Timeless, Gift for: Smilingbomb

[happyendingsmod]

Title: Timeless
Author:
Pairing: Bellatrix/Hermione
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even a little.
Summary: I don’t like summaries! Especially not when
I come up with a halfway decent plot! If you feel
like it’s deeply necessary: Bellatrix and Hermione
have far more time together in Malfoy Manor than one
might suspect, thanks to a certain magical device. No
actual sex, just lots of mindfucking. Also lots of angst and high drama. It’s
sad, it’s happy, it’s sappy.
Recipient: Smilingbomb
A/N: I may have bitten off more than I could chew
with the whole “Happy Endings” thing. It’s entirely
likely that my definition of a “happy ending” is
vastly different than the standard, but I did my best.
Then again, how could one give a super sunshine happy
ending to this pairing? Seriously. Also, sorry about
the lame title. I’m hella bad at that. Seriously.

If she was still screaming she didn’t know it. Her throat was raw, that was all she knew. Her throat, and every inch of her skin, it felt flayed, it felt electric. If she was screaming, it was nothing but a dull echo in the deepest part of her brain. Her ears were filled with something else, something indescribably other, blacker and sharper than a scream.

In the back corner of her mind she was conscious that she hadn’t been touched. The pain came and came, but there had been no actual contact, skin on skin, and she thought wildly for a moment between bursts that if she had that, if she could just feel fingertips grazing her flesh, that somehow the entire experience would be bearable.

It had gone on for hours, days, centuries. Objectively it had been mere minutes, but it couldn’t be just minutes. It had to be so much longer. She knew the eternity of the pain was part of the curse, but there was still a temporal part of her functioning beneath the blazing curtain of agony, a small clock ticking that told her that the passage of time was in fact discernable beyond whatever mechanism of the spell.

It had been going on far longer than the fifteen minutes she clearly recalled being in the room.

And still it came, the voice that still sounded sharp and clear against the low roar of what she assumed must be her own screaming. Whispering over and over.

Crucio. Crucio.

She writhed and twisted, straining hard against the ropes of pain that bound her body. Straining for the touch she knew was just beyond her. It was the utter inhumanness of the pain that was so intolerable; she felt, she knew that if the touch would come-

There was a break from the agony so sudden the relief itself was almost painful. She gasped hard and tasted blood on her tongue. The haze of prolonged torment lifted, and she was left with the echo of it, and the echo of the desire for touch, any touch, the want for it still tingled across her skin. Her sudden clarity of thought made her remember who would be touching her, whose cool fingers would brush her hand, her arm, and a shudder of revulsion sizzled through her. Far below she could hear the anguished bellowing cries, frantic shouts, someone calling out to her. It took several seconds before she remembered who it was, before she could allow the horror of her situation to fully penetrate her mind. He was down there, he was trying to get to her, and suddenly she wanted, wanted, wanted him to be there, to take her away.

A scuffle from outside. A low gasp from across the room, coming nearer, then the cold grip around her forearm and it didn’t bring any relief at all, she nearly cried from disappointment, and then she felt as though the core of her body was being pulled out away from her, blackness swirled in front of her eyes, her breath crushed out of her body. It might be the end, it could be, and she could be free of the pain and the vague, sickening want and the awfulness of him calling for her-

If she was still screaming, she didn’t know it. Her throat was raw, that was all she knew.

No. She knew more. She knew her throat had been raw for a long time. She knew about before.

Crucio. Crucio.

She shook and tensed, afraid her bones would break from the strain. She parted her lips, she tried to speak.

No sound came from her but her ragged breathing. The pain stopped again, the same sharp cessation as before. She could hear him calling for her, but it was fainter now than it had been. It was as if his voice were coming to her through a heavy curtain. He seemed farther away, even more helpless. The muffled despair made her heart burn in her chest. The creeping desire for touch was there, too, though instead of muffled and far away it felt concentrated, sharper. The other presence was palpable, not just nearby, but indescribably more present. Her stomach twisted at the thought of it, being touched by those fingers, yet the yearning for contact kept growing, increasing, multiplying. The absence of the curse made her horribly aware of how acutely sensitized her body was, as though the pain had stripped off the top layer of her and now she was all nerve, all trembling flesh.

The pain did not come again. She stood, her vision still blotted out with bright retinal stars, blinding reminders of the searing flashes of the curse. She could not see, she could hear almost nothing except her own breathing and the faint cries from below, she could feel nothing except her own skin and the pressing nearness of the other presence.

She did not know how long she stood. Gradually she began to hear something else, to distinguish faint dark spots moving through the blinding brightness cast across her eyes. Screams, she thought. But not his. Who else was screaming? Terror and desperation coursed through her as she tried to think of who else might have been subjected to the same horrific fate. She strained to listen, strained to see, afraid to move and provoke the pain again. As the rush of her blood in her ears abated the screams became more distinct but these too were muffled, she strained to listen, they sounded so familiar, and then the same harsh cries from below, he was shouting for her, and she heard a scuffle from outside, a low gasp from nearby, then the cool grip on her arm, the crushing blackness.

She had been screaming. Her throat was raw, that much she knew. But there was no pain now.

Had she died?

If she had died, why could she still hear the screaming, faintly? Those maddeningly familiar cries?

If she had died, why did her body ache so?

With exquisite care she cracked one eyelid. She was still in the room, the stone walls painted a dull orange by the flickering fire.

She was incredibly exhausted. But she could not have been there for more than an hour, even an hour under intense torture shouldn’t explain this weariness. She knew pain, she knew the kind of exhaustion that came from it. This was the exhaustion borne of being awake too long, on her feet too long.

Carefully she opened both of her eyes. In front of her was the wall, blank save for a long glittering tapestry. She took a long, slow breath and turned around.

Half of the room seemed to be obscured by a thick, opalescent fog. Deep inside it she could see blurred figures moving. It seemed to be the source of the screaming, which she could still faintly hear and was beginning to drive her mad with its obscure familiarity.

To her left, a rustling. She froze, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the light and the shattering pain.

Nothing came.

“As tempting as it is to make your suffering last, Mudblood, there are other things we can do with our time.”

Hermione gasped. Her eyes flew open. Bellatrix stood in front of her, her eyebrow raised, a crooked, malicious smile on her face. She held her wand pointed at Hermione’s chest.

“I don’t--”

“Don’t you?” Bellatrix laughed coldly. “I’m disappointed by your memory, Mudblood.” She reached into her voluminous skirts and pulled out a long silver chain. A tiny hourglass dangled from the end. Hermione gasped again, a remnant of the searing pain in her throat making tears prickle in the corner of her eye.

“But they were all destroyed,” she said, feeling ridiculous. There were so many other things she should say.

“Obviously not,” Bellatrix scoffed. “I had been warned that you were bright, Mudblood. Yet another miscalculation by my brilliant informants.” She sneered. “Look at it, filth,” she said, thrusting the hourglass close to Hermione’s face. Her skin tingled as Bellatrix drew near her, power radiating from the woman and across Hermione’s flesh. The intense desire to be touched rose in her again and she forced herself to suppress it. She forced herself to stare at the pendant.

“Recognize it?”

She shook her head mutely.

“Surprising,” Bellatrix snapped, “since you carried it for a year.” Hermione started and Bellatrix smiled malevolently again. “As far as anyone can tell it’s the only one left,” she whispered, bringing her face very close to Hermione’s. “How appropriate that it should be the one to bring us together.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, though she did not know what she would say. A scuffle from outside. Bellatrix’s head snapped to the door, as though she were able to see through the fog. She cursed softly and grasped Hermione’s arm. Hermione had just enough time to feel the bolts of magic shooting like black fire across her skin, to feel her body responding to it, before Bellatrix flipped the hourglass and the heavy darkness pressed on her again.

She remembered. There was no pain. The muffled screams-her screams, she realized with a sickening jolt in the pit of her stomach-still sounded from behind the thick haze. The dark shapes-that must be her as well. And Bellatrix.

“Don’t you twist prettily?” Bellatrix said near her ear, a low, cold rasp. Hermione shivered. The desire for contact hadn’t faded, had only grown stronger, and Bellatrix was so close to her that Hermione could feel the pulses of magic licking at her body. For a moment her eyes slipped closed and she let the power push at her, push over her, welcomed it before her reason returned and she jerked away. “Manners, Mudblood,” Bellatrix chided, sending the smallest bolt of pain through her. Hermione gasped and stumbled, falling to the floor.

“What is that?” she panted.

“This?” Bellatrix waved her wand at the mist and it swirled and parted barely, giving Hermione a clear glimpse of herself, bucking in agony, and Bellatrix lashing her wand out again and again. “I wouldn’t want to distract myself,” she said, and closed the gap.

Hermione shook her head, trying to rationalize the situation. “But what are you doing?” she cried. “What’s the point of it, if you’re not going to just torture me?”

“Are you asking me to?” Bellatrix said softly, advancing on her. Hermione cowered reflexively. She shook her head. “I’d be more than happy to oblige,” Bellatrix continued in a dark whisper. “Especially if you begged me for it.”

Nausea twisted Hermione’s stomach. “Never,” she spat. “Filthy bitch.”

Bellatrix’s eyes blazed, furious and something else. Her wand twitched and Hermione steeled herself for agony that didn’t come. Instead her body’s ache for touch increased, she sucked in a breath and bit her lip, her fingertips clutching at the cold floor.

“They were right about that,” she murmured.

“About what?” Hermione panted, feeling grotesque, violated, dirty, unbearably sensitized.

“They said you were stubborn.”

Hermione said nothing. She pursed her lips into a thin, hard line and crossed her arms. Bellatrix grinned, the firelight making her full mouth glisten faintly. Her teeth were sharp, Hermione saw, and she pulled her knees close to her chest.

“This one likes to play too,” Bellatrix murmured. Hermione stared at her, trying her hardest to remain calm.  Her own muted screams made her pulse quicken. From below she heard Ron bellowing for her, shouting her name over and over.

“I’ve never cared for music,” Bellatrix said almost conversationally. “But this,” she opened her arms to welcome the sounds of agony, her wand raised like a conductor’s baton, “is a lovely symphony, don’t you agree?” She closed her eyes and a look like rapture passed over her face as Hermione screamed across the pearly barrier and Ron bellowed from below. Her own voice, high and furious, punctuated their anguished cries and Bellatrix twitched her wand with every shout, the need building in Hermione with every flick.

“You’ll never--” Hermione started, trying to form a rational thought through the waves of desire washing over her. “You’ll never-get away with it,” she gasped finally. Her fingertips were kneading the flesh of her arms, trying to quell the craving for touch, but their soft pressure only increased it.

“You’ll never be able to make it stop,” Bellatrix responded. She looked almost mirthful. Hermione blinked furiously, clenching her hands into fists to prevent them from stroking her skin. She tried her hardest to make her body obey her, something she had always been good at, but she was at the mercy of Bellatrix.

The thought chilled her, cut through the liquid warmth that was rapidly pooling in her body. At the mercy of this woman. The idea of physical pain at the hands of someone so evil was tolerable by comparison, the idea of suffering tremendous agony was preferable to this agonizing yearning. Bellatrix waved her wand again and instead of feeling another rush of desire Ron’s voice became louder, as though he were standing next to her.

“Poor little Mudblood,” Bellatrix snickered. “Wishing your filthy blood-traitor was here to save you?”

Hermione made a tremendous effort to force the feeling away. She leapt up and spat at Bellatrix’s feet. “Don’t you dare talk about him!” she cried. “Don’t you dare!” The blood rose in her cheeks. “You’re the traitor!” she screamed. “You’re evil! You’re trying to destroy the entire world, to make everyone into slaves for you and your evil fucking master, and you have the nerve to talk about Ron! Don’t you dare!”

Bellatrix only smiled.

“He’s not going to win, you know,” Hermione shouted wildly. “Harry and Ron are going to defeat him and that means you’ll die, and where will Voldemort be for you then--”

Bellatrix’s smile dropped from her face and her eyes narrowed. In one swift motion she crossed to Hermione and seized her by the throat.

“I would advise you not to say His name,” she hissed. “It could have very unfortunate consequences for you.”

Hermione stiffened and opened her mouth to speak again. Bellatrix tightened her grip and pressed her wand to Hermione’s throat. A crashing wave of desire made her knees buckle, made her go limp. “No,” she choked feebly. “No.”

“No?” Bellatrix said, her mouth so close to Hermione’s ear that she could feel the faint pulse in her lip. Her breath brushed the soft skin of Hermione’s neck, making her feel dizzy. Bellatrix laughed softly. “Filthy Mudblood whore,” she murmured like a caress.

Hermione fought against the sensation of Bellatrix’s skin touching hers. The pressure on her neck slackened until Bellatrix was cupping her chin, running her thumb across Hermione’s mouth. Hermione’s eyelids fluttered, her breathing shallow, she felt as though she were tumbling into a deep well.

“Hermione!” Ron shouted. “Hermione!”

Her eyes flew open. The twisting sickness filled her body again and she pulled away from Bellatrix. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

“Do you honestly think he can save you from this?” Bellatrix laughed. “Silly little girl.”

Hermione ran at the fog, not knowing what she would do when she emerged on the other side, but when she reached it, it was like a solid wall. She cried out and punched at it. “Let me go!” she shouted. “Just let me bloody go!”

“And ruin all our fun?” Bellatrix clucked her tongue. “Why would I do that?”

“Ron!” she cried furiously.

“He can’t hear you,” Bellatrix said. “Nobody can hear you. We might as well not exist.”

Tears burned in Hermione’s eyes.

Bellatrix crossed up behind her, sliding her hand down Hermione’s arm. She shivered involuntarily, trying to block out the sensation. She focused on Ron, somewhere below. Ron was trying to get to her. If only he could escape, if only he was with her, he would kill Bellatrix, he would kill her-

The thought made Hermione very cold. The idea of Ron murdering someone, even someone so evil, was frightening. That she might want it was worse. But she knew he would, in a heartbeat, especially if he saw the way Bellatrix was running her fingers up and down Hermione’s skin, saw the things Bellatrix was doing to her-

“And what then?” Bellatrix whispered. “What do you do after something like that? You know,” she continued, tracing her cool fingertips over Hermione’s collarbone, making her shiver, “I’ve had some experience with killing, and one thing is always the same. Would you like to know what it is?”

Hermione said nothing, tried to remain perfectly still, though the feel of Bellatrix’s fingers, the feel of Bellatrix’s body pressed so close to hers, was making her tremble.

“Taking a life always makes one feel invincible. Makes one feel like an animal,” she murmured, “but very powerful. It’s an animal instinct, killing.”

“So what?” Hermione said fiercely.

“Animals,” Bellatrix hissed low in Hermione’s ear, “do three things. They hunt, they eat, and they fuck.”

Hermione jerked. Her mind tried to force her body away from Bellatrix’s touch, but her body tried to push harder against her.

“So if your precious blood-traitor were to kill me for your sake, what do you think he’d want?”

“Shut up,” Hermione muttered desperately. “Just shut up.”

“I know what I want,” Bellatrix went on, ignoring her. “It never fails. And I promise you, Mudblood,” she hissed, jerking Hermione hard against her, “it has nothing to do with love.”

“Don’t,” Hermione whispered. “Please.”

“Please?” Bellatrix shrieked with laughter. “Please?”

“Hermione!” Ron cried.

The tears pooling in Hermione’s eyes spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t think of it, she didn’t want to, didn’t want to imagine Ron that way, but Bellatrix’s voice was so persuasive, the liquid heat that seemed to filter through Hermione’s skin from her fingertips was intoxicating.

“He would do it, wouldn’t he?” Bellatrix whispered. “He would fuck you. And then what would you have?”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, tried to block everything out. She tried to find a quiet place in her mind, she rattled the locks on all the carefully compartmentalized doors in her brain, tried to find a safe place to hide, but she couldn’t escape it.

“Your blood-traitor would fuck you,” she murmured, “and then he’d be so absolutely pathetically hurt about it, and about why he did it, and he’d think you were disgusting, wouldn’t he?” She curled her fingers, the nails scraping faintly across Hermione’s neck.

“No,” Hermione choked. “He wouldn’t.”

“Oh?”

“He wouldn’t do that,” she stammered. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would,” Bellatrix countered. “He wouldn’t be able to help himself. Especially not a boy his age, lots of things on his mind--”

“He has more important things on his mind than me,” Hermione said, a rush of shame coursing through her.

“Is that what you think?”

Hermione pursed her lips and nodded. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said lamely, “because it’s not like that.” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to believe it.

Bellatrix laughed bitterly. “This is why you will fail,” she said. “Because you don’t understand anything.”

A scuffle from outside. Bellatrix sighed and pulled out the Time-Turner. Hermione cried out, tried to wrest it from her hand, but Bellatrix gripped her throat again, nails digging into the soft flesh, and flipped the tiny hourglass once more.

And again. And again.

“Love means nothing to you,” Hermione said. She was on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest.

“On the contrary,” Bellatrix replied. “It means everything. Not your pathetic Muggle love. Not that pitiful love that Mudblood filth Lily Potter used against the Dark Lord--”

“Pitiful?” Hermione scoffed. “Look where we are, would you call it pitiful?”

“Look where we are,” Bellatrix echoed. “Yes, I would.”

Hermione was silent.

“The love I have known is more powerful than anything. The love I have for the Dark Lord, the devotion, the absolute loyalty, has created something beyond what you could even imagine.”

“But that’s not love,” Hermione said, shocked she was daring to speak to Bellatrix like an equal. The pulsing desire within her flared in response. “It’s not,” she said with difficulty. “That’s just servitude.”

“What greater thing can you offer than your entire life?” Bellatrix said. “The Dark Lord will reward me beyond measure. Beyond anything that pathetic boy can give you.”

“Don’t talk about him that way,” Hermione said again. Bellatrix smiled sourly.

“Ever the faithful lover,” she sneered.

“I told you,” Hermione cried, leaping to her feet.

“I know,” Bellatrix sighed, her tone bored. “Several times. But even if it was, I assure you he is no match for what the Dark Lord will give.”

Hermione sneered. “Bloody right.”

“And,” Bellatrix said, suddenly menacing, “he is no match for me.” She advanced on Hermione, the air between them seeming to compress, until Hermione was forced backward against the wall. Bellatrix stopped centimeters from Hermione. “I can make you feel things you’ve never imagined, Mudblood,” she hissed.

“Don’t,” Hermione whispered faintly, craving welling in her.

“No?” Bellatrix sighed, her lips very nearly grazing Hermione’s.

“No,” she mumbled feebly. “Don’t.”

Another pulse of liquid desire.

“Don’t-oh,” she gasped, her eyes sliding closed. In the briefest moment when her eyelids were pressed shut she felt Bellatrix’s mouth pressed on hers, and a roaring inferno swelled in her body.

“Hermione! Hermione!”

She almost didn’t hear him.

The heat of Bellatrix’s mouth was intense. Power crackled off her, lancing across Hermione’s skin. When Bellatrix pulled away Hermione felt her absence like a physical pain.

“Do you see?” Bellatrix whispered. “Do you understand love? My love?”

Hermione struggled for breath. The sensation of Bellatrix’s mouth on hers was burned into her, she felt it in the deepest part of her body. It was more powerful than she knew, in the rational fragment of her mind that still managed to protest, it ought to have been. It had carried something. But she said nothing.

Bellatrix stared at her, eyes flashing bright. “Do you see?” she whispered again. She leaned in, never breaking eye contact, and kissed her again. Her tongue lapping against Hermione’s. Hermione certain she would faint.

Bellatrix broke the kiss. Hermione sagged against the wall, breathing deeply.

“Why?” she managed to ask. Bellatrix looked at her, her expression a mix of amusement and malice.

“Why what, Mudblood?”

“You hate me,” she mumbled. “You hate everything about me.”

“Because,” Bellatrix said. “I want you to remember.”

“Remember what? This?” Hermione was lost.

“When this is over,” Bellatrix said, “you will die. And before you die, before I kill you, I want you to remember what you could have had.”

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her mind. “What I could have had?” she said incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

“All of this. You could have had the same love that I have for the Dark Lord.”

“That’s-that’s absurd!” Hermione cried.  “I will never, ever love you!”

“You stupid girl,” Bellatrix sighed. “Do you think it matters to me who you love? I just want you to know the taste.”

Hermione’s stomach froze. She could taste it, she could taste Bellatrix in her mouth, and it was heavy, potent, consuming. She suddenly realized, through the haze of Bellatrix’s intoxicating spell, through her exhaustion, through her own dull cries across the fog, that she was helpless.

“Yes,” Bellatrix murmured. “That’s it.”

“You’re not using Cruciatus,” Hermione said slowly.

“No,” Bellatrix replied, malignant joy twisting her features.

“I wish you were!” she cried. “I wish it was that!”

“But isn’t this so much better?” Bellatrix said, drawing near her again. “This kind of torture?”

“No,” Hermione gasped. “No, please--”

But Bellatrix’s mouth was on hers again, her hands were running up and down Hermione’s body and Hermione was turning to liquid, was turning to fire, she could hear Ron’s voice crying out for her but she couldn’t hold on to it. All she could hold on to was the searing, aching black love that coursed through her body. Her want for it made her sick, but it was so overpowering, her lust, her desire, it blocked out everything. She gave herself over to Bellatrix’s mouth, her hands.

The release within herself was exquisite. Hermione let Ron’s voice fade into nothingness, let her own disgust and hatred evaporate. She did not let herself become consumed by darkness, by evil, instead she focused completely on the heat of Bellatrix’s body, on the fire that crackled off her. She turned off her mind, she gave up, surrendered.

Before I kill you I want you to remember.

A scuffle from outside.

Hermione suddenly realized what was happening on the other side of the fog. In a flash she saw it so clearly, she understood why Bellatrix had chosen that moment, this moment. It was just before it happened, just before the door came flying open and Ron and Harry came flying through. It had to be. If not, if it was simply Malfoy or Greyback or any of the Death Eaters Bellatrix would simply have let it happen.

“Why?” she asked, her tone almost soft.

Bellatrix looked at her.

“They hunt,” Bellatrix said simply.

Hermione searched the woman’s eyes for meaning.

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Of course not!” Bellatrix said harshly.

Hermione could feel the peculiar tugging sensation begin in her belly. She was being pulled back into the present.

“Why?” she asked again, a hint of desperation in her voice.

“They will try to kill me.”

“Of course they will,” Hermione said. “And you’ll try to kill them.”

“I am a killer, Mudblood,” she replied. “I kill in the service of my Lord.”

The tug grew stronger. Hermione guessed there was perhaps a minute, perhaps two before time caught up with itself. She didn’t know why she wanted Bellatrix to explain herself. Something about that great and terrible and awesome force that had passed through her.

“But--”

“Love,” Bellatrix spat. “It is love, filth. It allows one to do terrible things. But,” she paused, and something almost like tenderness, almost like remorse flitted across her face, “it allows one to feel greatness. It is the deepest magic. You are a clever witch,” she said softly. “You understand.”

Hermione glanced at the shimmering mist, which was rapidly dissipating. She tried not to look at herself motionless on the floor, tried not to look at the other Bellatrix standing, blazing with fury. She looked back at the Bellatrix standing in front of her and saw with a sudden rush of pity the emptiness of her, the deep and abiding tragedy, and knew in that instant what she was going to do.

“The Dark Lord doesn’t believe it,” Bellatrix whispered, her voice small. “He doesn’t understand it. But I do,” she said. “This way,” she continued, holding up the Time-Turner, “this way I can taste it.”

The pounding at the door grew louder. She could hear Ron on the other side, shouting her name over and over. A flush went through her body, a twinge of shame at knowing that she would be able to have it all. Ron, perhaps, and his fumbling, awkward love. Bellatrix and her obliterating fire. She weighed for a split-second the wisdom of it, she tried to think of a way to excuse herself. She was lost, she was lost. The deepest magic.

Hermione reached out and grasped the Time-Turner. She stared at Bellatrix, her jaw set. An hour more. A taste.

She leaned in and kissed Bellatrix on the mouth, the rush of deep magic nearly causing her to fall to the floor. She grasped the woman’s arm tightly, could feel her fading away, and in the instant before the fog disappeared, the instant before the door came crashing in, she flipped the hourglass once more.