(Harry Potter) Damsel
Title: Damsel
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Bellatrix/Hermione
Rating: R
Words: 658
Timeline: Deathly Hallows
Notes: Questionable consent. Spoilers for Deathly Hallows - in the fic and in the comments.
Summary: Interrogation tastes like a chase.
Pretty, pretty girl, pretty curly hair, colour of caramel and mud. Mud, filthy, dirty blood, pretty, pretty symbol of an ugly thing. Pollution, corruption, the ruin of a noble line, noble blood line, filthy, dirty blood, mud and grime and filthy, filthy, pretty girl.
She squirms, pretty as a painting, and the noises she makes sound so hurt, pretty pained noises, like fear and hopelessness and sex.
Bellatrix laughs, although there is nothing funny about their predicament, nothing funny about the prospect of the Dark Lord’s wrath. The sword laughs with her, mocking her, rubies glistening along the hilt like blood, exact colour of the Dark Lord’s eyes. The laughter rocks her, soothes her, breaks her apart and pieces her back together, so close to everything her Lord has ever wanted, she won’t let it be taken.
Bellatrix laughs, long and loud and shrill, and the redhead’s bellows from the cellar blend with her voice, beautiful melody of despair and desire and hatred.
“Hermione,” she whispers, rolling the word on her tongue, tasting it, savouring it. Different to the anxious, frenzied screams below, drawing out every letter, sultry and heated and she likes the way it hangs in the air.
Across the room, young Draco has stopped breathing.
Her wand is as close to gentle as Bellatrix has ever been able as it slides across the pretty, pretty face, brushing hair from her wide, wide eyes, pushing it away from her slick, slick skin.
The Mudblood stares up at her, and Bellatrix can see it in the air around them, flickering like the flames on the fire, clear and translucent and singing to her. Fear, as it should be, dirty blood dirtying their presence, wide deep eyes close to tears.
“What did you take?” Bellatrix murmurs, voice hushed, like a secret between them, like a promise.
The Mudblood’s breath is shallow and rapid, but Bellatrix can hear it clearly over the boy’s muffled shouts.
“Do you want me to bring them? Do you want your friends to watch you hurt?” she purrs, eyes glazing slightly at the very thought of it, so much anguish, pretty girl squirming on the floor whilst they scream and rage and thrash and cry.
Her eyes flutter closed, and the Mudblood makes the softest sound, and across the room Fenrir begins to growl.
“Do you want them to watch?” Bellatrix asks again, glassy eyes studying the reaction, the twitch of her eyelids, the flinch of her shoulder, and the bead of sweat at her brow.
And the Mudblood, pretty, dirty little Hermione, whimpers and sobs as Bellatrix tastes her, tastes her fear, tongue sliding heavily over her face, over the back of her closed eyelid. Sullied and sin and everything Bellatrix was expecting, and she wants more, wants to break the girl open and taste everything inside, wants to roll in the carnage, wants to spread her out, beautiful patterns of blood and gore, to lay before the Dark Lord’s feet.
Her hands are rough, bruising, nails clawing, unrelenting, sliding up the Mudblood’s torso, squeezing and groping and hurting, and each sound of distress, of wretched unhappiness, is a symphony of delight that dances through Bellatrix’s blood. “Do you want them to see?” she hisses, hands grabbing, shoving and ripping at fabric, forcing their way underneath, and the flesh there is damp and startlingly soft, just ready for manipulation, ready to be shredded.
She can see the way Draco takes a step back, can see the firm hand Narcissa places on the boy’s shoulder. Can see the way Fenrir settles back on his haunches to watch, leering and licking at his filthy lips.
And the filthy girl trembles beneath her, pretty, pretty terror, and the blood-traitor below yells with all the passion of his heart, and Bellatrix knows she is close to giving the Dark Lord everything he has ever asked from her.
No Mudblood can stand in the way of her glory.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Bellatrix/Hermione
Rating: R
Words: 658
Timeline: Deathly Hallows
Notes: Questionable consent. Spoilers for Deathly Hallows - in the fic and in the comments.
Summary: Interrogation tastes like a chase.
Pretty, pretty girl, pretty curly hair, colour of caramel and mud. Mud, filthy, dirty blood, pretty, pretty symbol of an ugly thing. Pollution, corruption, the ruin of a noble line, noble blood line, filthy, dirty blood, mud and grime and filthy, filthy, pretty girl.
She squirms, pretty as a painting, and the noises she makes sound so hurt, pretty pained noises, like fear and hopelessness and sex.
Bellatrix laughs, although there is nothing funny about their predicament, nothing funny about the prospect of the Dark Lord’s wrath. The sword laughs with her, mocking her, rubies glistening along the hilt like blood, exact colour of the Dark Lord’s eyes. The laughter rocks her, soothes her, breaks her apart and pieces her back together, so close to everything her Lord has ever wanted, she won’t let it be taken.
Bellatrix laughs, long and loud and shrill, and the redhead’s bellows from the cellar blend with her voice, beautiful melody of despair and desire and hatred.
“Hermione,” she whispers, rolling the word on her tongue, tasting it, savouring it. Different to the anxious, frenzied screams below, drawing out every letter, sultry and heated and she likes the way it hangs in the air.
Across the room, young Draco has stopped breathing.
Her wand is as close to gentle as Bellatrix has ever been able as it slides across the pretty, pretty face, brushing hair from her wide, wide eyes, pushing it away from her slick, slick skin.
The Mudblood stares up at her, and Bellatrix can see it in the air around them, flickering like the flames on the fire, clear and translucent and singing to her. Fear, as it should be, dirty blood dirtying their presence, wide deep eyes close to tears.
“What did you take?” Bellatrix murmurs, voice hushed, like a secret between them, like a promise.
The Mudblood’s breath is shallow and rapid, but Bellatrix can hear it clearly over the boy’s muffled shouts.
“Do you want me to bring them? Do you want your friends to watch you hurt?” she purrs, eyes glazing slightly at the very thought of it, so much anguish, pretty girl squirming on the floor whilst they scream and rage and thrash and cry.
Her eyes flutter closed, and the Mudblood makes the softest sound, and across the room Fenrir begins to growl.
“Do you want them to watch?” Bellatrix asks again, glassy eyes studying the reaction, the twitch of her eyelids, the flinch of her shoulder, and the bead of sweat at her brow.
And the Mudblood, pretty, dirty little Hermione, whimpers and sobs as Bellatrix tastes her, tastes her fear, tongue sliding heavily over her face, over the back of her closed eyelid. Sullied and sin and everything Bellatrix was expecting, and she wants more, wants to break the girl open and taste everything inside, wants to roll in the carnage, wants to spread her out, beautiful patterns of blood and gore, to lay before the Dark Lord’s feet.
Her hands are rough, bruising, nails clawing, unrelenting, sliding up the Mudblood’s torso, squeezing and groping and hurting, and each sound of distress, of wretched unhappiness, is a symphony of delight that dances through Bellatrix’s blood. “Do you want them to see?” she hisses, hands grabbing, shoving and ripping at fabric, forcing their way underneath, and the flesh there is damp and startlingly soft, just ready for manipulation, ready to be shredded.
She can see the way Draco takes a step back, can see the firm hand Narcissa places on the boy’s shoulder. Can see the way Fenrir settles back on his haunches to watch, leering and licking at his filthy lips.
And the filthy girl trembles beneath her, pretty, pretty terror, and the blood-traitor below yells with all the passion of his heart, and Bellatrix knows she is close to giving the Dark Lord everything he has ever asked from her.
No Mudblood can stand in the way of her glory.