Title: Nothing Else
Pairings: Hermione/OFC, others implied
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!"
"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?"
"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."
"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.