I own nothing.

Every Break Line means that the story has gone forward in time (in chronological order.)

The Lights at Night.

At least Harry's all right, she reminded herself as she slid down the frozen fieldstone walls, scraping her back until she was sitting on the cobbled ground with her knees drawn towards her raging chest, arms circling it in a protective fashion and visage hidden in the depression between her legs.

She saw a shadow from the corner of her eye and her heart broke in an experimental rhythm with the promise of imminent implosion, - she didn't want to face any other Dementor that night, - so she turned around, shakily, giving her back to pain and her tormentors.

It was agonizing as it could be, - to be compelled to reminisce every morose instant of her existence, - and she shivered and rubbed at her watery eyes, smearing fresco strokes of crimson blood across her nose and infraorbital. Quite indeed she had developed a habit of leaving crescendo paths in her palms as a way to cure her anxiety, - maintain her intrepidity, - and remain sane.

And worrying her lower lip with a steady increment on the applied pressure to the point of drawing a tad of blood in a slow bite, she started rocking her heels in the natural dips between the pebbles embedded in the ground. Even if she couldn't be with them, Hermione dreamed of Harry and Ron destroying the remaining Horcruxes, - she hoped they won the battle...

''They have to,'' she said to herself in a whisper, - her voice was nasal, with her runny nose and low spirits.

She smeared angrily the teardrops that contoured her face all about, in the hopes of drying her skin.

''My, my. Miss mud-girly is still alive and flying, it seems.'' A mocking, husky voice broke the silence and Hermione gave a little jump. Her heart did beat furiously, to the point that it hurt in her chest.

The girl had been too immersed in the back of her mind, she had not realized the scintillating Lumos that was aimed at her pale face, nor the trademark and very heavy gait of the woman whose face was peering at her with curiosity.

''Filth- girl.'' The woman tried to get Hermione's attention with a snap of her fingers. But the girl kept on ignoring her, looking at her own bloodied palms. ''Get up.'' Nothing happened. ''Come on up, now!''

Hermione Granger, the girl sitting on the stony ground, sent a defiant look at the nasty woman. The stench of Fetor Oris washed over her, permeating her senses. It was only natural, the woman was an eater of death, after all. But she knew the real reason. Her thoughts could not wander far because a pair of fierce, piercing black eyes were looking straight into her soul.

It resembled a space-time singularity, daring her to step too close, look into dark pools before being drawn into an early, painful death in the event horizon.

''What for? I'm as useless to you sitting here as I'd be standing. I don't know where Harry and Ron went,'' she muttered in a hoarse fashion after a while, as though she had not spoken in years – perhaps, years was hyperbolical by itself, months was more like it. What she knew, however, was that her throat and head were asking for water; dehydration was another terrible way to die, the eyes would harden, the body would simply...

Before she knew what was happening a pair of hands, with digging nails, were holding her biceps and helping her up with such brutal force she yelped like a bitch, for lack of a more suitable word, - she wasn't one to curse. Although she shouldn't have been surprised for finding herself standing, - simply because Bellatrix Lestrange was a force to be reckoned. Especially when angered.

The woman lowered her head, almost pinning the girl's nose against her own and glowered at the muggle born's sass, pushing the girl against the cold, hard wall in one swift movement – perhaps, it was the outcome of her less than stellar nutrition. She wished she could send an orison to Pendragon to kill her, if only she believed in God. In any god…

Religious people were lucky – the luckiest – unfortunately, she was bestowed upon, at an early age, the curse of skepticism.

''Do as I say, mudblood! If they – '' the woman nodded in form of acknowledgment, at a passing ward. And by them she meant the Carrows, '' – see I cannot control you, they'll take you away from me. Would you fancy that?'' Bellatrix whispered angrily, her hot breath caressing the muggle born's cheeks along with the humidity, angry drops of acidic saliva left in their wake. ''Because I wouldn't. You are my prize.''

No.

She sighed.

And in that moment, Hermione could only shake her head and put on a mask of sheer horror at the prospect. Honestly, she did not want to be taken elsewhere, but a part of her was only looking forward to getting a rise out of the witch. Sometimes she would let her basic instincts do all the talking, - see how far she could go before...

She flinched in pain when Bellatrix bit her earlobe and dug her nails into her tender forearms. Hermione Granger had never been a defenseless girl; but when confronted with the big bad Death Eater, a part of her would lend her all the control, her ferocity, everything to the older woman to do as she pleased, - perhaps Hermione really needed to take back the reigns of her life.

Although, what else could she do in her situation? She could only cry herself numb right before going to bed, - although sleep was usually elusive. Otherwise, it would earn her some blows and kicks from the mocking Carrows. It was only around Bellatrix that she was really safe from the rest of the cruel followers of Voldemort.

Steps coming closer reverberated through the fortress. And Hermione's fine ears caught on screeching brothers, probably laughing at her unfavorable situation – she still thought they sounded like dying pigs, – as they passed by her cell; the sound of their heavy souls carrying through the emptiness of the corridors.

And yet the only sound besides their terrible cackles and insulting words was that of Bellatrix's sucking on her tender, rouge neck.

It was as derogatory as it was painful, but only when they were out of sight and out of earshot did the woman release her, - her ruby-red lips full of saliva detached from Hermione's cervix with almost a pop, - and it had Hermione wondering for a minute whether it had been a vein or the sound of a plosive consonant breaking into the air.

Silence.

They looked at one another but their lips didn't move. That was until Bellatrix heaved a sigh, meeting Hermione's hazel eyes. A tender thumb soothed the swollen section of skin that covered the girl's pulse point, which jolted erratically, - anxious.

The Dark Witch sighed again as her fingers voyaged through the skin of Hermione's smirched infraorbital, voyaged over her cheekbones, sojourned towards her jaw, caressed the swell of her lips and tapped the curve under her chin, where the woman found purchase with her nails, tilting Hermione's face to her level, locking her dark gaze with those angry, clear eyes that dared to look at her with all the insurgency in the world.

It didn't last long for Bellatrix to journey from angry eyes to the girl's cracked lips and hunger oozed through half-lidded eyes.

''You haven't eaten yet, have you?'' Hermione broke her out of her trance.

The Dark Witch lifted her gaze to meet the girl's eyes with her eyebrows raised, perhaps mockingly, ''how did you know?'' She asked with gauntness splotched all over her face.

''Oh, don't act surprised,'' Hermione said with a forced grin and a little wave to the quality of her voice – one that would probably stay with her for as long as her anxieties lived. Even when a part of her wanted, to be honest, and say that the woman's breath acquired a particularly nasty odor when she didn't imbibe water or masticated aliments, – but what could a woman cursed with bad breath do, in the end? ''You've been skipping your lunches as of late,'' she said instead.

On the other hand, a part of her, the one that she hated to acknowledge, was happy that the woman was bringing edible food with her, ignoring her, dare she say, comrades, to bring her presence into her cell and eat with her. To have someone to speak with, felt good. Even if she disliked her fellow guest most of the time.

She abhorred Bellatrix, but she was grateful at the same time.

It was cognitive dissonance roaming free in her mind.

It was alright, she could deal with it.

After all, she wouldn't change Bellatrix for anyone else in that moment, even if their relationship had started off on the wrong foot, - or feet and hands or, perhaps, whole body.

In a way needed the woman: it was the only source of sanity between the brethren and the soulless beings dancing in their dark robes, eating away at her soul.

Bellatrix looked amused by something unbeknownst to Hermione. "Let's dine. We shall entertain ourselves later," was said with a flourish sway of her casting arm.

Hermione only nodded, - and her stomach rumbled.

At least she would be tortured on a full stomach.

Bellatrix raised her wand and pointed it to the open door, ''Accio basket.'' A beautifully crafted wicker basket came floating to the woman's outstretched fingers, a smirk in her old, beautiful and nasty face.

''I brought apples and strawberries, your favorite fruits if I recall correctly,'' the woman said with a thoughtful look. In fact, those weren't Hermione's favorite. They were Bellatrix's. And Hermione knew that this was another manipulation tactic, - she had read somewhere about them.

But still, it felt nice, to eat something besides tasteless, elf-made porridge.

Her heart felt heavy in her chest.

Too much pleasure could only mean one thing...

And her nails were digging once again into her palms.

''May I?''

''If she isn't such a well-mannered pet!'' Mocked Bellatrix as sat on her cloak, - the woman never cared much for her clothes. ''I said we shall play after you've eaten... so hurry up, - come on open up now." The threat present under a fake, caring voice.

And Hermione could only nod as she reached out for bread.

''Oh, - I do insist that you eat your favorites first.'' And Hermione wanted to cry, - because she was fed strawberries and apples when she would've preferred the meats and sausages.

X-X-X-X

''Crucio!''

Her leaden tears resounded against the cobbled ground when gravity dragged them downward leaving wet, itchy streaks on her skin. In fact, the droplets felt icy against the swell of her cheek and the tip of her nose, and on her tender hide, they felt like knives in search of blood. Eventually, she mustered enough strength to raise her hand to smear the humidity all around, - sadly, a thing about crying was that no matter how hard you tried, the reddened eyes, the wet lashes, and the glossy eyes were a giveaway.

No one could cry in private, for long.

But she prided herself on being strong and capable of overcoming every deterrent handed out to her by life. Sometimes, though, crying was alright.

Not alright, it was a necessity and a right. She needed to drain her sorrows somehow, find some sort of consolation in the real, tangible world. Plus, she'd have rather have herself self-dissolute in her crying than be a source of hilarity with her screaming.

It was mortifying enough that she had broken down in so little time.

''Do allow yourself to cry. So far you've been doing beautifully, Granger,'' the woman cooed with a hoarse voice, dragging the girl up to her knees. ''I know you'll grow to enjoy it, eventually, you'll do,'' she continued as she went to the wicker basket and fished a strawberry from it.

Hermione doubted it.

Pain. It was not something you could get used to.

The muggle-born stole a tentative glance at the woman, not even daring to look at the wand in her bony hand to prevent the woman from thinking she wanted to steal it. Although she wanted to. But Bellatrix was an extreme kind of paranoid. And Hermione didn't want more torture than necessary.

''Yes,'' and this time the girl didn't know what it was she had agreed to, but Bellatrix stepped forward and pushed the fruit to her lips, she opened them, allowing the woman to introduce the strawberry along with her fingers into Hermione's mouth.

''Such a good girl.'' Bellatrix hummed, drawing another strawberry from the basket, - this time around she caressed Hermione's neck with it, leaving a trail of humid, red juice on her pulse point. It was almost soothing the searing pain that the Dark Witch inflicted during 'their' foreplay.

Hermione opened up her mouth, predicting the outcome after the woman dragged the fruit to her jaw, over her chin, and against her tongue. "My, my. The mudblood is filthy, - should I purify you with my tongue, girl?" The woman asked with her pink tongue wetting her deranged lips, looking at Hermione's reddened face.

She nodded far too eagerly and Bellatrix chuckled at her.

But sobered up as soon as her eyes trailed down the wet streaked path and lurched forward biting Hermione's neck, poking her tongue out and licking the juice on the girl's skin.

A moan. A laugh. A dangerous tongue trailing upward, teeth scraping along her jawbone, - another moan, - biting her chin, licking at salty and sweat-coated skin, - nibbling on sweet, blushed lips.

It was scary how tender the woman could be.

Or what was truly terrifying was how her definition of tender had morphed.

Her knees hurt from the direct contact with the irregular, pebbled-ground.

She ignored it.

X-X-X-X

There has always been very specific words to express very specific sentiments. Even the more obscure one – even the one rooted right inside one's guts, or the one that plagues one's minds. The Greeks had a word for the satisfaction some people derive from seeing others in pain, epicaricacy. Others would be more in tune with the In Lak'ech Ala K'in philosophy.

Those emotions, those actions will be there, with or without those words. But uttering a word to express an emotion is what would make them seem real, - easier to perceive.

Are thoughts there?

Without words?

Can they be…?

She shook her head – she didn't want to worry her mind with such a filament of thoughts.

It was so boring, sometimes, to not have anything else to occupy her mind with, - other than counting the pebbles layering the walls, the bricks dank and grey, the metal bars in the window – the very ones that hindered the path of light. She moved her feet frantically – at least she didn't have bilboes around her ankles.

At least she could move.

She sighed.

And her stomach rumbled.

Merlin was she hungry!

She ruminated for a while – and it ended up being one of those days where she wondered whether an amphisbaena could masticate itself to death just like Ouroboros – was it considered cannibalism?

Hungry prisoners usually nibbled on their fingers, eating away at their flesh. She was relieved she was not that desperate, - sane enough to remember how to restrain herself.

Still, a grimace adorned her face. Because she was so disgusted by the mental image that assaulted her, - her bones sticking out of her bloodied fingers, the idea of nails stuck in her teeth, - to the point that her starved stomach stopped grumbling.

Where was Bellatrix? She wondered, - she wouldn't mind strawberries and apples and blood in her nails, - for as long as they stayed in her hands, - she wouldn't mind either that foreign, warm skin on hers. She licked her lips, - she wouldn't mind it at all.

After all, all she wanted was to see her.

She curled into herself when a dementor passed by her cell, ignoring her completely, - and perhaps, she thought, they ignored those who were happy.

Does Bellatrix make me happy? She wondered with a shaky breath of oxygen.

Her stomach jumped whenever she saw the woman, - her heart leaped.

But perhaps it was because Bellatrix Lestrange always had a wicker basket filled with delicacies with her.

X-X-X-X

She was pushed forward by an unknown guard, - treated like an animal once again, - and stumbled with trembling legs.

''Yer got lucky, girly. Were it not for Madame Lestrange I would've had my way with yer. I bet yer'd've enjoyed it! It's big, my cock that is. I'll ask yer mistress for a ride.'' And then he laughed.

Is this man some sort of breatharian, that all the air had gotten to his head? Bellatrix would kill him, no doubt.

And what cock was he talking about? The moving cockroach in his pants?

Oh, if only she had been imprisoned by the intelligent ones.

Why didn't she just jump off the cliff and sleep with the benthos and fish? Become part of… what was what they called it? Oh, yes, la réseau trophique. But then again, she was quite scared of heights.

And flying.

And dying.

She stopped in her tracks.

She felt the magic in the air, - strong, delicious, sensuous magic, - something powerful and marvelous.

She looked up.

Bellatrix was there, watching her from afar, with a wicker basket in her hands and a box was sitting on the floor, - a smirk tugged at her cracked, thin lips and Hermione wanted to reciprocate with a smile but she couldn't because smiling was difficult.

When they were alone she muttered in the girl's ear a: ''did you miss me?''

''More than anything,'' Hermione said hugging the older witch, who stiffened for a moment. In that moment she was sure she had, in fact, missed the witch as much as she had missed the food.

It could be so boring without her.

Without Bellatrix.

So painful.

And frightening, (although she knew the woman herself was nightmarish enough.)

And she shuddered when she saw their shadow on the floor, - it's not a Dementor. But her nails were already digging crescendo scars in her palms.

''Let's enter, shall we?'' and Bellatrix guided her towards the only luminous part of Azkaban, - the guardian's office. ''I have something for you... and by the balls of Salazar, don't be an ungrateful little mudblood to dear old Bella, today."

Later that day, Hermione found herself pleasantly surprised with a new cloak and some toiletries in her hand, - and above everything else, she loved the muggle, dental floss Bellatrix had gotten her, (and she fought hard not to ask her whether she had killed someone to acquire it.)

Her stomach flipped and her chest was filled with warmth.

She was in... she adored the woman.

X-X-X-X

They both looked up from their books when the door was thrown open, violently.

The boy who had entered was glaring at Hermione, a pool of saliva forming in his open mouth, - he had something in his hands, a parchment that seemed to had been rolled into a telescope and a black notebook.

''Careful you might catch a fly,'' the Gryffindor muttered to herself and refocused her attention on the book.

Hermione had concluded that the guard's surprised expression came from finding her fully clothed and happily reading a book on a corner. As though the Dark Witch was better off by having the girl hanging around, doing nothing rather than using her to satisfy her carnalities.

He walked up to the desk and handed in a codex and a parchment to Bellatrix.

''It looks like yer tirin' of the girl, Bellatrix. If yer desire her no more, I'd gladly take that burden off yer shoulders.'' The man's gaze swept over Hermione's form; up, down and beyond. And then he proceeded to lick his lips, eyeing the girl whilst he handed a parchment to Bellatrix, without deigning to even cast a look at his superior. ''Yer lassie looks in the pink and mighty fuller than the rest of the mudbloods. If only her hair wasn't –''

Another insult was almost coming her way.

''And, pray tell, who do you think you are, boy?'' Snapped the older witch, taking the parchment in her hands and reading it just to notice that it was a modified version of the prison's organigram along with a list of the employees and their blood status.

''Richard Ratpest at yer service.'' He offered a little reverence and then outstretched his hand for Bellatrix to shake, but was ignored altogether; he awkwardly retrieved the offered appendage to his side, like a good soldier. ''My offer still stands, Miss Bella. The lass yonder looks nut'n but trouble.'' He licked his lips once again.

Hermione knew he had made a grave mistake, because when she peeked a look at the Death Eater she saw her narrowing her eyes, just like she did when she was hunting and disarming Aurors. The one she had when she had disarmed her.

Bellatrix got up from her chair and rounded her desk in order to face the disruptive man.

''It's Madame Black to you! You, disrespectful filthy gnawer,'' hissed the woman through gnashed teeth as she drew her face near the man with a sneer in place and fire burning in her retina. He, needless to say, trembled.

''But – but the filth calls yer by yer name all the time! An' –'' He could not find the proper amount of words to speak properly. And seemed mighty confused by the situation, so he shut his mouth and squared his jaw; trying to look masculine and powerful even under the strong and frightening dark stare of Bellatrix Black.

''What I do and don't do with my – slut – is of no consequence to you, boy. Bugger off before I crucio you into insanity, – now!'' She growled whilst she played with her crooked wand. And the man gathered himself together before running down the corridor, and away he went from the She-beast Hermione had grown fond of. ''Begone, that he is!'' A howl of a laugh. ''Such a proxy wanker, don't yer reckon?'' She snickered, mocking the man's speech register and vernacular.

They still could hear his frantic running from the distance. Bellatrix was smirking, almost smiling and when she turned to face the girl; she expected to be greeted with a smile. Instead, she was shocked to see a frown on the pretty features of her mudblood.

''What's the matter with you?'' She asked the beautiful girl as she searched in her caramel eyes an answer to her query. The ghost of a smile haunted the Death Eater's face, for at the moment her expression could only convey a tad of worry.

The reason was, the word Slut had stung her; it had come too fast, too deadly for the girl to wright and steel her features, anymore. For everything she was giving the woman was out of duty, out of gratitude. And she knew, because her rational part always knew, that it had only been a mean to dissuade the man from asking too many questions. And she did not want to dwell on the reasons as to why a word uttered from the lips of her, if you may, savior and jailer, had wounded her more than being called a Mudblood had.

''Nothing's the matter… so?'' She said coldly, rubbing her palms on the woman's shoulders, her fingers playing with stray strands of black hair, while her thumbs caressed her pale neck. The woman sighed but did not make to get near the girl, instead, she was studying Hermione's visage in a detailed fashion, which only served to anger the girl. ''Well, won't you take your slut, then?'' Hermione snapped and winced straight away; too much for secrecy. Too much for keeping her feelings to herself.

Recognition flashed on Bellatrix's face. Amusement lit her eyes, and she smirked. The woman took the girl's wrists in her hands and held them over Hermione's head. While her nose tickled the girl's neck and her lips roamed the tender skin bellow.

''Oh, goody. So ickle bitty muddy is angry because her big bad owner insulted her in public?'' She murmured emotively against hot, sweet flesh. ''How am I to earn her pardon?'' She nibbled on the girl's lower lip then sojourned to her earlobe and bellow, darkened teeth scratching at a pulsing, blue vein. Almost wanting to taste blood.

A gasp came from Hermione's lips, and a thunder broke the eerie calmness; her body shivered and it was not due to the dexterous fingers of the woman who was currently touching her everywhere. She hated the winter, especially when no matter how much she sought out for a smattering of warmth, she found none.

''W-w-well, I- I never claimed a-any sort of emotional right o- on yo- your insults.'' Hermione fought the words out of her mouth, through gasps and whines; making Bellatrix groan. ''But if you want to make it up to me, I would not mind another jumper or two – with this horrid weather, I might as well get hypothermia tonight and die.'' She added when the woman's lips left her abused neck; unable to perform up to standard.

In fact, it wasn't a diversion tactic.

She pledged for the woman's good senses.

That she would not let her freeze to death.

The woman just ignored her.

''Keep silent, girl. It was a rhetorical question. And good girls mustn't speak out of turn.'' Bellatrix rolled her eyes, and Hermione bristled at her words, detaching herself completely from the older witch. ''What are you doing? I'm not done with you, yet.'' The woman said as though Hermione were hers.

And she was right. As far as the girl knew, in this place and time, she was but a petty possession. She was grateful, truly, that Bellatrix had taken a fancy to her. At first, life had been horrible, being tortured for information, even, for mere pleasure. But being on the woman's good graces got her eating more than some small rations of hard bread and tasteless oatmeal a day; she had more privileges than the rest of the inmates.

However, she hated being reminded of her social station; she hated it almost as much as her new home and the woman she had to play house with. Although, she did not harbor feelings of hatred towards Bellatrix, for it was more of pent-up passion mistaken for sweltering distaste. And she knew it.

But every single thought in her head died when she felt a pair of humid lips reattaching themselves to her carotid, biting teeth interrupting her pulse, a soothing tongue roaming over the burning and the black-and-blue scratches of pointy canines.

''Bella – ''

''To whom do you belong, mudblood? Tell me!''

''The system… in fact, I'll have you know -''

''Granger! I'm not up for playing any games. Let me rephrase it: who owns you, girl? Tell me!''

''Well, you already know, don't you!'' she started, but when her gaze found itself under cruel, beady eyes, - she surrendered her will. ''You. For God's sake, I belong to only you… at least in this moment.''

Bellatrix's possessive streak was placated, at least for the moment.

X-X-X-X

She was the inmate number 271 in Azkaban, where most of the Muggle-borns were either starved to death or killed. But Hermione Granger was lucky that Bellatrix was sweet on her, otherwise, she'd be long dead.

The Dark Witch was known for her qualities. Or, actually, she was better known for the qualities she lacked: patience and pity were two of them.

But obsession? That might as well be her second name.

And for once, Hermione was glad the older woman was obsessed with her.

The End.