Chapter Text
The air in the Forbidden Forest was thick as tar and cold, but it could not extinguish the heat blazing between them. A year of pursuit, torture at Malfoy Manor, mad glances across the Great Hall's arch — it had all coiled into a tight, painful knot that was now bursting at the seams.
"He's coming tomorrow," Bellatrix hissed, her lips a centimeter from Hermione's ear. The aristocrat's fingers dug into the Gryffindor's hips, pressing her against the rough bark of an ancient yew tree. "With all his power. You'll die. You and your pathetic Mudblood friend."
"Why are you telling me this?" Hermione breathed out, but her body, traitorously, arched towards Bellatrix. Her hands were already clutching Bellatrix's black, disheveled locks, not letting go, not allowing retreat.
"Because your death must be mine alone," it sounded like an oath, and then Bellatrix's lips covered her own in a fierce, almost painful kiss. It wasn't a kiss of love, but one of obsession, possession, and that strange, twisted honor the dark Lady Lestrange found in this depraved connection.
Hermione responded with equal ferocity, biting her lower lip, tasting the salty tang of blood. Their battle continued, but the weapons were no longer spells, but touches. Bellatrix's fingers frantically fumbled with the buckle of her trousers, and then the stiff fabric gave way, rustling down her thighs along with her underwear.
The cold air burned her skin, but it was followed by the warmth of Bellatrix's palm, heavy and imperious. She didn't invade immediately, but paused, pressing her entire hand against the fire blazing between Hermione's legs.
"There it is," Bellatrix whispered, her mad eyes glittering in the half-light. "Your little, stubborn rebellion. I feel it. It's screaming."
Her fingers slid, gathering moisture, spreading it over the tender, swollen flesh. Hermione cried out, throwing her head back against the bark. It was too much. It was exactly that. Bellatrix's fingers found her clitoris, hard and desperately throbbing, and closed around it — not with a caress, but with a demand, precise, relentless pressure that made all Hermione's muscles clench.
"Look at me," Bellatrix ordered. "Look at me while I do this."
Hermione forced her gaze down. Met the dark, triumphant smile. Then her gaze fell lower, to the breast barely covered by the torn robe. Hermione's hand, as if of its own accord, jerked forward, seized the neckline of the black velvet dress and tore. The fabric gave way with a rip. And before her was a pale, full breast with a dark, taut peak.
She leaned down and took it into her mouth, greedily, wildly, hearing a ragged moan above her head. Her tongue circled the nipple, her teeth bit — gently, then harder. Bellatrix's hand in her hair held her there, pressing her to the source of warmth and the salt of her skin.
And then, at that moment when Hermione's lips were occupied with her breast and her mind was swimming from the rising wave in her lower abdomen, Bellatrix entered her. Not one finger, not two — but three, at once, deeply, filling her to the limit, to pain, to bliss. Hermione screamed, but the scream was swallowed by Bellatrix's flesh.
"Do you see?" Bellatrix spoke hoarsely, beginning to move her hand, each thrust driving Hermione against the trunk. "Do you see how perfectly we fit? How your body betrays everything you believe in? You are mine. Even if tomorrow I must watch you die by another's hand. In this moment — you are only mine."
She knew every spot, every rhythm. Years of dark magic gave her an intuitive, devilish understanding of the body, its limits and weaknesses. She would speed up, bringing her to the edge, then slow down, tormenting with anticipation. All the while, her other hand kneaded and pinched the young breast, and her eyes never left Hermione's face, greedily reading every grimace of pleasure.
Hermione could no longer think. About the War, about Voldemort, about Harry. Only this yew tree digging into her back, these fingers inside, this gaze that devoured her, and the taste of Bellatrix on her lips and tongue remained. The world narrowed to a point of pain-pleasure deep within her body, which grew, spread, tightened everything inside.
"Bella…" it was a moan, a plea, an admission of everything.
"I know," she whispered, and suddenly kissed her again, almost tenderly, at the very moment when the wave finally crashed over Hermione.
Convulsions shook her; she writhed in the vise between the tree and the witch's body, a silent scream stuck in their tangled mouths. Bellatrix kept her fingers inside, prolonging the spasms until the last echoes subsided.
Silence. Only their heavy, ragged breathing. Then, slowly, inexorably, Bellatrix withdrew her fingers. The movement was deliberately slow, making Hermione shudder from oversensitivity. She brought her glistening fingers to the light of the pale moon, then to her own lips, never taking her eyes off the girl.
"My duty is done," she said, her voice suddenly devoid of all passion. Cold and empty as a tomb. "I warned you. You'll get nothing more from me."
She adjusted her torn dress with one elegant motion, and her face became a mask of arrogant cruelty once more — Lady Lestrange, faithful servant of the Dark Lord. An abyss lay between them again.
"Tomorrow," she added, already turning to dissolve into the forest shadows, "I will torture you to madness if I catch you. Or kill you. Remember that."
She vanished. Hermione, trembling all over, slid down the trunk to the ground, fastening her trousers. The scent of dark wood, earth, and her still lingered in the air. The debt of darkness had been paid. And the debt of light — was yet to come. Tomorrow.
The war thundered beyond the walls like a mad organ. Hermione didn't think — she acted on pure adrenaline and the fury that had been simmering in her chest ever since that time in the Forbidden Forest. She saw Molly Weasley, face contorted with maternal rage and grief for Fred, take aim at Bellatrix. She saw Mrs. Weasley's lips form a lethal spell. And her own legs were already carrying her forward.
"Protego Maxima!"
A shield surged between Bellatrix and the death-seeking orb of Molly's magic for a split second — but it was enough. Hermione grabbed Bellatrix's bloodied wrist, feeling sticky warmth and a frantic pulse under her fingers.
"No!" she roared, not knowing who the cry was for — Molly, Bellatrix, or the war itself.
And she Apparated.
The world compressed, turned inside out, and they crashed onto the soft, damp moss of the Forest of Dean. The air smelled of pine, dampness, and silence — deafening after the chaos of Hogwarts. Bellatrix coughed, spat blood, and immediately tried to jump up, her hand instinctively reaching for where her wand should be (it lay somewhere among the rubble of the Great Hall).
"What… what have you done, you Mudblood filth?!" Her voice was hoarse, but madness still danced in her eyes, now mixed with shock. "You robbed me of my death! My glory!"
"I robbed you of the chance to be killed like a rabid dog," Hermione cut in coldly, herself trembling from post-adrenaline shakes. She was already rummaging in her beaded bag, unerringly finding the needed extension. "Now shut up. Locomotor."
A loop of light coiled around Bellatrix's ankles, toppling her onto the moss. Hermione pulled a neatly folded tent from her bag and threw it on the ground. The small camping marvel that had sheltered the three of them for so many months. With a habitual gesture, she touched it with the tip of her finger (her wand was clutched in her other hand, ready).
Pop.
The cozy, familiar tent sprang up between the trees. The smell of oldness, boiled stew, and books hit her nose — the smell of survival. The smell of a home they never had.
"Get in," Hermione ordered, roughly pushing the weakened Bellatrix inside.
The interior was as they had left it: worn armchairs, stacks of books, patched sleeping bags. Hermione almost mechanically flicked her wand, hanging additional Silencing and Disillusionment Charms on the walls. The outside world ceased to exist.
Bellatrix, leaning on the table, looked at it all with the expression of someone trapped in a surreal nightmare. Her luxurious black dress was torn, covered in dust and others' blood. A deep gash marred her temple.
"Why?" That single question escaped her, now devoid of rage, almost bewildered. She looked around the shabby surroundings. "Why did you drag me here? To this… fugitives' den. To deliver me to the Order? To get a reward?" Her lips twisted into the old, bitter smirk. "Or to finish what you started in the forest? To play with your prey?"
Hermione silently walked to the shelf, took out a vial of greenish liquid — "Burn and Blood-Staunching Ointment No. 3," of her own making. She approached Bellatrix, who tensed like a wounded animal.
"Hold still," Hermione said and, without asking permission, applied the ointment to her wound.
Bellatrix shuddered at the touch but didn't pull away. Her dark eyes, unwavering, studied Hermione's face — tired, bruised, but resolute.
"You are not my prey," Hermione finally said, her voice weary. "You… are my debt. Of a different kind."
"Debt?" Bellatrix snorted but allowed Hermione to tend to another cut on her arm. "You should have killed me. Or let that red-headed Valkyrie do it. That would have made sense."
"It wouldn't have made any sense!" Hermione burst out, her voice cracking. She took a step back, squeezing the vial until her knuckles turned white. "It would have just been another corpse! Another death in an endless series! I'm tired of deaths, Bellatrix. Even yours."
She turned away to hide the treacherous moisture in her eyes and began taking canned food and water from her bag. Automatic movements, saving her from the need to think.
"You warned me then. Saved me from ignorance. Even if it was from your own insane, possessive motives… you saved me. That… puts me in a position of reciprocal debt. Outside the laws of war. Outside 'light' and 'dark.'"
Bellatrix slowly sank into one of the worn armchairs, as if her bones had suddenly turned to cotton. She watched Hermione bustling by the camp stove, and the madness in her eyes gradually gave way to exhaustion and a kind of icy, piercing clarity.
"So this is your great morality, Gryffindor?" she asked quietly. "An eye for an eye, a favor for a favor? Even with the likes of me? Even knowing what I've done?"
"I know what you've done," Hermione's voice was flat. She put the kettle on. "And I might hate myself tomorrow for what I'm doing today. But today… today the war is over. At least here. For a few hours."
She turned, meeting her gaze. In the cramped space of the tent, smelling of healing ointment and old books, they were no longer soldiers, but just two wounded women bound by an unhealthy, inexplicable thread.
"And tomorrow," Hermione added, "we'll decide what to do with this debt. Both of us."