Happy holidays, speckofinfinity! (Hermione/?, NC-17) Title: Fantasy Author: ??? Recipient:speckofinfinity Rating: NC-17 Length: 1,090 Pairing(s): Hermione/? Summary: Hermione only truly ever wanted one woman. Warning(s): Light bondage, sexual content, role play
Hermione sat with her feet in the air, her thighs apart, and her hands limp on either side of her. She was still clad in her plain black robes, though they were hiked up in a puddle around her waist, and she was not wearing any panties. She felt the expensive velvet kiss of the comforter she was sitting on against her arse.
The woman kneeling in front of her was fully clothed and wearing a mask with holes for her brown eyes and small mouth. She was eye-level with Hermione’s pussy, which was getting wet from the steely stare it was receiving.
“Don’t,” Hermione gasped, knowing the reaction her plea would elicit, and the woman slapped her right arse cheek soundly, then the other. Thwap, thwap!
“No talking,” the woman said. She leaned forward and slid her tongue up and down Hermione’s slit, pushing gently but never fully inserting it. Hermione writhed. She had been positioned there for fifteen minutes, feeling the cool air on her cunt, and was growing uncomfortable.
“Incarcerous,” the woman commanded, and ropes sprang from nothingness and secured Hermione’s arms above her head. Then she extended her gloved hands and ripped the front of Hermione’s robes open, exposing her breasts. The touch of leather on a small brown nipple made Hermione hiss like a snake.
“Look at you,” she said. “Lying there all vulnerable like that. You Mudblood slut. I should get the boys in here. How many Death Eaters would like you to get fucked by today?”
“Just one,” Hermione begged. “You.”
“Me? What’s my name?”
“Bellatrix,” came the reply in a whisper.
The woman leaned in for a kiss, and Hermione closed her eyes and parted her lips eagerly. After the mouths made contact and the masked woman pulled away, Hermione opened her eyes.
The mask was off and the illusion was over.
Pansy Parkinson, with her pretty eyes, thin lips, and flat, round nose, looked hesitantly back at Hermione, as if asking for approval. She clutched at the mask in her hands like a security blanket. That was so typical of Pansy, even back in school. So petulant and cocky with a posse behind her, but take her out of her element, and she turned into a scared little pup, anxious for acceptance.
Hermione sighed. “Undo me, will you?”
After Pansy had released Hermione and settled herself on her back in the bed, Hermione crawled between her former enemy’s legs and began to lick her pussy almost mechanically. As she worked, images of a longer haired, larger breasted, and wilder woman flashed through her head.
Azkaban had hollowed Bellatrix Lestrange’s face, making it gaunt and skull-like, but it was alive with a feverish, fanatical glow. “You need more persuasion?” she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Very well – take the smallest one. Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll do it.”
Hermione shivered and Pansy moaned.
She was different from me in every way, Hermione thought. Stronger and freer than I could ever be. My antithesis. My fetish. My fantasy. My downfall.
When the other girl had finished, Hermione tucked herself in next to her and remembered.
“OUT OF MY WAY!” shouted Mrs. Weasley to the three girls, and with a swipe of her wand she began to duel… Molly Weasley’s wand slashed and twirled, and Bellatrix Lestrange’s smile faltered and became a snarl. Jets of light flew from both wands, the floor around the witches’ feet became hot and cracked; both women were fighting to kill… Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over her heart. Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes seemed to bulge: for the tiniest space of time she knew what had happened, and then she toppled…”
And that was that. The dream – the nightmare – was over. Hermione should have felt triumph, but there was an emptiness instead of celebration.
When she dueled with Bellatrix in that final battle at Hogwarts, Ginny and Luna at her side and arousing a vibrantly jealous possessiveness in her, she felt a strange elation curl out from somewhere inside her stomach and extend upwards, grabbing at her chest, pouring into her brain, filling her with a desperate thrill, like an amphetamine high.
“Your fantasies…” Pansy interrupted. “They’re… don’t you think they’re a bit strange?”
There was a moment when she was her. Bellatrix. The Polyjuice allowed her that luxury. She told Harry and Ron that she was a good actress, but really she had repeated the mannerisms over and over in her head at night, imitated them in her fantasies, memorized every word she had ever heard Bellatrix speak, looked into her soul. All stemming from that one brief encounter with her in the Department of Mysteries, where the mad witch had hardly paid attention to her.
“Everyone has a submission fantasy,” Hermione forced herself to say.
“Yes, but that specific?”
Hermione’s hand found Pansy’s breast and cupped it. She tried to imagine that it belonged to someone else. She told herself that Pansy could pass. She had the dark hair, though not in the same intense black shade, she was a Slytherin, her parents were friends with Death Eaters. But it wasn’t the same.
“It’s just a fantasy,” Hermione said. “Now go to sleep.”
“Love ya,” Pansy muttered, already drifting off.
The Malfoy manor. Harry and Ron gone. Alone with Bellatrix, the spectators fading into the background. The sweetest torture. Screams of pain and pleasure. The little silver knife at her throat, hazily seen through eyelashes fluttering closed.
"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback… except for the Mudblood.”
Bellatrix overcame four Snatchers in one go that day. Hermione was excellent at spells, everyone told her that, but she had none of Bellatrix’s sheer power.
"How did you get into my vault?!”
Hermione recalled the women she had been with after she split from Ron. First Luna, who came to her in her own quirky way, then Mandy Brocklehurst and Hannah Abbott, even Fleur Delacour. Oh, and who could forget Rita Skeeter, that kinky bitch. Silly little flings. None of them had been Bellatrix. Pansy came the closest, and perhaps that was why she had lasted the longest, but she could not stand with her hand poised quite so recklessly on a rounded hip, could not move her skinny body with that confident liquid coolness, could not reflect the same mad passion in her eyes.