Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: thegildedmagpie
From: woldy

Title: Never Pure and Rarely Simple
Pairings: Pomona/Xiomara Hooch, Pomona/Narcissa, hints of Pomona/Bellatrix
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Dubcon, torture, begging, orgasm control
Other Warnings/Content: Knifeplay, kidnapping, bondage, voyeurism, graphic violence
Word Count: ~3,400 words
Summary: Pomona holds her secrets close. What really happened that afternoon in Knockturn Alley, or that night in Malfoy Manor? Whose hand held the knife that gave her those scars?
Author's Notes: I don't know if this is an adequately dark or kinky response to your wonderful prompt, but I had a great time planning and writing it. Many thanks to my beta, J.



The narrative she recounted to the Aurors went like this:

Pomona left Hogwarts shortly after three pm. She Flooed directly from her office to the Leaky Cauldron. The bar was nearly empty, in the lull between lunchtime and the evening rush, but she exchanged a few words with Tom. Later, he confirmed her time of arrival.

As Pomona walked along Diagon Alley she saw a couple of familiar faces, but nobody she would address by their first name. Nothing seemed amiss; there was no fear or anxiety amongst the shoppers, no trace of dark magic. If anything, the unusually warm November day seemed to put a spring into people's steps.

The temperature dropped as she turned into Knockturn Alley, but it was in shade all day so that was to be expected. When planting the North-facing beds at Hogwarts, Pomona selected varieties that were hardy enough to withstand brutal frosts.

Outside Moribund's she passed a tall hooded figure, though that was a common enough sight in Knockturn Alley. Yes, she was a Hufflepuff, but Pomona has never been naive and knew that not everyone came here for flesh-eating slug repellent.

Pomona didn't see anyone else, didn't hear any spells being muttered, didn't feel any disturbance in the air. She was about ten metres away from the door of Pollops Poisons when the world went black.

She awoke to a kick in the ribs. The surface she lay on was hard but not cold, her hands were bound tightly behind her back, and a blindfold covered her eyes.

"Wake up!" a voice barked. "You're going to tell us about Albus Dumbledore."

The official records of what followed are based on the medical report: bruised ribs, extensive cuts and scarring, possible nerve damage, psychological trauma. The Mediwizards at St Mungos are scientific experts, and their conclusions about what happened are presumed to be objective.

In this official version of events there were no identifiers, no personal connections or emotive ties. It was a story without causal relationships, stripped of context, so that her kidnapping appeared random and nearly purposeless. It was a crime the Aurors were destined never to solve.

==============

"How did you get those scars?"

The question wasn't unexpected; everyone asked it sooner or later. If anything, it was a surprise that Xio waited this long. Pomona didn't have many secrets, but this was a story she didn't like telling.

"A difficult plant," she said, sitting up and reaching for a dressing gown.

She slid her arms into the sleeves and tugged the robe closed around her as Xio said, "No it wasn't."

Pomona froze. Damn Hogwarts. Damn Dumbledore for his endless politics, Minerva for her pretensions of moral superiority, and Poppy for her incessant gossip.

"It was from your kidnapping, wasn't it?" Xio said. Her tone made it clear that it wasn't really a question.

Pomona took a deep breath and turned around slowly. "You tell me, since you know so much about it."

Xio's mouth thinned. "You can talk to me about this."

"Supposing I don't want to."

"If we're to be lovers," Xio said calmly, very deliberately, "then I would like us to be able to talk about this."

I'd like the opposite Pomona thought.

"Yes, it was the kidnapping," she said tightly.

"That night..." Xio paused, and then began again. "I know the Aurors never caught the people who did it, but I heard there was a connection to Narcissa Malfoy."

"You heard wrong."

"They said..." Xio began, and Pomona cursed Minerva with everything in her soul, because there was nowhere else Xio could have heard this. "...that you were going to meet her that day. We don't ‒ I don't ‒ understand why you didn't tell the Aurors about that."

The instinctive response was on the tip of her tongue: it's none of your business. That answer would have been easy, safe, but it meant living with the consequences.

"I don't mean to pry," said Xio ‒ liar, Pomona thought ‒ "but if there was something with the Malfoy's... If they hurt you, then I'd like to know."

"What if I said it was just a trip to buy flesh-eating slug repellent?"

For a long moment the tension between them was sharp as a dagger. Somehow, without a conscious decision, Pomona's hands had curled into fists.

"Then I'd call you a liar," Xio said. "But I'd prefer it didn't come to that."

Pomona walked over to the dressing table and sat down on the chair. From the reflection in the mirror she knew Xio's eyes were fixed on her.

"I was due to meet her for tea," Pomona said, looking down at her hands. There was dirt beneath her nails and her palms were callused; it was calming, somehow, to be reminded of earth and sweat. "We were friends at school, and we kept in touch. She used to write to me and I wrote back. The friendship was easy to maintain after I came here, when others weren't. We talked about gardens, mostly; Narcissa always had a gift for planning out a landscape. Growing things is an art for her, whereas it's just a mucky old craft for me. Nobody else has her flair with roses."

"You cared about her."

Xio sounded hurt and when Pomona stole a glance in the mirror, she saw that Xio's knees were pulled up to her chest, arms crossed in front of them. It was the most defensive Pomona had ever seen her, except for when Xio was holding a Beater's bat.

"We were friends," Pomona replied. "We cared for each other."

"A friend wouldn't have betrayed you."

"I don't believe she did."

"Why are your protecting her? Her husband was a Death Eater!"

"Which is why I didn't tell the Aurors," Pomona said sharply. "They frightened her. How much risk would I have put her in if I'd told them? If I'd made her the lead they needed to capture Dolohov and Lestrange? They might have killed her."

"They might have killed you!" Xio retorted.

"They didn't," Pomona said. "I'm hardy. Narcissa isn't."

The silence stretched out between them, taught and dangerous.

"I think you should have told the Aurors," Xio said in a tone that was a declaration of hostilities. "You could still tell them."

"That's not your decision to make."

"It's my decision who to share my life with. I don't want that to be someone who protects criminals and murderers. Someone who lets madmen slice her up into pieces and then do the same to other people, or worse, instead of stopping them!"

"Do you want to know how it felt?" Pomona demanded, whirling to face Xio. "Do you need to be told what it's like to see your own ribcage because the flesh has been peeled away? Do you want me to describe the sensation of a knife at your throat? Because unless you've been through that, Xiomara, you are in no position to understand."

Xio recoiled from her words, almost cowering at the far end of the bed.

Pomona stood and tugged open the robe, "Yes, they're knife marks," she said. "Are you happy to hear me say it? Is that enough voyeurism for you, or do you need to hear what it's like to be cut apart, and then splayed open again for the Mediwizards?"

"No!" Xio cried, raising a hand in front of her face. "I don't want ‒ I'm sorry!"

"Decide who to share your life with," Pomona spat, "but don't think for a moment that you understand anything about this."

She watched as Xio crawled from the bed, pulled on her robe, and left without speaking.

Two days later, Pomona found a note from Xio on her desk, stating in bland, impersonal language that the relationship wasn't working out.

Pomona read it twice and then tossed the parchment into the fire. Her lovers came and went, but the rose Narcissa gave her ‒ a David Austen, classic ‒ still bloomed outside her window every June. The scent lingered in the air, heavy and sweet.

==============

The story Pomona told herself at night was different again; a guilty pleasure as her hands moved over her body, tracing the scars on her breasts and belly, and then down between her legs.

"Pomona? Are you all right?"

She had eased into consciousness on the floor of Malfoy Manor ‒ the distinctive smell of beeswax polish and roses, always roses ‒ and opened her eyes to see the person she'd longed to wake up with. Narcissa knelt beside her, a hand touching Pomona's hair.

"We've got some questions for you," said a peculiar singsong voice. Pomona tilted her head and saw a pair of heeled black boots. One boot moved towards her, nudging her cheek as the voice said, "Shall I ask you, or d'you want Cissy to do it? Who are you more likely to answer, I wonder?"

"Bella, don't," Narcissa protested as Pomona leaned away from the boot.

"It all comes down to which would hurt more," said Bellatrix, pressing her toe painfully hard against Pomona's cheekbone. "What cuts deeper?"

Pomona rolled away from the contact, turning almost onto her back, her tied hands pressing against the floorboards. The face of Bellatrix Lestrange came into her vision.

"Move again," Bellatrix said, pointing a knife at her as though it were a wand, "and you'll regret it."

"No!"

Pomona heard a rustle as the hand on her head lifted and Narcissa stood, positioning herself between Pomona and Bellatrix. "You don't need to threaten her."

"But Cissy," said Bellatrix, flashing a smile like a wolf. "What would be the fun> otherwise?"

"She'll tell me if I ask," Narcissa snapped.

"Will she?" Bellatrix said, smile widening. "Go on, then. Show me."

There was a pause and then Narcissa bent down again, crouching beside Pomona's shoulder.

"Pomona," Narcissa said softly. "We need to know everything you can tell us about Albus Dumbledore."

"No," Pomona answered immediately, more croak than voice. "I can't. They trust me."

Narcissa frowned and Bellatrix let out a wild burst of laughter.

"Not as easy as you thought, is it, Cissy?"

Bellatrix lunged and her boot landed hard in Pomona's stomach, leaving her gasping for air. Before Pomona had time to think Bellatrix kicked her again, a savage blow to the ribs that knocked her flat, hands crushed beneath her.

"Look, scum," Bellatrix began, as Narcissa grabbed her arm.

"Don't!"

"I'll let you into a secret," Bellatrix said mockingly. "Saying pretty please doesn't always work."

The sisters glared at each other and then Bellatrix wrested her arm away.

"The Dark Lord," said Bellatrix, drawing out the words as if savouring them, "doesn't get results with smiles and wishes. You need a little‒" Bellatrix dropped the knife, point first, and it thudded into the floor barely an inch from Pomona's eye ‒ "threat."

Pomona sucked in a breath, aware that she was shaking, and Bellatrix bent down to pull the knife from the floorboard.

"Now," Bellatrix said, resting the tip of the knife against Pomona's throat. "Talk."

Pomona's throat constricted, making speech impossible, as her body trembled.

Bellatrix's hand made a quick movement and Pomona heard the rip of fabric as the knife cut through the neckline of her robe, exposing her from throat to waist.

"I'll ask you one more time," Bellatrix said, positioning the knife against the flesh over Pomona's heart, "and then I'll start cutting. Tell us about Albus Dumbledore. Where does he go, when he's not in the castle? What is he doing?"

Pomona couldn't force words past the block in her throat, but she shook her head minutely and Bellatrix snarled.

There was a slash of pain across her chest and seconds later the blood welled up in a long line from her left breast to her right shoulder.

"Filthy Muggle-lover," Bellatrix spat, and her spittle landed on Pomona's cheek. She levelled the knife again and Pomona screamed as it sliced down her ribs, blood staining the tattered edges of her robe.

There was a flash and Bellatrix was thrown backwards, knife skittering across the floor.

"I said don't!"

"You dare!" Bellatrix shrieked, scrabbling to her feet. "When the Dark Lord hears that you valued a blood traitor over him‒"

"I won't let you hurt her," Narcissa insisted, wand still pointed at Bellatrix.

Bellatrix stopped, her eyes moving from Narcissa to Pomona, and then back. "You'd do that for her," said Bellatrix softly, lips twisting with the beginning of a smile. "What would she do for you? Ask her."

"I asked," Narcissa retorted.

"Ask again," Bellatrix said. "Ask more nicely," she drew out the word so that it sounded lewd, the sexual connotations unmistakable.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," Narcissa replied coolly. "Surely the Dark Lord doesn't condone fraternisation between‒"

"The Dark Lord wants answers," interrupted Bellatrix. "It's that or the knife. Your choice, Cissy. Your chance to find out if she'll do anything you want."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Then Narcissa gave a curt nod and turned on her heel. Slowly, she knelt down beside Pomona and stretched out her hand to touch Pomona's cheek.

"I need you to tell me," Narcissa said quietly. "They'll hurt you otherwise. They'll hurt me."

Pomona meet Narcissa's eyes and her gaze was steady even while her voice trembled.

"And him?"

"Men can take care of themselves," said Narcissa, as her other hand reached out to touch Pomona's chest, fingers soft against the bloodied skin. The touch sent little sparks of pleasure coruscating over Pomona's skin and her breath caught.

"Please, Pomona," Narcissa murmured, as her fingers trailed slowly over the pale flesh of Pomona's body.

Pomona felt pinned like a butterfly on a wall. "I ‒ I can't," she rasped and Narcissa leaned closer until Pomona felt the puffs of breath against her cheek.

"Tell me," Narcissa whispered, sliding a hand over Pomona's breast, palm spread open above her heart.

Heat welled between Pomona's legs, spreading up her body like the rise of sap in spring and a little "Oh," escaped her lips.

"Yes," breathed Narcissa, hand cupping Pomona's breast as if feeling its weight. Her fingers brushed over the wound, making Pomona gasp with pain, then pinched at Pomona's nipple and the pain blurred into pleasure.

"Tell me," Narcissa repeated and Pomona squeezed her eyes shut.

"It's not working, Cissy," Bellatrix taunted.

There was a burst of light, then the shock of cold air against her skin and Pomona realised she had been stripped naked. Better, perhaps, with a spell than with a knife.

"Stay out of this," Narcissa snapped.

"Just trying to help," Bellatrix said mockingly. "Now you can see what you're doing."

"Get out!" ordered Narcissa.

For a long moment, the room was silent; too silent. Pomona knew that Bellatrix hadn't gone anywhere.

"Forget her," Narcissa said, voice softening. "This isn't about her. This is about making us safe. You want me to be safe, don't you?"

"Of course," Pomona said, without thinking.

"Then do this for me," Narcissa said. Her fingers closed around Pomona's nipple again and Pomona closed her eyes to focus on the way every nerve in her body had jumped to attention.

"Where does he go?" Narcissa asked quietly, fingers playing over Pomona's nipple.

"Hogsmeade," Pomona said, concentrating on the sensations as the words spilled out of her. "The Hogs Head. His brother..."

Narcissa's hand stilled.

"Don't stop," Pomona begged and Narcissa's fingers tightened around her nipple again.

"Tell me more," said Narcissa, releasing her nipple and sliding her hand down Pomona's belly. Her breath was warm against Pomona's cheek as she asked, "When?"

"Its irregular," Pomona said, and her breath hitched as Narcissa's hand brushed the sensitive skin beside her hip. "Oh! It's ‒ it's..."

"Yes," Narcissa murmured, fingers tracing ever so gently down to her inner thigh, and Pomona felt as though she'd been set aflame. "When did he last go?"

"Don't ‒ don't remember," Pomona gasped, and Narcissa's hand stilled.

"Try," she implored. "For me, Pomona."

Pomona struggled to concentrate, focusing on anything that might give her a date ‒ classes, marking, gardening schedule ‒ "The fourteenth, I think."

"Good," Narcissa said, and her hand moved again, dipping down to brush Pomona's pubic hair. "You're doing so well. What else do you remember?"

After that, the questions and answers blurred together in her memory. Narcissa never stopped breathing encouragement into her ear, hands smoothing over Pomona's skin, drawing pleasure from every touch. Eventually, Narcissa's fingers caressed her most intimate places, teasing and circling, brushing her clitoris and barely, just barely, sliding inside her.

When she concentrated, Pomona could almost relive those sensations, fingers moving to the pattern that Narcissa set, slow and tantalising. It was almost maddening.

"More," Narcissa had insisted, sliding three fingers into Pomona, who arched her back and moaned. "Tell me everything."

Pomona was a Hufflepuff, but she had never been stupid. She kept the best information for last, because the implicit, unintended threat ‒ worse than Bellatrix's knife ‒ was that if she told Narcissa everything too soon, then Narcissa would stop.

Her final revelation would be the end of this, so she didn't let it slip until Narcissa was sprawled beside her, lips pressed to Pomona's neck and fingers pushing into her, fast and deep. The words were staccato, barely coherent, mumbled between the pulses of Pomona's orgasm, but Narcissa smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Just what I wanted," she said.

That was the moment Pomona focused on each time she came, hand buried in the damp curls: the press of Narcissa's body, the warm haze of contentment, and ‒ as evidence of compulsion and thus justification for the pleasure ‒ the throbbing pain of her wounds. Years later, her scars ached at the memory.

Occasionally, another image arose to her mind unbidden: Bellatrix, watching it all. Quietly, as though carrying from the far side of the room, she had heard Bellatrix say, "Well, Cissy, maybe you do know what you're doing."

If the thought of that made Pomona wet again and her fingers rubbed even more desperately, then she never admitted it to herself.

==============

Pomona holds her secrets close, but she's also conscious of being an unreliable narrator. What really happened that afternoon in Knockturn Alley, or that night in Malfoy Manor? Whose hand held the knife that gave her those scars?

She's told many versions of this story over the years, twisting and reliving the events until her memories themselves are dissonant. Who is to say whether the boot in her ribs belonged to a man or a woman? Are the official records filed by the Aurors and Mediwizards any more or less true than Pomona's well-worn recollection of Narcissa's hands on her skin? It's only a matter of perspective as to whether the scars bear testimony to torture or rapture.

This is a story with no definitive conclusion. Every herbologist knows that sex is ubiquitous, and every woman knows that there's nothing univocal about truth.