This story is also available in text-only format here, and in standard size print here.

---

Salon Kitty
Deslea R. Judd
Copyright 2015


Pairing: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Lestrange
Rating: NC17, dark
Word Count: 3500
Summary: At Salon Kitty's in Knockturn Alley after the war, Bellatrix is hiding as a lookalike of herself and turning a good trade letting people take out their anger on her. Hermione is one of her regulars, but her games are getting dark enough to be dangerous.
More Fic: On AO3 or my fic site.
Feedback: Love the stuff. On AO3 or at deslea at deslea dot com.



Bellatrix hates the women the most.

She didn't used to. She was rather partial to them, actually. Now and then she gets one who just wants a fuck, any fuck, rather than her special services, and she enjoys them then as well. Soft breasts and the scent of swollen, ripe pussy filling her nostrils. It's one of the finer things in life at the best of times, and one of few in this brave post-war world.

Not that the world is bad for everyone. Contaminated filth like the Granger woman have it rather good, actually. But if you have the Dark Mark and the face of Bellatrix Lestrange, it's a hard old world.

Still, she has made the most of it. She has taken refuge in one of the better brothels, and made the most of her all-too-recognisable face. People come from far and wide to take out their wartime fury on Bellatrix Lestrange's distant niece and mirror image. In certain circles, she is famous; more importantly, she is safe, hiding in plain sight. She has fucked virtually every Ministry official who would be charged with her capture, if they knew she was alive at all.

Her face isn't the only problem, of course. It's only the most pressing one. The other problem is that she's most of the way out of her mind, just barely competent enough to perceive it and contemplate the threat it creates.

She wasn't always. Once upon a time she had proclaimed the Dark Lord by choice. She was an idealist and a zealot back then. She still is, but something happened to her along the way, sometime during the cataclysm of her trial and imprisonment. The anchors in her mind broke away and left her adrift. Now, she has no choice but to proclaim him, even now that he is, unfathomably, dead. The parts of her mind that might once have stopped her, might have impressed on her the need to shut up and stay alive, simply don't work properly anymore, even when she wants them to.

So Isabella Black was born, emerging from the ether fully-formed. Impoverished by the war and left orphaned and destitute by the final battle, she has made a living for herself roleplaying her famous aunt. She will take any abuse in the name of her Lord, and she is never, ever out of character.

She couldn't if she tried.

She does a roaring trade, enough for her instability and oddness to be tolerated. The usual johns make up less than half her clientele. St Mungo's recommends her to people traumatised by war, male and female alike. She sees the winners, keen to assert their supremacy, the losers, keen for a moment with someone who still craves the world they do, and the hapless and helpless victims in the middle as well. She screeches obscenities at the Mudbloods when they fuck her, and they love it, love to take their victory over her protests, and she loves it too, loves knowing she has used them to survive and it would destroy them to know it. She lives in a world between worlds, half of her carefully calculating the balance between her façade and the very limited ability she has to maintain it, and the other half purely herself.

But she hates the women.

The men are easy, mostly. Mostly all they need to do is get on top of her and fuck her hard to think they've won. That's fine by Bella; she likes it hard. There are exceptions - Lucius comes in now and then, and he will only touch her to make her bleed - but they are rare.

There isn't such a clear sign of victory for the women, and no natural endpoint either, so they just keep on going. They abuse her until they hit their own limit for doing so. Never hers - she doesn't have one. Arguably, a big part of the reason she wound up here is that she's never had a limit for anything.

So the women are the worst, and Granger is the worst of those.

She comes every week, which is an expensive business, but Granger is moving up in the world, and she can afford it. She works in the War Crimes Tribunal now, after some modest successes in the ill-fated Elven Welfare Authority, and has risen to Commissioner for Investigations in a fairly short time.

Power doesn't suit Granger, in Bella's view. She was always an intelligent, calculating sort, kept in check by her morals, but the politics of a Commissioner are breaking her morals down. Granger reminds her of Lucius now, rather more than she likes. Granger is turning dark, and when she's alone with the woman, at her mercy, that's a dangerous thing indeed.

Once upon a time, she thinks, looking into the mirror, Granger treated her like a professional. A few minutes of smalltalk before and after. There was a transition, from the transaction to the roleplay and back. But as Granger has gone dark, their meetings have grown dark too.

She feels a scowl tugging at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't want to put it on. She wants her favourite black dress, the only thing she managed to escape with. The dress she wore in the final battle and very nearly died in. Sometimes, when she smells it, she gets a flicker of smoke and acid Cruciatus and…and him. Her beloved Lord and Master, who died before her horrified, expressionless eyes as she lay there, temporarily paralysed with a stunning spell and left for dead. Their bodies were dumped together, burned together, and she had recovered enough to Apparate away just as the flames began to take hold.

In the mirror, she spots the offending article, draped over the chair. Once more, her mouth curls in distaste.

She looks back at herself. Looks at the skimpy black lace dress brushing over her curves. Surveys herself critically.

She isn't too bad today, all things considered. A few old bruises, nothing too major. A more serious one on her breast, hint of colour peeking through lace, but that's a couple of weeks old now, barely visible (Granger's handiwork, of course; she was away on business and missed last week). It has been days since she's been bitten, or subjected to more than a low-key slap. Even her longtime war-trauma clients have gotten the worst of it out of their systems now. It's been nearly seven years.

Except, of course, for Granger. Bella will be black and blue again by the day's end.

Still scowling, she brings her hand up beneath her dress, to her pussy, and begins to stroke herself. She is expected to be ready for Granger. If she isn't, Granger won't wait for her. She'll choose the roughest, biggest toy she can find, force her legs open, and work her open with it, a cruel smile flickering over her features as she does it.

She manages a perfunctory orgasm, standing there, and opens her eyes. Jolts with a shuddering gasp. Granger is standing behind her, holding it. The filthy thing she's meant to be wearing. Her mouth is pulled down into a snarl.

"Get that fucking dress off. Dresses are for people. A slutty piece of filth like you only deserves to wear this."

Bella finds herself shivering. "Yes, Mistress," she whispers, dragging her dress hastily over her head as she turns around. Real terror fills her voice, and the need to protect herself, to please.

Granger throws the filthy thing at her, and, trembling, she puts it on. Shudders at the rough, coarse fabric against her flesh, stained edges brushing her thighs.

Granger walks up to her. Assesses her critically. She arranges the knot on her shoulder, and pulls down hard. The fabric bunches between her breasts and the knot drags painfully on her neck like a noose. Granger's knee nudges hers wider apart, and she reaches between for the other end of the filthy fabric. She ties the two ends together, up hard between the folds of her pussy, the new knot positioned squarely between her cunt and her arse.

"That's better," Granger says reflectively. "Slave cloth for a slave."

"They teach you this at the Elf Welfare Authority?" Bella demands before she can stop herself. Curses herself before the words even have finished falling from her betraying lips.

A flicker of sour amusement touches Granger before she snaps her fingers with a wordless Accio, producing thin ropes unerringly from the bureau. "Shut up, filth." She gathers up the rope and throws it at her, muttering a charm, and the rope assembles itself around her, firm but not tight. It wraps half-a-dozen times around her breasts, winds down between her folds and back up again, and secures her arms as well. It is one of Granger's favourite things to do to her, and one of her own as well, to her own annoyance.

Granger approaches. Takes hold of bits of rope, experimentally, and tightens. She works slowly and methodically, pulling up enough slack to wind one more loop around her breasts, now horribly, horribly tight. They turn bright, angry pink under her gaze, nipples standing out, proud and strong, aching and tight and so sensitive that even the air itself drives her half out of her mind. She groans as Granger pulls more slack at her hips and ties it into a knot, driving it hard between her folds, into her clit. The rope rubs against her there with every move she makes, every breath. Her breaths alternate between shallow and fast, fighting against the tight bounds around her chest. It's vaguely frightening, but pleasurably intense too. Her cunt is aching and she's soaking wet as well.

Granger flicks her aching, over-stimulated nipple with her finger a few times, and that's all it takes for her knees to buckle beneath her. She falls, heavily, bearing down on the rope dragged up into her clit, and moans. She falls face-first into the floor, her sore, tight nipples shoved hard into the carpet, arse in the air, rasping out at the pain/pleasure in her breasts.

"Filthy little slut," Granger says, contempt seeping through her voice. She kneels, close behind her, and shoves her hand down in the middle of her back, grinding her breasts into the floor. Bella yelps out in pain, way past pleasure now, but her arse is shoved high up in the air and her legs spread wide.

Granger uses her free hand to slap her arse, first the rise, then the backs of her thighs. Then hard on her swollen, wet pussy through sodden fabric and rope. There is stinging and pressure and coarse rubbing on her clit, making her jerk her arse in the air and her legs flail with agony and need.

"Oh, God, fuck me!" Bella cries out. Partly because she needs it and partly because she thinks she'll die if the pressure of the ropes doesn't let up soon.

"You want me to fuck your slutty little cunt?" Granger spits. "I'm better than that. You're not good enough for me to touch you. Filthy fucking inbred." Bella feels tears well up and overflow, and she sobs silently, still pushing back her arse in the air.

"The hairbrush, then!" Bella wails. "Anything! Please!"

Granger sniffs, but relents. She summons…something. Then Bells feels the knot at her clit loosen, making space, and a chill of rounded, blunt metal pressing against her opening, deliciously heavy and huge.

"Not the metal," she whines, as she always whines. The big metal dong is her favourite, but Granger won't use it if she knows it. "It's so cold."

"Good," Granger says viciously, and shoves. Hard.

Bella yelps, straining backwards, letting out a long, low moan as the massive thing insists its way into her. She feels her cunt stretch and her walls cling and spread and cling once more as Granger brutally forces it into her. Comes hard as Granger holds it forcefully inside her and grinds it, drilling it hard against her cervix. Granger hasn't used it in a while, and never so early in her visit. Dimly, one detached part of Bella's mind registers that Granger is angry today. Angrier than she's ever been. The rest of her is screaming and moaning, grinding back, wave after wave of fluid spilling from her overflowing pussy. She's past the point of control, climax breeding climax without regard for what Granger's doing to her, stimulated beyond endurance.

Roughly, Granger turns her over. Wedges the dong inside her to the hilt and slaps her aching, bound breasts with the flat of her hand. Bella screams, and comes, tears rising in her eyes. Sharp, burning stinging in her breasts that leaves her swooning with pain and her cunt spasming, with hard points of arousal shooting a path from her nipples to her clit.

The ropes and cloth vanish as she finally falls still. The massive thing is still crammed inside her.

"Your flesh is much too pale," Granger says with faux concern, and she knows what's coming. Resolutely keeps her eyes closed. "You need some color."

"Yes, Mistress," she whispers. Braces herself. Focuses on the comforting weight of the metal thing wedged in her pussy. Bears Granger's cruel fingers as she works them over her body, pinching and pressing and pulling and poking. Probing and groping, hard and blunt and seeking to wound. Chokes out desperate, urgent need as Granger probes her mouth and her arse, but even agonising pain/need can't quiet the jangling alarm in her brain.

She knows, her mind insists. She KNOWS!

But how could she know?

Granger is sitting astride her now, holding up her wand. "Shall I fuck you with it, slut?"

Mutely, Bella shakes her head with terror. There are visions in her head, visions of Granger shoving it into her and casting the Avada Kedavra. Mortally wounding the part of her that was meant to be for life.

Granger sighs. "You really are very tiresome. I don't know why I keep you at all. Very well, then, I shall mark you with it instead." She leans over Bella, snarling cruelly, "I shall brand you as you have branded me."

Bella sinks back her head, sobbing openly. Branding, she can handle. That wand inside her, tearing her open? No.

Granger places the tip of her wand against the inside of Bella's arm. It is red hot and sharp. Hot enough to hurt, but not hot enough to sear her wounds closed. Bella throws back her head and howls in agony as Granger carves into her.

"Voldemort's whore," Granger snarls, and Bella feels a golden moment of triumph. This is agony, but the ecstasy of being branded with him will stay with her forever. Her body throbs with satisfaction and her cunt spills over, seizing around the massive dong still inside her. Her breath hitches with satisfaction and aching need.

Granger makes a sound of disgust. "You filthy little slut," she hisses. "You and your little whore's pussy, wet for a filthy, vile corpse. You're nothing but a filthy cockwhore, passed around from one Death Eater prick to another, letting them shove their filthy pricks into you."

Bella aches. None of it had happened - none of them would dare touch the Dark Lord's property - but she can see it in her mind's eye. Can see them sharing her, making her the symbol of their brotherhood. Such things happened in war and she can easily imagine it, can imagine Lucius forcing his thick, veiny cock into her mouth while Rodolphus drags her arse in the air and shows her swollen, wet cunt to everyone before shoving himself into her. Can imagine screaming as their pummelling rhythms drive her beyond all control and all reason.

Granger reaches out and cruelly twists her nipple. "You would like that, little bitch, wouldn't you? It's making you wet just thinking about it, isn't it?"

"Yes," Bella sobs. "Just fuck me!"

"Fuck you, cockslut," Granger snarls, pulling out the dong and slapping her across the face. "How fucking dare you get off on this!" She points her wand at Bella's arm and utters a word, and Bella's brand comes open. Granger smears her hand through thin streaks of blood and shoves her fingers into her protesting mouth. "You get off on your precious fucking blood? You can fucking drown in it." She shoves her hand deeper, into the back of Bella's throat; Bella chokes and gags. With a sound of frustration, Granger drags her hand out again and shoves it deep into Bella's dripping hole. Slams it home over and over like she's stabbing her to death. Granger's eyes are ablaze with vicious concentration, and Bella thinks that somewhere, deep in that relentlessly angry mind, that is exactly what she's doing.

The thought makes her cold. Too cold to pretend she isn't. Too cold even to get off.

Her spasming body suddenly falls still.

It's like flicking a switch. Granger leans over her, quick and furious, her hands around her throat. "Fuck you! How fucking dare you! I know what you did! There is no Isabella Black, damn you! How dare you be anything other than what I order you to be!" She grabs the dong and shoves it back into her pussy, jamming it hard in there with her knee and taking hold of Bella's throat once more. "You're mine, bitch! You come when I say you do! You scream when I say you do!" She shoves the dong with her knee, over and over, and presses down hard on Bella's windpipe.

Bella's mind swims and her body jerks, coming over and over again. Her climaxes come in heat and chills, her mind a chaotic, free-floating maze of colour and light. The room grows dim as her mind screams out for her Lord.

"Tell me who you are!" Granger is screaming. "Tell me! Tell me!"

A shining moment of crystal clarity breaks through it all, just before she can slip into unconsciousness. She remembers the Dark Lord's fingers on her cheek. And suddenly she knows what to say.

"Yolanda," she chokes out. She beats at Granger's hands. "Yolanda."

Granger is stunned. Stunned enough to let go. "What?"

Bella gasps, in heaving, labouring breaths. "Yolanda. Bella and Rod's. Before they were married. Her parents sold me. No records. She was seventeen. Professor Dippet…helped."

A tiny, horrified sound escapes Granger's lips. She is staring from Bella, to the blood on her hands, and back again. Dimly, in the mirror, Bella can see herself, fingermarks on her throat, bruises all over, blood on her arm and on the massive thing in her pussy. Her body is purple and pink but her face is bloodless and white with terror.

Granger is shaking. Watches as Bella drags herself gingerly up to sit on the floor, as she extracts the toy from herself and takes some long, deep breaths. Watches as Bella uses the Accio to summon water from the nightstand, and drinks it gratefully.

"You're not Bellatrix," she rasps at last.

"How could I be?" Bella wonders. "Bellatrix is dead." Then, suddenly, she weeps. An elusive moment of utter truth. Bella is dead. Everything that made her Bella is dead. Now there is just a series of doppelgangers, filling the empty void of her with the world's hatred and fear.

Granger reaches out, just a little, then her hand falls away.

Good, Bella thinks viciously. Good.

"I'm sorry," Granger whispers. "I shouldn't have come here." Shivering, brushing back tears, she draws away and gets unsteadily to her feet. She staggers twice as she pulls on her clothes.

Bella says in a childlike voice, "I got a copy of the Dark Mark tattoo, you know. I wanted part of her. I don't have anything else." She looks away and allows her body to shudder with apparent emotion.

Granger's thin chest heaves. With a wail, she turns on her heel and flees, banging the door behind her.

Bella watches her go. Listens carefully as the footsteps fall away.

She holds herself in check until she's absolutely sure it's safe, and then she giggles, then laughs, then guffaws, until she's bent double and aching with the effort.

I may be mad, she thinks, but I can make you mad right along with me, you filthy little Mublood bitch-whore. Just you fucking wait.

She curls up, right there on the floor, and, sated with revenge, she sleeps better than she's slept in years.

END