Title: bigger than these bones
Author: clarahow // spookygayjaneausten // charleybradburies (will be posted after challenge)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione Granger
Pairing: Bellatrix/Hermione
Length: ~1330w
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Both Bellatrix and Hermione are ruthless and unafraid...but which of them is in control?
Warnings: Dub-con (due to the lack of one party's legal ability to consent, being a captive of the other). Both parties are of age. Referenced torture. Sexist and racist slurs. Rather dark (perhaps not my darkest, but close.)
Notes: Set during DH. Title is from "Control" by Halsey.
Also written for hp_darkages 2015 Prompt Table Challenge (Table 3: Chamber of Secrets; prompts 'Prisoner' and 'Dirty Talk'. Includes Prompt #47 from 2014 Dark Ages Fest, from hogwartsvixxxen.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.

The Granger mudblood is not like their other prisoners.

Lovegood might be utterly unaffected and entirely loony, but Granger...she is self-aware, but not in a useful way. She’s so uncaring for her captors’ hate that she’s adjusted herself to have nearly nonexistent reactions to anything said to her. And as for what’s done to her body, well, she keeps breathing. Once in a while she even keeps still, forcing her only movements to be trembles. If Bellatrix didn’t know better, she’d almost think that Granger legitimately didn’t know the answers to the questions she’s being asked. Even when she screams - and oh, she can scream, and Bella loves it - she never seems to consider giving up.

Then again, one of the first things she did each time Death Eaters were chasing her was to return their violence full-bore. Perhaps the women just have more in common than Bella’d thought.

Such a pity.

How Bellatrix would love to play with the monster inside this girl, to draw her out, outline her eyes in black liner and change her path of sight.

This was war, and Granger was an enemy, something between an obstacle and a plaything.

If only she weren’t so much fucking fun to play with.



This was war, and Bellatrix was the enemy. Hermione had no upper hand, but if all she could do was keep her hands clasped together, then she’d do it.

The world might have thought so, but she was not above breaking nails and gouging eyes, nor was she too clean-cut to know that she’s dirty, that she has a formidable darkness that bubbles inside her, and hungry lips.

So what if she’s on her deathbed! These Death Eaters could frighten her, they could beat and bloody her, but they couldn’t make her say what they wanted to hear. If she died, she died without ever betraying her friends. And if the Death Eaters needed her, because they needed her alive in hopes of getting to what she knew, she’d play their game and play it better.

She screams and shrieks and howls, and the darkness drags her like a carton of cigarettes.

Ash, all ash. Dirty, dusty ash. Tainted and fleeting, but never destroyed. Matter could never be destroyed - did purebloods know that? They couldn’t destroy her. It simply wasn’t possible.

She bleeds on the Malfoys’ floors, she scratches planks to splinters, she howls for the moon, and the moon obliges her.

Lupin howls at the moon, too, perhaps even this same one, in another corner of the country, safe at home with Tonks and the Order, and fighting, she comforts herself by thinking.
They think he’s the monster because he’s the werewolf, but they’re wrong.

Maybe I’m the monster. Maybe there’s a devil in me. Maybe it’s all my rage, deciding it’s time for revenge.

Bellatrix could put Hermione through Hell. She could drag her through fire and brimstone with her own harsh hands, but she wouldn’t get what she came for. Not even over Hermione’s dead body.

It’s come close to that, a few times, sometimes close enough that Hermione starts to ache for it. For emptiness rather than a heart that’s not quite numb, but brimming, full with pain.

If only it didn’t feel so sweet to bleed.

If only.


Once, having climbed atop the girl to deepen that remaining scar etched on her arm, Bellatrix lets Granger bleed out before healing other wounds and going back at it again, and realizes that as Granger glances down the side of her body, with her head leaning on the floor above nothing but her messy hair, and sees the blood dripping, she smiles.

It’s only a little peek of a smile, but the floodgates break.

She’d been bleeding the whole time she’s been at the Manor, and she’d liked it.

Bellatrix slices through Granger’s opposite arm. The girl whines, and for the first time Bellatrix realizes she’s hearing want. She holds her head in place, forcing her to look to the ceiling, and suspends the knife above her lips.

She doesn’t have to order Granger to keep her mouth open in anticipation of the blood dripping down, and it’s Bellatrix’s turn for a smile.

“Oh, you...you’re a filthy little Mudblood whore, aren’t you? Tsk tsk. So good of you to finally admit you’re fighting a losing battle.”

Bellatrix sniggers, tearing off whatever of the young woman’s clothing she can grab, and cutting through much of what she can’t.

Granger’s chest rises and trembles unsteadily. Her ribs show through her pretty pale skin, a meagre white brassiere doing nothing to conceal her raised nipples. Brought up by the cold, Bellatrix knows, but she can taunt her for it all the same.

“I’ve not admitted….anything,” Granger mews, shivering under the Death Eater’s touch as Bellatrix drags her hands down her chest and stomach, leaving scratch marks with her nails.

“Is that so? Well..” Bellatrix continues, letting the girl see her smirk before she pulls aside her panties to feel her sex; she indeed finds wetness, and for another first, Granger squirms against Bellatrix’ hand as the wet coolness of her own arousal is rubbed against her clit.

She’s not particularly comfortable, not on this floor, and she’s of course displeased for her captor to have found something to use against her, but out of sequence with earlier behavior she doesn’t seem to have any concrete intention of pushing Bellatrix away from her. She’s shoved her off before, she’s fought and cursed and been a sore loser and stubborn regardless, but now she can’t help but grind against the hand touching her.

Bella would have more fun if Granger hated it, but it’s not like she gets pleasure from her husband anymore; she’s as needy as the girl - she just has more dignity, amongst other things, but none of them matter much in the moment. Not when Granger forces out a soft gasp when she roughly pushes a pair of fingers inside her, not when Granger’s back arches to take Bellatrix's fingers farther in.

“Oh, you filthy mudblood, you want me deeper, don’t you?”


Hermione grits her teeth, knowing better than to give her the satisfaction. Her body might be responding positively, but no matter how much she wanted it she wasn’t about to lay here and confess. Besides, she has the feeling that if Bellatrix thinks it’ll do more damage to her loyalty than proper torture, she’ll continue regardless of Hermione’s answer.

Bellatrix slaps her, and she’s actually startled.

“Answer me, mudblood!”

“No,” Hermione chokes out, clamping her mouth tight again afterwards.

“Oh, I think you do! I think you like it, because you’re a desperate, dirty, naughty little mudblood slut.”

She reaches back to Hermione’s head, grabbing her squarely by the neck with a hand rather than touching her face. The sharp fingernails jab into the sides of her neck, adding even more pressure, and oh, she’d love to hate it, to try tuning out Bellatrix’s harsh, brutal hands and all the ways they travel about and mar her almost-naked body.

It’d be simpler to pretend it’s only a nightmare, that she’s not here, that her body’s not real, not her, that it’s unfeeling, that she’s numb; but anything Bellatrix does to her, no matter how rough, no matter how they hurt, she finds herself wanting more. More fingers, more of the silicone cock that replaces them, more of her own blood against her tongue, against her skin.

So she’s playing with fire, properly courting the monster that she is, and maybe even placating the monster that’s playing with the fire she carries inside her.

Someday, her captivity will be little more than a story, a scar, a horrid memory tainted with the smallest smear of glory; for now, she groans and takes her pleasure from Bellatrix with a side of virulence.