Work Text:
Drip. Drip.
A loose pipe? No, it wasn’t consistent enough. And there was an odd squelch sound that emanated from her right. Like a cloth being wrung out, air escaping from kneaded dough, or… something being cut open?
Hermione blinks, expecting for her vision to swim and fill with black blots as she feels the effect of the drug wearing off. Instead, she’s met with darkness.
Drip. Drip.
Her brow furrows, eyelashes fluttering once more against a rough fabric- cloth. Oh, he’d put a blindfold on her. How lovely. He wanted whatever torment he was preparing to be a surprise. Her punishment for calling him predictable last week perhaps? Bartemius had been quite irritable when he left her cell three days ago. He hadn’t even bothered to bring her food and water himself for the past few days. He’d left that task to the house elf, Winky. And he loathed the poor thing.
Winky told her once how he had forbidden her to show herself in any capacity to him or his guests. That she was to clean, cook, do whatever chores the house elf cared to do, and leave him alone. She got any adjustment to her orders by hand written letters. Which Winky treasured and kept safe in a lock box. They were the only things Bartemius gave to her. Of course she’d get attached… trying to serve him in the absence of his father. Insisting on it, according to Bartemius.
She’s surprised he didn’t outright kill Winky whenever she had come to find him, begging for her position back. But he must have seen the merit in having someone to attend to the house, and any prisoners he kept.
If he had other prisoners. Hermione could trick Winky into talking about herself all day, give little nuggets of Bartemius’ behaviour, but the house elf clammed up the second she asked about anything to do with the world outside of her cell.
“Master explicitly stated that I’m not to read the paper. That way I can’t let anything slip to you. He says you're tricky, Miss. I attend the house, not his guests, and not the gatherings. I’m to be outside in the garden if anyone is inside. Inside if anyone is outside. Away in the grove if people are present in both. What I can do is tell him if you’re in need of anything.”
“I can make requests?”
“Yes, of course! So long as they’re reasonable, Miss.”
Hermione quickly learned many requests she made were not reasonable.
Mainly being let go, though she knew that was a lost cause from the start. As undignified as it was, requesting an upgrade from the bucket in the corner. He’d allowed that one. Apparently he also didn’t care to treat her like a barn animal.
How amusing then that he currently had her tied up like one for slaughter.
Her fingertips trail over the cold metal loops of the chain above her, drifting down slowly, checking for cracks or dents, any imperfection. She gives the barest tug on the chains she can manage. There’s no give. The metal cuffs around her wrists are flush with her skin, same as the cuffs around her ankles. No room for air to slip through, and the metal that’s in contact with her is already warm. It’s a bit jarring, considering how cold the rest of her feels, exposed to the open air.
She bends her fingers a little, trying to find where the lock would be on her cuffs. Over the years she’d gotten quite good at wandless magic. Perhaps she could…
“Did you know your breath hitches for a second whenever you wake up? You’re also not as subtle as you think, Miss Granger. The chains are warded. The cuffs have a negation enchantment. Don’t insult my intelligence by thinking otherwise.”
Bloody hell.
He was right. It was foolish of her to think he’d finally screw up. Bartemius had been meticulous in his planning when he caught her. He hasn’t fumbled once since imprisoning her.
Hermione sighs softly, raising her head and looking in the direction of his voice. The same area she’d heard the drip drip coming from.
“Is there a particular reason you felt the need to drug me?”
“When have you been cooperative when I ask you to do something, Hermione?”
For a moment her tongue has a hard time coming up with an answer. “If more of your requests were reasonable, maybe I’d be less selective with which I follow.”
A hollow laugh quickly fills the air before dispersing in the next instant. “Twice. Twice you’ve done what I’ve asked of you. That’s not a brilliant track record for you.”
“Perhaps this time would’ve been a third. You’ll never know unless you try.”
“Mhm. So, you would’ve willingly followed me here from your cell? Stood on that platform and simply accepted it when I put the cuffs on you? No fighting back? No attempts at escape? No complaints about it being uncomfortable? No clever words for me?”
“Oh, there most certainly would have been clever words no matter what you did. I’ve accepted that comfort isn’t a focus of yours.”
Bartemius clicks his tongue. “Comfort would be perfectly within your reach, if you listened to me.”
“I’m not a student anymore. I don’t have to listen to you.”
“We both know you chose to listen when you attended Hogwarts. Just like how you chose which rules to follow, and which you broke.”
Hermione purses her lips, not having a good enough quip to throw back at him.
There’s a soft thud of metal hitting wood, a familiar slosh of liquid being stirred in a glass bottle. He’s crafted some concoction at what she guesses must be a workbench. If it weren’t for the blindfold she could get a good look at the instruments he’s used, perhaps figure out what he plans to do to her.
“You know, If you deprived me of water long enough I'd have to drink whatever that is.”
“It’s not for drinking.” She thought so, but it felt nice to have it confirmed anyway. “It’s like a lotion. It should be pleasant, not uncomfortable.” She didn’t particularly like the sound of that. “You’ll understand in a moment.”
His footsteps drew near, his breath ghosting over her right arm, causing goosebumps to break out along her flesh.
“I’m going to have to ask that you try to remain quiet as I work. Think you can do that for me? Adhere to a third request?”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Depending on…?”
“If it’s actually comfortable or not.”
“This shouldn’t hurt.”
Despite his words she braces herself when he steps closer, a drizzle of the ‘lotion’ landing on her arm. It’s warm, with a thick consistency that’s almost sticky as it crawls over her skin, sinking into her flesh.
“Yes, this’ll do nicely.” There’s a spark of excitement in Barty’s voice that causes her to shiver, head tilting away from him. As if she could put any distance between them given her position.
More of the lotion is drizzled onto her arm, his hands quickly descending on her to help rub it in, ensuring her right arm is covered fully before moving on to her left. Then down and inward, covering her shoulders, neck, chest, hips… his hands continue lower and she tenses. Her teeth dipping into her bottom lip as his fingers rub the lotion into her labia. Thankfully his fingers don’t go in, moving to encompass her ass instead and then sliding down her thighs, rubbing the lotion into her calves, then finishing with her feet, predictably.
Hermione draws in a breath, now covered in a warm sticky embrace of sorts. It’d have been a pleasant feeling, like just receiving a full body massage with how relaxed she was. If not for the fact that she still didn’t know what it was Barty was hoping to accomplish. There’s no way he was done with her.
Plop.
She jerks in her chains when she feels something land on her head, and then Barty’s fingers are combing through her hair, pressing the lotion into the strands. Somehow it doesn’t get stiff, staying warm and fluid as he coats her untamable curls in the stuff.
“What are you doing?”
Bartemius hums in response, and she feels his fingers on her lower face, pressing more of the liquid into her skin and lips before his hands draw back and she doesn’t feel them immediately on her somewhere else.
“Patience, Hermione. You’ll feel the effects soon enough.”
But she doesn’t want to. She already doesn’t like the way her body sags in the chains, listless, too relaxed, not responding to her efforts to move her limbs. She feels paralyzed, stuck in time.
“Ad me flecte.”
The warmth covering her grows hotter, tingly. Like little sparks of fire dancing upon her skin.
Barty’s fingers press at the corners of her mouth, tilting her lips up, curving along the bottom to ensure they form a small smile. He steps back for a brief moment, retrieving something. More lotion? He urges her mouth open, slipping a finger inside and she tastes something tangy, oddly flavorless, a bit thick in consistency.
It couldn’t be… He wouldn’t dare. Not after all the times she refused to taste him before.
His cum warms on her tongue and his fingers trail along her throat. Her body reflexively swallows and the warmth follows, burning in the pit of her stomach.
“You’re so beautiful when you do as you’re directed.”
His fingers reshape her lips, ensuring the smile from before remains. Then his cum-covered digits dips into her core, his cold fluid quickly warming within her body.
Bartemius’ breathing grows heavy, shuddering as he retracts his fingers from within her. “You feel perfect.”
She feels like a switch has been flipped. Like there’s energy crackling through the air. The sparks of fire along her skin burn hotter.
His hands are on her once more; no longer gentle, instead pushing and pulling, stretching at her skin. Her breasts are raised, nipples perky, heavier with the added weight. Her waist pushed in, hips elongated, thighs turned plump despite the muscle beneath them. Calves sculpted to fit the new shape of her legs. His fingers slow on her ass, gently lifting and shaping them, delving past to feel her labia once more, her lower lips becoming plump, as if she were aroused.
There’s a short reprieve and then she can feel his hands in her hair, untangling the curls, pulling them straight before curving them again, lifting. It leaves her feeling airy, bouncy and floating in the wind.
His fingers pull at the cloth covering her eyes and it flutters to the ground, revealing a large room made of stone, a bunch of tubes and alchemical supplies on the workbench. No Bartemius in sight.
“Adhaere mihi.” His words seem to ripple through the air and something snaps within her.
Suddenly her body feels tight, sore and bruised, warm and at ease all at once. Exhaustion crashes into her and she goes limp in the chains.
Hermione’s lips finally move, “Is this form more desirable to you?”
“Yes,” his voice rumbles directly into her ear, low and hungry, sending a jolt of yearning down her spine. “You’re going to be my perfect woman, Hermione.” He leans closer, teeth grazing along her ear lobe and her body trembles.
Her lips fall open, a soft unfamiliar keening coming from her vocal chords.
Bartemius chuckles against her hair, giving the silky strands a quick tug before pressing his lips to her skin again. There’s a warmth bubbling up within her body, a need to be filled thrumming beneath her skin.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You.”