Title: Nothing Else
Author:
iulia_linnea
Pairings: Hermione/OFC, others implied
Rating: NC-17
Warning (highlight to view): For dubious consent, bondage, bloodplay, and object insertion.
Word Count: 2477
Summary: "Traveling Britain with Harry and Ron in search of Horcruxes and Death Eaters and Voldemort had changed her . . . ."
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thank you,
stasia and
eaivalefay, for beta'ing.
Hermione sat in the Hog's Head and watched.
She did not usually enter the seedy establishment unless
meeting a contact in the line of her Auror duties, but tonight, she had
felt the need to be somewhere her
friends would not. Ron, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Luna-all her
old school chums had paired off and, of
late, had been pestering her to do the same by introducing her to what
seemed like every unattached
wizard in Britain. They were all, she had to admit, nice enough.
If you fancy cock.
As it happened, Hermione had not fancied cock since Sixth Year
when she and Luna had got drunk on
an experimental potion and shagged in Professor Snape's
office. She still had the scar from leaning into
the man's quill; it had not occurred to her to shift position
while Luna was fucking her with her own
transfigured wand, and Snape-after interrupting the
tryst-had suggested that Hermione might keep
the mark. "Because Miss Lovegood will remember nothing of
this incident," he had said before
Obliviating the witch.
The professor had not done the same to Hermione, for at the
time, she had fancied cock.
But the Potions master was long in his grave, and
Hermione's fascination for men of dour demeanor
and large endowment was spent: witches were all that interested her
now, and she missed them. She
missed their soft skin and sharp squeals. She missed creamy
assignations on saffron-scented sheets, soft
cotton rope around dark-skinned wrists, the wriggling of bums heated by
the application of a birch
rod-in short, she missed the services of the twin madams
whose "house" she had closed only seven
weeks previously, and it galled her that she had no one but herself to
blame for her loneliness.
Fuck. Why did they have to be
selling recreational magiceuticals? she thought bitterly,
cursing
herself for her blasted professionalism. It had earned her a promotion.
But my work ethic isn't going
to get me laid.
No, but sitting in the Hog's Head and watching the
door might just do, for Aberforth Dumbledore had
no compunction against whores drinking his whiskey and trolling for
clients because, as he had once
told her while she was paying her shot, "Whores'
gold spends as easily as anyone else's." The man
was
a true egalitarian. He was also a gentleman, for he never indulged in
the favors of the women whom he
protected, and he was always ready to be of service to them.
Such as by attempting to transform one of his Squib
prostitutes into a goat for a client, Hermione
thought, grinning wryly, or a near-goat, anyway. It's
a damn good thing to have such a respectable
brother, isn't it? Especially when said
brother's got a Transfiguration mistress on his
payroll-wish I could have seen that.
Grimacing at her lack of shame, she ordered another drink and
leaned back against the bar on her
elbows. Traveling Britain with Harry and Ron in search of Horcruxes and
Death Eaters and Voldemort
had changed her-at least, her mother thought it
had-but Hermione did not care what anyone thought
about her own . . . demeanor. She had seen enough of the world and the
people in it to know that
relationships were impossible to support. They required remembering.
They required that both or all
parties in them did not die. They required trust. And while Hermione
did trust Ron and Harry, they
were too busy trusting each other to let her into their bed anymore.
She supposed that was fair.
They never truly fancied cunt, did they?
Ginny had fancied
cunt-anyone's, so Hermione had got shot of her.
Neville thought she was too bitter
and no longer liked her much. Luna, Hermione had never much liked, not
sober. And the rest of them,
the rest of her old friends, they were content to swan around in the
safe little lives that the sacrifices she
and Ron and Harry had purchased for them. Hermione did not like them
at all; their happiness was an
affront she could not bear.
Not without a bit of private violence, she
told herself, kicking out one leg in bored frustration. Where
are you?
The expected over-made-up, under-dressed bint she had come
seeking was late.
Hermione leaned her head back and yelled,
"Barkeep!"
"Dear?"
"Don't call me that."
"Don't scowl, then. It provokes
kindness."
"Aberforth, I'm not-"
"Paying attention," he said, inclining his
head toward the door.
Hermione took the hint and raised her head, turning just
slightly to see who it was the publican wanted
her to notice, and stared.
Fuck. Yes. You'll do.
She looked like she would do anything, the
promising slut in black who was sauntering up to the tap.
Her skin was flawlessly white, as if she had painted it with an
old-fashioned lead cosmetic. Hermione
supposed it must be some sort of charm because even the most dedicated
follower of the Gnashers-a
campy, pseudo-Muggle Goth band that most Hogwarts' Seventh
Years would sell the House Cup to
see in Concert-would never go so far in acquiring the look of
the members, all of whom were actual
vampires.
Hermione, however, could tell that the witch was more prey
than predator, no matter what she might
think. No one dresses like that if she has what she
wants-or knows how to get it-she doesn't
even know what she's asking for.
"She" had a black velvet cloak draped over
her arm, which she threw over the barstool two stools
down from Hermione and sat her shapely arse upon. The dress she was
wearing was also black, but it
looked painted on, save where the bodice became
nothing but a bit of lacy bra. Peaked bronze nipples
were temptingly evident through the gauzy material, and Hermione longed
to cup them, despite the
ridiculous animated pin of a bat which separated the ample handfuls.
Hermione smirked. Over- and
under-dressed at the same time. Typical band slag,
she thought,
swinging around to face Aberforth, who was grinning under his beard at
her.
"Send her your compliments, dear?"
"Who is she?"
"You seem to already know that,"
he chided, moving away to pour a drink for his newest
"dear."
Hermione watched as the could-be Gnashers' groupie
accepted the glass, drew her tongue around its
rim, and tossed it back before setting it down on the bar with a neat
"clink."
"Give us the bottle and a room?" she asked
Aberforth, swivelling in her chair to glance at her
benefactress for permission.
Hermione smiled in approval. "Give us two
bottles."
~*~
Seconds after closing the door to their room, Hermione had the
witch backed into the wrong side of it
with the jagged edge of one now-broken bottle pressed into a pristine
expanse of white neck.
"If you're good, I'll let you
share the other bottle with me-after. Now, what's
your name?"
"If you're
good," the witch said, taking a deep breath,
"after, I'll tell you."
"What's good?" Hermione asked,
impatient to get the negotiation done as she slid the
bottle's edge
down the witch's neck, across her décolletage, and
over the decorative bat to her belly, pressing it in
just enough to display her unwillingness to surrender control.
"I'll just let you show me what good is,
Auror Granger."
The glass slipped from Hermione's fingers in
surprise at the bint's presumption. Most people knew who
Hermione was since the "clean up" phase of
Voldemort's downfall and avoided treating her in a familiar
way. Most people, in fact, avoided her altogether.
"All right, Mistress of the Dark,"
Hermione said angrily, standing back and placing one hand on her
wand, "I'll show you good-hands above
your head."
The woman obeyed. Somewhat mollified, Hermione drew her wand
and pointed it at the submissive
witch's wrists. A length of rope flew from her wand to bind
them before levitating upward, pulling her
captive so that she was resting on her toes.
"Accio broken bottle!"
she cast then, setting her wand aside on a little table by the bed.
A flicker of fear rose in the bound woman's eyes.
"Wha-"
"I'm trying to concentrate, dear,"
Hermione said, advancing and running the edge of glass lightly over
the woman's deeply rouged lips. "Do you like
to bleed?"
"So-sometimes."
"Then hush, and I might let you," Hermione
said, rolling the bottle over the woman's lower lip in a
teasing caress that urged her mouth to fall open as they both gasped in
anticipation.
The woman's breath smelled like wood smoke and
willingness, and it was too intoxicating to ignore.
Hermione had to taste. Slipping her tongue into the
mouth before her, she savored the trembling way in
which her captive allowed her to explore, learning quickly that it took
only the lightest feathering of her
tongue tip against the woman's palate to make her squirm.
Pulling out of the kiss in sudden amusement, she asked,
"Ticklish?"
"That's . . . that felt odd."
"I asked if you were ticklish,"
Hermione said, moving the bottle's edge teasingly along the
contours
under the witch's left arm and then her right. "Are
you ticklish? Hmm?"
With a breathy giggle, the witch begged, "Oh . . .
oh, please! Do-on't."
"Tell me your name, then," Hermione said,
tossing the bottle away so that she could cup the witch's
breasts and thumb her nipples with the pads of her thumbs.
"Tell me," she repeated, drawing her index
fingers down to join her thumbs and catching the taut areolae between
her fingers in hard pinches.
"I! Oh, ow!" she cried, as Hermione left
off pinching her breasts and began to smack them. "Oh, ohhh,
ah!"
"You like that. Good. Because it's all the
same to me whether you laugh or cry."
"Bitch."
"Got it in one," Hermione said, stepping
back and considering the black-haired, dark-eyed beauty. She
looks almost masked. "It's a glamour,
isn't it?" she asked, unclasping her cloak and
laying it across the
end of the bed before efficiently stripping off down to her beige satin
knickers and bra.
"Of course it is."
"Why? Are you so ugly?"
The witch struggled a bit and complained, "Did you
bring me up here to talk?"
"Of course not," Hermione said, gesturing
toward her companion.
One by one, the tiny buttons on the woman's bodice
undid themselves, and her dress parted and fell
open from the waist of her gown to its hem. Without ceremony, Hermione
pulled the decorative bat
free of the lace bra holding the top of the garment together and
allowed the material to gape, thus
exposing the nude body of her captive.
"Mmm, creamy all the way down," Hermione
murmured appreciatively, drawing her hand down the
woman's belly to her bare pubic mound and sliding her fingers
into her wet cunt. "Creamy
everywhere," she whispered, offering the girl those same
fingers to suck. "It would be my pleasure to
fix that for you. Would that be good?"
The witch shuddered, shifting on her toes. "I
don't think-"
"Obviously," Hermione told her, raking her
nails up the woman's sides hard enough to raise welting
lines, "but it's too late for that now."
Then, with an unspoken spell, she had the witch's
legs raised and spread, so that her ankles were
secured by her ears, and her cunt open and presented.
"I like that you're so limber,
dear."
"Please, I . . . I don't think I can stay
this way."
Ignoring her pleas and picking up the bottle again, Hermione
proceeded to draw its edge from under
the woman's left knee to the tender flesh of her inner thigh,
following the ribbon of blood this had
caused to flow with her tongue and shivering with pleasure to hear the
witch gasp. She repeated the
procedure on the woman's other leg, and kept repeating it
until the coppery scent of blood and sexual
arousal had permeated the room.
"So wet. So wet for me. You like
this, don't you?"
With a whimper, the girl said, "Yes. Oh, yes. I do."
You wouldn't like it half so well if it
were Bellatrix Lestrange standing here with a cursed blade
instead of me with a fractured whiskey bottle, Hermione
thought, pushing that memory down even
more deeply as she said, "I think we're ready for
the other bottle."
"Wh-what? No! I can't take
tha-"
"Of course you can," Hermione said lazily,
rolling the base of the bottle over the girl's dripping
labia,
but not enough to ease her frustration.
"Please . . . please," the witch begged.
"Please what, dear?"
"Touch me-harder-I
can't stand it!"
Neither could I. But at least you'll come,
Hermione thought, watching how her captive canted her
hips upward in desperation. My whores always do.
The perfumed air under Hermione's nose became so
intoxicating that she had to breathe it in at its
source. Without warning, she pressed her mouth to the exposed cunt
before her and latched onto the
woman's clit with her lips, worrying the taut nodule until
the unnamed witch was banging her head
against the door.
"Too much, too much, too much!"
"Make up your mind," Hermione said in
husky irritation, turning the bottle to insert the neck inside of
the girl while she rapidly flicked her tongue against her engorged clit.
She was rewarded by a series of incoherent, giggling cries,
and these spurred her to begin pressing the
bottle into the woman's cunt, bit by bit, in and out, deeper
each time, alternately placing sucking kisses
and scraping bites all over the woman's belly in time with
her movements. The deeper she pushed in the
bottle, the harder her kisses became, until she was fucking the witch
in earnest and marking the flesh of
her neck with her mouth and teeth.
"Oh, oh, Hermione. Oh, yes,
fast-"
Hermione moved faster-to silence the bound woman
with a kiss so deep and bruising that it cut off her
airway-and the witch came and lost consciousness in the same
moment.
Left panting with need, Hermione dropped the slickened bottle
on the floor and stumbled backward
until she was sitting on the cold bed in the corner of the room and
staring at the limp and bloody mess of
her ruined evening hanging on the door.
"Damn it! I hate it when they
say my name."
Real whores knew better than to do something so stupid.
But I haven't had a real whore in weeks,
and it's all my fault, isn't it? Hermione
thought, trying to
repress the scream lingering at the back of her mind that had been
waiting to voice itself for years-too
many dreary, pointless, peaceful years.
Sadness washed over her then in a near-choking wave, and that was
good because it was a more
tangible emotion than hysteria, and one which Hermione knew how to
fight. Her plan of attack came to
her clearly: Fuck professionalism-I'm
just going to have to find a way to exonerate the Patil
sisters.
"Because, God knows, magiceuticals might
help."
Nothing else had.