the picture of confidence and relaxation. She was dressed in white lace lingerie that was probably from the wizarding version of La Perla, a longline bra, skimpy thong, and a garter belt that held up her sheer stockings.

Hermione slowly undid the hook fastenings on the back of Narcissa’s bra, counting at least ten, before reaching down to unfasten the garter from the stockings. The entire outfit was totally impractical, practically impossible to get in and out of by oneself. She probably needed assistance with her clothes every day - assistance that Hermione would be providing from now on, she realised.

Kneeling in front of the blonde woman, she slid the stockings off Narcissa’s legs, the feel of her knuckles sliding against bare skin sending a shiver down her spine. There was no reason why she should be feeling like this, why every bit of physical contact, no matter how unerotic, felt like foreplay. Except for, she knew, the collar, priming her to be everything her new mistresses wanted and needed. And based on how she was feeling, she was to be a sexual plaything for them.

The stockings off, Hermione reached up and hooked her fingers in the waistband of the delicate lace panties. Narcissa’s facial expression didn’t change, but she shuffled her feet slightly further apart to give her more room. Agonisingly slowly, her heart pounding so hard she was almost dizzy, Hermione drew the panties down her legs.

As the gusset was pulled away from her crotch, sticky tendrils of arousal stretched between Narcissa and the fabric, leaving Hermione staring helplessly as she forced back a whimper. When the last strand snapped, Hermione looked up at Narcissa hesitantly, only to see a completely neutral, relaxed expression on Narcissa’s face.

If she were a lover, Narcissa might have looked slightly embarrassed to be caught in this state, or might even have given her a flirtatious wink. But she wasn’t - she was barely even a person to this woman - so there was no need for any sort of response or acknowledgment that this was affecting her more than she let on.

Holding the scrap of lace in her hand, Hermione couldn’t help but stare at the thick white liquid pooling in the crotch. Her mouth watered helplessly.

Narcissa must have known, because she laughed condescendingly, staring down her nose at the brunette kneeling at her feet. “Go ahead,” she encouraged, as if she were speaking to a small child. “Have a taste. It’s as close as you’ll get.”

Even as the hurt and disappointment flooded her mind, her body couldn’t help but react, clenching on itself. “Wh- what?” she stammered. There was no reason for her to feel this way, she screamed internally. She didn’t want this. But Narcissa did, and so her mind and body leaped to obey.

“You don’t really think I’ll let you put your filthy little mouth here, do you?” Narcissa’s fingers swept through the neatly trimmed white-blonde curls at the apex of her legs, before spreading her nether lips for Hemione to take a good look. When she withdrew her fingers, they were shining with a thick layer of her arousal. The scent of her pussy filled the room, heady and strong.

Her hands trembling, Hermione brought the panties to her face, inhaling deeply as her eyes sought Narcissa’s, needing some validation or approval. A slight arch to Narcissa’s brow was all she found, but somehow it was enough.

Emboldened, she stuck her tongue out and took an exploratory swipe along the crotch of Narcissa’s ridiculously luxurious panties. The flavour burst onto her tongue, sharp, tangy, and salty, and Hermione was instantly addicted. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she needed more.

All semblance of dignity abruptly vanished as she fell on the underwear like a ravenous maniac, sucking the slick out of the fabric, her tongue pressed against the spot where Narcissa’s pussy had been less than a minute ago. It was still warm, and Hermione’s eyelids fluttered shut as she moaned.

“Liked that, did you.” Narcissa’s tone was filled with cruel amusement. Having the mudblood on her knees in front of her debasing herself filled her with power. Her certainty that this was how the world should be sank into her bones.

She leaned forward and wiped her dirty fingers on Hermione’s hair, as if it were a rag, then went to stand behind the armchair, leaning forward and bracing her arms against the back of it. “I can’t stand the thought of your filthy, mudblood mouth on my cunt, but maybe we can find another use for it.”

The collar wouldn’t allow Hermione to be anything but the most dutiful servant, and it burned against her skin until she refocused her attention on Narcissa, looking regal and aristocratic despite being utterly naked, her hair pulled back into a sleek twist. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Narcissa clicked her tongue impatiently. “I’m sure you can figure it out, mudblood. Didn’t they call you the brightest witch of her age?” Her tone was derisive, and Hermione flinched.

She stared up at Narcissa from where she was crouched on the floor, the picture of round-eyed confusion, until the older woman raised a brow as she leaned forward just a tiny bit more, and realisation flooded Hermione.

“O- oh,” she said, as she scuttled behind Narcissa, sinking back down on her knees behind her pale arse. “You mean - ”

“Obviously, yes,” Narcissa snapped, sounding for all the world like she was irritated that Hermione had taken so long to grasp something so elementary. In reality, her heart was thudding in her chest, and she could barely keep her breathing steady. One of her darkest fantasies, this was something she’d never even breathed a word of to Lucius. She’d expected to go to her grave without realising this dream, and the Dark Lord had, in all his wisdom, had granted her this.

In the dimly lit room with its dark decor, Narcissa’s entire body seemed to glow like a beacon, and Hermione was entranced as she leaned forward. She placed her hands somewhat hesitantly on the globes of her mistress’ arse, spreading them slightly. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch Narcissa like that, but hearing what sounded like a choked off moan instead of angry exclamations to get her mudblood hands off her, she figured she was doing okay.

The sensitive area between her arse cheeks was darker and redder than the rest of her skin, with a few sparse hairs near the rosebud. Hermione’s mouth opened against her will, and filthy words poured out that she barely registered as coming from her. “Oh, Mistress, your arse is so pretty, can I please lick it, I want to taste your perfect pureblood arsehole.”

Narcissa smirked into the darkness of the room. The magic in the collar really was something, she thought. As a teen she’d read about the effects of the collar in her ancestors’ journals, but experiencing it in person was totally different. “Well, if you insist,” she drawled, as if she was doing Hermione a favour.

With permission granted, Hermione dove in, licking a stripe between the older woman’s arse cheeks. She knew she should be revolted and appalled at what was happening, but arousal was making it difficult to think straight. Before her eyes, the rosebud clenched and then relaxed, and Narcissa leaned forward just a tad more, spreading her legs slightly wider.

She laved her tongue over her captor’s arsehole, getting it wet and shiny with her spit, before using the point of her tongue to go in little circles around the wrinkled skin. With Narcissa’s small sigh of approval, she alternated between using the flat of her tongue and the point, until she wriggled her arse just a little in her face, and the tip of her tongue dipped slightly into the furrow.

“Yes, that’s good,” Narcissa breathed, pushing her arse further back into Hermione’s face.

Catching the hint, Hermione worked her tongue into the blonde’s arsehole, just a little, and feeling it clench around the intrusion. “Yesss,” Narcissa moaned, throwing her head back as her hands tightened on the cushioned backrest of the chair. This was it, she thought a little wildly, as sweat prickled on her hairline. Her deepest, darkest, most depraved urges being fulfilled - and by a Mudblood, no less, so filthy she could barely stand it.

Overcome, she let go of the chair with one hand and reached downwards mindlessly, dipping her fingers into her dripping quim before circling her clit. Softly, gently, almost sweetly, a stark juxtaposition from the lewd, vulgar act happening just inches away.

Realising that Narcissa was touching herself, Hermione redoubled her efforts, pushing further into her arse, almost seeing stars at how tightly it clenched around her tongue, and at the bitter flavour that burst on her tongue.

“Fuck, yes,” Narcissa hissed, rubbing her clit harder. “Fuck my arse with your tongue,” she encouraged, and Hermione pulled her arse cheeks apart further, leaning up slightly to get deeper. Her own pussy dripped with arousal, but she barely registered it, so caught up in her task.

Narcissa had commanded it, and the collar made sure she delivered. She didn’t think she’d ever done anything as diligently, as devotedly as she was currently eating the pureblood witch’s arse, so deep that her nose was jammed against the crevice between the cheeks. Her tongue drilled deep, rejoicing in every breathy moan and tremble, the slick sounds of her tongue combining with the squelching noises of Narcissa frigging herself.

It didn’t take long for the pureblood witch to reach orgasm with the double stimulation to her pussy and arse, and she cried out loudly, shuddering as she clenched down on her fingers in her pussy, her thumb continuing to rub her clit, working herself through the most intense pleasure of her life.

In its wake, she slowly removed her hand from her pussy, but Hermione continued to lick her ass. Even though she’d already cum, it felt nice, so she allowed her to continue for a few more seconds before pulling away.

“You did well,” Narcissa allowed, inclining her head slightly. Even with her hair slightly messy, her face and breasts flushed, she looked like a queen. “You may have a treat, my pet.” With that, she dangled her hand in front of Hermione’s face. “Lick my hand clean.”

Obediently, Hermione did just that, sucking the two fingers she’d used to frig herself into her mouth, her eyelids fluttering closed again as she moaned, her tongue laving the soft skin and gathering the slick. When she couldn’t taste it anymore, she moved on to her thumb, pulling it into her mouth and gently sucking.

Finally, there was no more, and Hermione released Narcissa’s hand, a look of slight disappointment written all over her face.

They walked into the palatial bathroom, Hermione one step behind Narcissa, head bowed, to find that the house elves had already prepared Narcissa’s bath. Large enough to rival the one in the prefects’ bath, it was filled with warm water, steam gently rising off the top, and covered in a mountain of bubbles.

Already nude, Narcissa stepped into the bath easily, and sat down, leaning back with a blissful sigh. Slightly awkwardly, Hermione knelt beside the bath.

“What are you doing? Get in. You have to wash me,” Narcissa said with her eyes still closed, and Hermione did so, flustered. She carefully undid the twist and washed Narcissa’s hair, then her body, running her soapy hands all over. Her arms, her neck and collarbones, then her perky, pink-tipped breasts. The pureblood witch didn’t move a muscle to make things easier for her new servant, continuing to recline comfortably in the luxurious bath. As Hermione’s hands slid down her belly, Narcissa allowed her legs to fall open, giving her access between them.

Kneeling in front of the older witch and gently cleaning her quim was decidedly not what Hermione had thought would happen today, but Hermione didn’t question it.

Finally, Narcissa was clean, and she stood up and got out of the water, waiting for Hermione to dry her with large, fluffy towels that were warmed just so and placed on a stool right by the bath.

“Clean yourself,” Narcissa instructed as she left the bathroom, and Hermione hurried to do so, hopping back into the bathwater which was now slightly cooler.

When Hermione left the bathroom, she found Narcissa already sitting in the massive four-poster bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. “Come here. I don’t like sleeping alone.”

Bewildered, Hermione slid under the covers on the other side of the bed, and with a wave of her hand, Narcissa extinguished the lights.

---------

When Hermione woke up the next morning, she was alone in the bed. Feeling almost like herself, she sat up, pushed back the covers, and went to the bathroom.

After she was done, she walked around Narcissa’s huge room slightly nervously, not sure what she was supposed to do when she was alone. She didn’t have that much time to think about it, however, as the collar started to feel warm again, radiating heat insistently against her skin.

Still naked, and coming to a realisation that this would likely be a permanent state for her moving foward, Hermione peeped out the bedroom door to check if the corridor was clear. As she did so, there was a pop sound, and an elf apparated in front of her.

“Mipsy is to take the mudblood to Mistress Bellatrix,” the elf said in a squeaky voice. When Hermione nodded, Mipsy wrapped her fingers around her wrist and apparated them both to Bellatrix’s quarters.

“Mipsy has brought the mudblood,” the elf announced, before she disappeared yet again, leaving Hermione alone with the witch. Bellatrix was sitting at her desk, feet propped on it as she leaned back into the chair, holding the parchment she was reading up.

Tossing the documents she was reading carelessly back onto the desk, Bellatrix swung her feet onto the ground and stood. “Mudblood, so nice of you to join me today,” she cooed with a mocking lilt to her voice, her wand in hand.

As Bellatrix rounded the table and came closer to her, fear screamed through Hermione’s veins. The slight tilt of her head, that deranged grin, the way she held her wand up, the tip almost touching her temple. All of it brought back terrifying memories of the last time she’d been at the Manor, when Bellatrix had tortured her until she wished for death.

“I did so miss the sound of your screams,” the dark witch leaned in and whispered in her ear once she was close enough. Hermione blinked hard and swallowed dryly, trying to force back the hysteria. The collar wasn’t doing anything to adjust her mental state like it had last night. Bellatrix was enjoying her terror, feeding off it.

“And now…” the tip of her wand trailed gently along the curve of her ribs, making her grit her teeth, bracing herself for what was to come. Suddenly, Bellatrix dug her wand sharply between her ribs, and pain flared as Hermione choked on air. Panicked, her knees gave out and she collapsed on the ground, gasping.

“Not quite a scream, was it, darling,” Bellatrix sneered, and Hermione was back in that drawing room, back on the floor, crying in fear and agony. She hugged her knees, tucking her chin in and rocking back and forth.

“Ah, that’s no fun,” Bellatrix griped, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of brown curls. “Look at me while I’m talking to you, mudblood.”

Her vision blurred by tears, Hermione looked up at the witch currently pulling her head back painfully. “Filthy thing,” the older witch muttered, before drawing back and spitting on Hermione’s face. It splattered on her cheek and she flinched, but made no move to wipe it away.

“You’re mine now, mudblood. The Dark Lord gave you to me for doing such a good job crushing your kind.” She traced along Hermione’s jawline with her wand, the younger witch’s eyes trying her best to follow the wand tip.

“Now I think I want to enjoy my reward. Crucio!” Bellatrix snarled, and red and white light jetted forth from her wand.

Hermione screamed and cried, writhing on the floor as the pain seared through her body, feeling like her tendons were being pulled apart, muscle peeling from bone, and skin from muscle. This was it, she thought feebly, she’d survived the final battle only to die like this, on the floor of the Manor, where she probably should have the first time…

There was the telltale pop of apparition, and then abruptly, the pain stopped, leaving Hermione crumpled in a heap, her face turned towards the floor.

“Sister,” Bellatrix said snippily. “I don’t believe I interrupted your time with our pet.”

“Bella, are you utterly daft? You can’t Crucio her like that!” Narcissa snapped back, stalking towards Hermione, who was still lying prone, tears leaking from her eyes, which were open but unseeing.

“She is my pet, and the Dark Lord said - ”

“She is our pet, and she won’t be for much longer if you torture her until she’s a mindless vegetable like you did the Longbottoms!” Narcissa turned Hermione over with her foot, looking her over critically.

“You never could take care of your toys, Bella,” Narcissa continued reproachfully. “If you ruin this one - ”

“The Dark Lord will give me another,” Bellatrix insisted, her chin tilting up obstinately.

“He will, will he? Are there many mudbloods left to give out?” Narcissa asked drolly, and Bellatrix subsided, sulkily. As the new Director for Magical Law Enforcement, she knew very well that the number of Muggleborn witches and wizards was dwindling every day. A positive outcome, to be sure, but it did mean Hermione would be rather difficult to replace.

“No one he could give us as a replacement will be as valuable as Potter’s mudblood, and you know it,” Narcissa hissed. “For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything to incapacitate her. I always hated sharing my toys with you.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, then?” Bellatrix demanded petulantly.

Narcissa raised a brow. “I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. I did, and not one Unforgivable was used.”

“Did you?” That sly tone was back in Bellatrix’s voice as she found something new to capture her interest. “You don’t mind if I have a tiny little peep at what you were up to last night, then, do you? Just to learn from the best, of course.” Before Narcissa could react, the brunette witch bent down and dragged Hermione up into a sitting position by her hair. “Legilimens,” she said, her hand tightening around her wand as she stared into Hermione’s eyes.

Hermione screamed in agony again at the intrusion into her mind. She knew that Bellatrix was a skilled legilimens, but the way she’d forced herself in betrayed none of the finesse that she should have. Bellatrix was tearing into her mind like it was so much tissue paper, and she could feel the enjoyment as she made her suffer.

It wasn’t difficult to find her memories of what happened last night - Bellatrix watched them on replay, making her relive them, the shame and embarrassment bubbling inside her anew as she watched how debased she’d been, begging on her knees and doing such depraved things. Of course, the older witch saw how she was feeling now, too, and laughed.

“My sweet, sweet, Cissy,” she breathed, when she finally left Hermione’s mind. “Who would have thought? Perfect, beautiful, ice queen Cissy.” She was clearly mocking her sister, but Narcissa just tilted her head haughtily, unwilling to be shamed, uncaring that her older sister had access to her secret kinks through their shared pet’s mind.

“Did you learn something useful, Bella?” After a lifetime of dealing with her oldest sister, Narcissa could give as good as she got.

Bellatrix sneered. “I think not. I would hardly let the mudblood put her mouth on my body.”

Narcissa wouldn’t do anything so pedestrian as shrug, but her dismissive expression demonstrated how little she cared about her sister’s criticism. “Why don’t you try something physical, rather than using your magic?” she suggested. “You might find it… quiets that mind of yours.”

With a wave of her wand, the empty wall by Bellatrix’s desk was abruptly filled with racks and shelves filled with BDSM equipment, the likes of which Hermione had only seen a few times, during her summers home when she got a little too far down the Internet rabbit hole.

A collection of floggers and whips were hung up inside an oak cabinet with a glass window in the door. Ropes and chains coiled on new shelves. Cuffs, various types of gags, dildos, and butt plugs. Intrigued, Bellatrix wandered over to the new addition to her room, while Hermione wondered how on earth someone like Narcissa had such knowledge of muggle kinks.

“Cissy,” Bellatrix said in a singsong voice, her brow raising as she opened the cabinet and took out the whip closest to her, examining it in her hands. Holding the handle in her right hand, she gave a little experimental swat on the palm of her left. The sound made Hermione jump.

As she examined the various types of equipment on display, her expression grew more and more gleeful, until she reached the dildos, vibrators and butt plugs. “I won’t need these.” She frowned at the offending toys.

Narcissa didn’t bat an eyelash, apparently anticipating such a response. “Just in case,” she explained nonchalantly, before her eyes seemed to soften. “It’s not always like that, you know,” she said in a more gentle tone. “Not- like how it was with Rodolphus.”

Bellatrix’s hand tightened on the whip, her shoulders tensing, before she forced herself to relax. “Mudblood, are you ready?” she asked in a tone of forced casualness, the languid grace with which she prowled towards Hermione slightly unnatural. It appeared that what her sister had said unnerved her. “Cissy has given us so many new toys to play with together; aren’t you going to thank her? They don’t teach mudbloods manners, do they?” she laughed.

With the collar on, Hermione was helpless to disobey a direct command like that. On cue, gratefulness immediately flooded her psyche. “Mistress Narcissa,” she said, her eyes shining soulfully, “Thank you for the gifts.”

“You’re ever so welcome, pet,” Narcissa replied condescendingly, and with a final meaningful look at Bellatrix, she apparated away with a pop, and Hermione was alone again with Bellatrix.

She eyed the whip in her hands warily. Bellatrix, seeing her expression, chuckled. “Come now, mudblood. This can’t be anything new to you. Don’t muggles adore physical violence?”

Hermione wanted to stand up and object, to explain that modern muggles did not, that society had come such a long way, and that whatever had been taught to her in the past was grossly outdated, if not plain wrong. But that wasn’t what Bellatrix was interested to hear, so the words wouldn’t form in her mouth.

Instead, Hermione whimpered and cowered. “Please,” she whispered pathetically, and watched as a deranged grin split the older witch’s face. She was really quite beautiful, she noted mechanically, with her fair skin and dark features.

“Now, now, I’m not like my sister,” Bellatrix tutted. “I have no interest in listening to you beg. I just want - ” she drew her hand back, the whip whistling through the air. “To hear you - ” she brought it down on Hermione’s back, as hard as she could. “Scream.”

As the pain of the impact flared across her skin, Hermione couldn’t help but give Bellatrix what she’d asked for. Hearing the first scream ring out throughout the room, Bellatrix tightened her grip on the whip excitedly, then drew it back again, this time for a backhanded swing.

“Yess,” Bellatrix hissed. “Filthy mudblood, how could you ever have thought you belonged among us?” She rained blows down on Hermione to punctuate her words, experimenting with her new weapon, trying different angles, holding the whip in various ways, and testing out which part of Hermione’s body was the most sensitive, made her cry out in the most satisfying way when hit.

Red, angry welts rose on Hermione’s pale skin, glowing in a way that Bellatrix found somehow entrancing. The thing about magical torture was it often didn’t leave visible marks on the skin. All that was left was the memory of the beautiful sounds that they made.

By the time Bellatrix had exhausted herself, breathless with a sore arm, Hermione had been reduced to whimpering, curled up into a ball. There were red lines cris-crossing through her whole body, on her shoulders, her breasts, her tender belly, even her thighs. On some of them, thin bright red lines of blood were welling up through the torn skin. The effect was hauntingly beautiful, Bellatrix thought. Something she’d done that was so visible, leaving a tangible mark. For the first time in her life, she thought the muggles might be on to something.

Bellatrix tossed the whip down next to Hermione, enjoying the way the sound of the handle clattering against the marble made her flinch. “Put it back in the cabinet, mudblood,” Bellatrix sneered. “Just because you’re filthy, it doesn’t mean that my quarters should be.”

Getting up was agony, the inflamed skin stretching and compressing in new ways, pain flaring all over again. Hermione picked up the whip and walked slowly to the cabinet Narcissa had earlier Transfigured, placing it back where it came from.

“Good girl,” Bellatrix said, and somehow the approval was even worse than when she was overtly cruel. It left Hermione feeling off-kilter, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When she turned back towards the room, she noticed that Bellatrix was now lounging on the sofa.

“Come here,” she beckoned, and Hermione crept closer, unsure what she wanted now. Bellatrix was always in motion, and seeing her still and relaxed like this had her coiling in tension. She knelt by the leg of the sofa, next to where Bellatrix sat.

“You worthless thing. Get on your hands and knees in front of me.” Hermione rushed to obey, and then Bellatrix rested her boots on her back, looking totally at ease.

The younger witch gritted her teeth against the discomfort. Bellatrix’s boots weren’t as soft and delicate as Narcissa’s. The Death Eater went out, did things, and needed a sturdier pair to suit her lifestyle. The leather wasn’t nearly as soft, and it scraped uncomfortably against the whip marks on her back.

It was also heavy. Bellatrix was resting the whole weight of her feet on Hermione’s body, and she was starting to sweat with the effort that it was taking to maintain her current position.

“I liked that more than I thought I would,” Bellatrix remarked, and Hermione would have made a snarky comment in response if the collar would have allowed it. The pureblood witch must have seen the mutiny on Hermione’s face, because she laughed, reveling in the control she had over the younger witch.

��Tell me, mudblood, what other sick things do mudbloods do to each other?” and Hermione thought, but didn’t say, that Bellatrix calling BDSM kinks sick after thoroughly enjoying whipping the shit out of her was some top-notch irony.

Still, the influence of the collar was as potent as Veritaserum, because the words poured obligingly out of Hermione as she recited almost word-for-word the Wiki article she’d read a few summers back.

“BDSM is a variety of often erotic practices or roleplaying involving bondage, discipline, dominance and submission, sadomasochism, and other related interpersonal dynamics. Given the wide range of practices, some of which may be engaged in by people who do not consider themselves to be practising BDSM, inclusion in the BDSM community or subculture often is said to depend on self-identification and shared experience.”

Bellatrix hummed thoughtfully. “And what I just did to you is considered a part of that?”

“It would be considered impact play, or pain play. There are other areas like restraints - tying someone up - and there are many kinks that fall under the BDSM umbrella.”

“What else?”

Hermione hesitated awkwardly. “I- I don’t really know,” she confessed. “I didn’t spend that much time researching this.” Most of her time in the past few summers had been spent either at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place, where there was no Internet, and where she had been otherwise occupied with the war efforts.

Bellatrix’s expression, which had begun to open up as Hermione had been explaining about muggle sex kinks, giving Hermione a glimpse of the beautiful woman she had been, once upon a time, abruptly turned sulky again. “You disappoint me, mudblood. You’re totally worthless. Get out of my sight.”

Picking up her wand, she slashed it down, and Hermione felt the tug in her belly that meant she was being apparated to an unknown location until her mistresses had need of her again.

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