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Chapter Text

The day Hermione Granger turned eighteen, everything shifted. One moment she was at home with her parents, dusting flour from her hands as she helped her mother frost a cake, the next a surge of raw magic tore through her body. It wasn’t agony, but neither was it comfort—it was overwhelming, like standing in the eye of a storm that had chosen her as its center.

She glanced instinctively at the clock. 12:30 p.m. The exact moment she had been born. Ron had once mentioned that every witch and wizard experienced a magical inheritance at twenty-two; clearly this was hers.

The force wrapped around her, pressed through her veins, and then just as suddenly as it began, it ebbed away. In its place, a scroll materialized, hovering in the air until it dropped lightly onto the kitchen table. Heart hammering, Hermione unrolled it.

Her eyes widened as the words inscribed themselves across the parchment. Bellatrix Lestrange. Narcissa Malfoy. Andromeda Tonks. All three names bound—by magic, by lineage, by law—to her.

The explanation chilled her: the Black family, decimated and desperate for survival, had turned its gaze upon her. By some twist of inheritance, her blood now ran pure, placing her as the most viable candidate to continue their line. Bellatrix, widowed and recognized as Lady Black after her husband’s death, was marked as a potential wife. Andromeda, long estranged but bereft of her own spouse, too was named. Even Narcissa—her marriage to Lucius annulled by the same binding law—was tethered to Hermione’s fate.

The scroll emphasized what she scarcely dared to believe: she was powerful, clever, pureblooded now, and suitable in every respect.

Hermione read the lines again, then again, each pass leaving her both more incredulous and more unsettled. Her magical inheritance had rewritten her very blood?

She swallowed hard. There was only one place she trusted for answers: Gringotts. 

That same afternoon, Hermione Apparated straight into Diagon Alley, her resolve hardening with every step toward the white marble façade of Gringotts.

The moment she reached the great bronze doors, the goblin guards dipped into bows. Hermione froze mid-stride, caught entirely off guard. Goblins did not bow. Not to anyone. Their heads lowered in unison, sharp features solemn, and the sight prickled the back of her neck.

She forced herself to keep moving, though her thoughts tumbled in confusion. Inside, the familiar cavernous hall seemed somehow altered, the echo of footsteps and the gleam of chandeliers sharpened by the goblins’ sidelong glances.

At the nearest teller’s desk, she placed her hands on the polished wood. The goblin looked up, eyes glittering, and without preamble said, “Miss Granger, you are no longer known by that name. From this day forth, you are Hermione Ravenclaw, sole surviving member of the extinct Ravenclaw line. Your ancestry traces back to Rowena herself—through her hidden union with Salazar Slytherin. By his family’s charter, only direct heirs may claim the Slytherin name, so you inherit Ravenclaw instead.”

For once in her life, words deserted her. Hermione stood slack-jawed, struggling to process what she’d just heard. Ravenclaw. Slytherin. Both bloodlines, wound through her veins.

When she found her voice, it emerged steadier than she felt. “Does that mean… there is a Ravenclaw seat on the Wizengamot? A vault here at Gringotts?”

The goblin inclined his head gravely. “Indeed. Upon your inheritance, the Ravenclaw seat reawakened. As for the vault—it exists, but lies in the lowest depths of Gringotts. At present, those caverns are flooded. It will take several days before we can clear safe passage.”

Hermione drew in a slow breath, her mind already leaping ahead. A family vault at the bottom of Gringotts. Knowledge. Relics. Magic. “Very well,” she said at last. “I will return in three days. And the key?”

A hint of sharp-toothed amusement curled across the goblin’s mouth. “No key. The vault may be opened only by solving a riddle, Madam Ravenclaw.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Fitting,” she murmured. Then, with a nod, “Thank you, Sawtooth.”

The teller—Sawtooth—bowed low. “You honor us, Madam Ravenclaw.”

The title rang strangely in her ears as she turned and strode back across the marble floor, every goblin eye following her departure.

Chapter Text

When Hermione returned home, her mother immediately pressed the scroll back into her hands. “Did you read the fine print?” she asked, brow furrowed. 

Hermione blinked, then unrolled the parchment once more. Her stomach dropped as her eyes fell to the very bottom. There, written in crisp, inarguable script, were the terms of the bond: she had exactly one year to wed all three Black sisters—or every last one of them would lose their magic.

Her breath caught. A year. Just one year. Her fingers clenched around the parchment, knuckles whitening. “Bloody hell,” she whispered under her breath, pulse racing. What if they refused? What if she failed them all?

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Meanwhile, miles away at Black Manor, Lady Bellatrix Black lounged in a velvet armchair before the fire in the Great Library, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers. The sudden thunk of parchment against her skull had her sputtering, nearly spilling her drink.

“What in Merlin’s name—” She snatched up the scroll that had dropped onto her lap, scanning the words. Her expression shifted from irritation to shock, then to outrage. “WHAT?!” she shrieked, the sound echoing against the vaulted ceiling. 

The scroll clutched in her fist, she stormed down the corridor, her robes billowing behind her, and threw open the doors to the Floo chamber. She tossed in a handful of powder, stepping into emerald flames that carried her to Malfoy Manor. 

On the other side, she nearly collided with Narcissa, who was striding toward the hearth in haste, her gloves clutched in one hand. 

“Bella, not now,” Narcissa snapped, her voice tight. “I’ve just tried on my wedding band and it seared my skin. I must speak with the goblins immediately—” 

Bellatrix caught her wrist, fingers like iron. “Read this,” she hissed, thrusting the scroll into her younger sister’s free hand. 

The sharpness in her tone gave Narcissa pause. She smoothed the parchment open, eyes narrowing as she read. Her lips curled. “What nonsense is this supposed to be? Bound by magic to… Hermione Granger? We’re shackled to a Mudblood?” 

Bellatrix’s smile was all teeth and no warmth. “Keep reading.” 

Narcissa’s gaze dropped again, ice-blue eyes flicking over the fine lines until she found the part that made her throat tighten. Hermione Granger was no longer Granger at all, but Hermione Ravenclaw, pureblood by inheritance and heir to the lost house. And at the very bottom, stark and merciless: one year to fulfill the bond—or forfeit their magic. 

Narcissa’s grip on the scroll faltered, the blood draining from her face.

“Someone will have to tell Andromeda,” Bellatrix hissed, pacing like a caged panther. “And it certainly won’t be me.” 

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And why should it be me? You’re well aware she and I barely speak as it is."

A cold smile spread across Bellatrix’s face, humorless and sharp. “You do speak. I, on the other hand, do not. That makes it your task.” 

Narcissa exhaled heavily, pressing the hand that still bore the burn of her wedding band against her temple. A headache was already threatening. “And what then, Bella? Even if this bond is real, how in Merlin’s name are we supposed to ‘further the Black line’? Hermione Ravenclaw does not possess the anatomy required for that.” 

Bellatrix’s grin turned sly, almost triumphant. “You skimmed the scroll. It made it perfectly clear—she’s a Metamorphmagus now. She can fashion whatever… equipment is required.” 

For a heartbeat, Narcissa’s perfect brows pinched together before her lips curled in revulsion. “That is vile. I will not debase myself with a Mudblood, even if the scroll is deluded enough to declare her ‘pure.’” 

“Then enjoy losing your magic, Cissy,” Bellatrix purred. “We have two years to bed her, or it’s all gone. Every spark.” 

Narcissa’s fingers tightened around the scroll. “This is preposterous.” 

“It’s magic,” Bellatrix countered with a shrug, dark amusement dancing in her eyes. “Binding and absolute. You know that as well as I do.” 

With a low groan, Narcissa massaged her temples, as though she could knead the absurdity away. “You should know, Bella—I am vehemently opposed to this.” 

Bellatrix’s laugh was low and cold, curling through the Floo room like smoke. “Join the club, little sister. But I intend to keep my power. And who knows? Perhaps Ravenclaw will be… entertaining. I remember the shiver she gave when I leaned in close, back when I wore Voldemort’s mask.” Her eyes glinted with something wicked. 

Narcissa rolled her eyes skyward. “You were always obsessed with that girl. Don’t bother denying it.” 

Bellatrix tilted her head, wolfish grin on her face. “And why should I? She is beautiful.” 

“She was a Mudblood,” Narcissa snapped. “You should never have looked at her like that. What would Mother and Father have said?” 

Bellatrix bared her teeth in something between a smile and a snarl. “Good thing they’re both rotting in their graves, isn’t it?” 

“Morbid, Bella,” Narcissa muttered, disgust flashing across her elegant features. 

Bellatrix only shrugged, wholly unbothered.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione stirred awake with a strange heaviness pressing against her thigh. Still half-dreaming, she shifted—and froze. Something unfamiliar shifted with her. Heart pounding, she shoved back the blankets and tugged at the waistband of her sleep shorts. What she found made her yelp and stumble out of bed.

A cock. She had a cock.

She stood trembling in the middle of her bedroom, staring down at herself as if sheer disbelief might erase it. How—how in Merlin’s name—

Her eyes darted to the scroll resting on her bedside table. Snatching it up, she scanned it again, her gaze catching on the line she had only skimmed yesterday. Metamorphmagus.

Her stomach clenched. Was that legacy Ravenclaw’s? Slytherin’s? Both? Her mind spun faster as she reached the next revelation: Parselmouth. A natural one. She gave a humorless laugh. Harry would tease her endlessly if he knew. Not that she had any intention of striking up conversations with snakes—Parselmouths were still whispered about with suspicion, even after Voldemort’s fall.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. If she was truly a Metamorphmagus, then she could undo this. She concentrated, willing the foreign flesh away. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth attempt, relief rushed through her as her body obeyed, restoring her familiar sex.

Her pulse slowed, and with it came a new, sobering clarity. So this was how she was meant to “further the Black line.” She swallowed hard, the thought tinged with both dread and fascination. Children who would be Ravenclaw and Slytherin both… she couldn’t help but find the prospect remarkable, even as her cheeks burned.

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Later that morning, Hermione Apparated to Andromeda’s house, the scroll clutched in her bag. She told herself she was only visiting to discuss the bond, to make sure Andromeda knew. But her blush betrayed her as she thought back to the parchment’s demand—marriage within a year, intimacy within two. What would it even be like, with them? Why was her mind straying there at all? She bit her lip, annoyed at herself.

Inside the cozy kitchen, Andromeda sat in a bathrobe, sipping tea, the muffled sounds of Tonks and little Teddy drifting in from the other room. 

“Good morning,” Andromeda greeted softly as Hermione slid into the chair across from her.

Hermione poured herself tea with shaking hands. “Morning. We need to talk.”

“Oh?” Andromeda tilted her head. “About what?”

Hermione set the scroll down with more force than intended. “About this.”

Andromeda unfolded it, scanning the neat script. Her grey eyes widened, then rose to meet Hermione’s hazel. “So. My sisters and I are bound to you. And we’re to marry you within the year?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said grimly. “I’m sure Bellatrix and Narcissa know already, but I thought you might not.”

“You’re right.” Andromeda’s voice was calm, steady, as she set the parchment aside. “I hadn’t the faintest idea.” A wry smile tugged her lips. “But I can’t say I’m shocked. Nor am I upset.”

Hermione gaped. “You can’t be serious.”

Andromeda’s smirk blossomed. “More serious than Sirius ever was.”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is not a time for jokes! And especially not Sirius jokes!”

Andromeda’s chuckle was warm, soothing. She lifted her teacup. “All right, no more jokes. But to answer you honestly: I’ve always preferred women, as you know. The scroll claims you’re the most viable candidate—and I can see why. You’re brilliant, powerful… and beautiful. You won’t hear complaints from me, love.”

Hermione peeked at her through her fingers, startled by the frankness. “You’re taking this absurdly well.”

“At my age,” Andromeda said with a shrug, “very little surprises me anymore.”

Hermione shook her head, though a smile threatened at the corners of her lips. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and admitted softly, “If I’d ever thought of any of you like that, it would have been you… or Bellatrix. Not Narcissa. She’s a bit too cold for me.”

Andromeda’s grin flashed before it softened into something thoughtful. “Cissy’s not cold by choice. She’s a natural Legilimens. She’s had to shut herself off just to keep her sanity.”

Hermione nodded. “Harry told Ron and me once—probably something he picked up from Sirius.”

“Exactly.” Andromeda sipped again. “It’s self-preservation. But that does mean… if this bond doesn’t carry its own influence, persuading her might prove difficult. Cissy still clings to her old prejudices.”

Hermione arched a brow. “So you think it does create feelings?”

Andromeda tapped her cup against the saucer, eyes distant. “It might. Otherwise, I can’t imagine her warming to the idea. I wonder…”

“Me too,” Hermione murmured.

From down the hall, Tonks’s voice called, sharp and cheerful. Andromeda excused herself, leaving Hermione alone at the table, staring into her tea and silently mulling things over, waiting for Andromeda to return.

Chapter Text

Hermione lingered at the Tonkses’ for a while, sipping tea as muffled laughter and toddler-squeals echoed from the other room. When Andromeda returned, she carried the faintest smile, explaining that Teddy had refused to settle down until she helped coax him into eating, his hair flashing from pink to turquoise in giddy rebellion. 

Now dressed for the day, Andromeda slid easily back into her chair, calm and composed. Hermione offered a polite smile in return, but a part of her—strange, insistent, needy—felt a pang of disappointment that she was dressed. She told herself it was the bond, tugging at her, weaving feelings she felt she shouldn't be feeling—at least not while the bond was so new. Andromeda’s presence lingered in her chest long after she’d gone home. 

That night, lying awake in her childhood bed, Hermione found her thoughts circling not to books or her looming interview at the Ministry, but to Bellatrix Black. The very idea startled her, yet she could not deny the truth of it: Bellatrix was striking. Dark, dangerous, terrifyingly beautiful. Her pulse quickened as she remembered the woman’s arm locked around her at the Department of Mysteries, that dangerous, electric closeness. 

She bit her lower lip, glancing at the glowing red numbers of her clock. 12:35 a.m. The house was still awake. She hesitated—then slid a hand beneath her covers, slipping it beneath her waistband. 

She touched herself with trembling fingers, fighting to stay silent. Her parents were only a room away; discovery would be mortifying. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, muffling a whimper as heat pooled low in her belly. Her mind betrayed her, shifting from Bellatrix’s fierce gaze to Andromeda’s warm grey eyes, the teasing sparkle when she made that dreadful Sirius pun. 

Hermione shuddered and bit down hard on her fist, stifling a cry as release tore through her. Her body arched, toes curling, the wave sharp and consuming. 

She collapsed back against the pillows, chest rising and falling. Shame prickled hot against her skin. She had just pleasured herself to thoughts of two of the Black sisters—women she was magically bound to, women she was supposed to marry. What would her parents think if they knew? 

She rolled onto her side, dragging the pillow over her head, but the images wouldn’t leave. Her imagination betrayed her again: Bellatrix’s lips on Andromeda’s throat, Narcissa’s elegant hands tangled in dark hair, the sisters entwined together in ways that made Hermione’s body tighten all over again. 

A low groan slipped past her lips. At this rate, she’d never sleep. She glanced at the clock again—12:45. Tomorrow she had an important interview at the Ministry, and she needed to get some sleep. 

Desperate for distraction, she fumbled for her old Walkman on the bedside table. She slipped on the headphones, letting a flood of strings and piano swell in her ears. Closing her eyes, she focused on the music until her body loosened and her thoughts blurred into dreams. 

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At the Tonks residence, Andromeda lay restless in her bed, her mind tangled in the same storm that plagued Hermione. Sleep would not come, not when her thoughts kept circling back to the young witch she had shared tea with earlier. She had resisted the urge to touch herself all evening—Nymphadora and Teddy slept soundly in the next room, and propriety, as always, had kept her in check. 

But restraint only sharpened the ache. With a groan, she pressed a hand over her face and glanced at the clock. Nearly one in the morning. If she didn’t rest soon, she would be sharp-tongued and irritable come dawn. 

Her gaze slid toward the door. Enough. With a flick of her wand, she wove a silencing charm over the room, ensuring even the faintest gasp would not escape. The wand clattered softly back onto the table as her hand drifted beneath the covers. She hiked her nightgown up, sliding under the waistband of her knickers—and gasped at the heat and slickness already waiting for her. 

Too much. Too unnatural. The bond had teeth. 

She bit her lip, fingers stroking tentatively at first, then with more urgency as her breath grew shallow. She had wanted Hermione for longer than she cared to admit, had buried that attraction beneath duty and grief. But the inheritance had dragged it to the surface, raw and undeniable. 

Her hips arched helplessly as the pressure built, her hand working faster, her free hand gripping the sheets until her knuckles whitened. The thought of Hermione’s mouth between her thighs, of clever fingers and a sharp mind turned entirely to pleasure, broke her control. Her climax tore through her with a cry, muffled by the silencing ward, her body trembling as her back arched and her slick heat spilled over her own fingers. 

She collapsed back, damp hair clinging to her temples, chest heaving. 1:08 a.m. The clock face glared at her from the bedside table. She needed sleep, desperately, but her body thrummed with a restless, hungry energy that no single release could settle. 

With a frustrated sigh, she swung her legs out of bed, stripping off her damp nightgown as she padded into the bathroom. Steam soon filled the air as she turned the taps, the tub filling with scalding water. Her nipples tightened in the cool air, her thighs still slick. She ignored the persistent thrum between her legs and slid into the bath, hissing softly as the heat enveloped her skin. 

Relief washed over her, easing the taut muscles in her shoulders, but the bond still coiled in her belly, whispering. This would have to do. The bath, the warmth—this would be enough to carry her to sleep. 

It had to be. 

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At Black Manor, Bellatrix stalked the length of her bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged panther too long denied its prey. The bond clawed at her veins, but it was only gasoline on an old fire. She had wanted Hermione Granger—Hermione Ravenclaw now—for years, long before the magic forced the issue. She had buried the hunger, but it had never died. Tonight it roared to the surface, undeniable. 

Her eyes cut toward the gilded clock on the wall. 1:25 a.m. A laugh scraped from her throat. As if time mattered. She never kept to mortal rhythms—sleep came when it came, more often haunted by Voldemort’s shadow than not. But when dreams of Hermione claimed her instead, those nights she almost welcomed. In them she took the girl again and again, drinking her cries like wine, never sated. 

Bellatrix dragged a hand through her wild curls, restless. Enough pacing. She would not wait, not deny herself when the ache was so sharp. No one was here to hear her. 

She collapsed back onto the bed, dragging her nightgown up and plunging a hand beneath her waistband. Her fingers slid through heat, wetness slicking her palm at once, and she hissed in pleasure. “Mmm… pet,” she whispered, imagining the witch’s clever hands instead of her own. The thought alone sent a moan tumbling from her lips. 

She sprawled against the headboard, fingers working faster, harder, cunt clenching greedily around nothing as she writhed. The sound of her moans filled the room, echoing off vaulted beams, reckless and unrestrained. “Fuck—yes—” She threw her head back, panting, her mind conjuring Hermione’s face above her, Hermione’s tongue buried deep, lapping at her until— 

Her orgasm slammed into her, shuddering through her with a guttural cry. She bucked, hips lifting off the sheets as the wave crashed, her curls sticking to her damp temples. She rode it out, breathless, then drew her hand up, sticky fingers glistening in the low lamplight. 

She sucked them into her mouth, eyes fluttering shut as she moaned around the taste. She pretended it was Hermione’s slickness she was swallowing, and the fantasy made her shiver violently. 

When she finally stilled, she lay back, one hand splayed across her stomach, the other twitching faintly with aftershocks. Her thoughts slithered on, darker, deeper. Hermione would have to impregnate her—magic demanded it. The idea of being filled, of surrendering her body to a cock—even one Hermione conjured—should have repulsed her. But if it was Hermione… she would allow it. Gladly. 

A growl of hunger—mundane this time—broke her reverie. Bellatrix sprang up, still flushed and sticky, and swept toward the door with a feral grin curling her mouth. She was already imagining the brunette witch in all manner of delicious compromise as she padded down to the kitchen. 

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The following afternoon, Narcissa Black sat alone in the reading room of Malfoy Manor. The house was too quiet—Draco had gone out with Astoria, and Lucius still rotted in Azkaban. She had not written him about the bond, nor would she. Their marriage had been dissolved by magic and, in truth, by betrayal long before that. He no longer existed in her world. 

She turned a page in her book with a delicate motion, the silence settling like dust. And then it struck—an ember sparking deep in her core. Narcissa stiffened, breath catching as heat coiled low in her belly. Her hand tightened imperceptibly on the book, knuckles whitening. 

“I will not debase myself with a Mudblood,” she murmured coldly, voice barely above a whisper. “You will have to try harder.” 

The bond responded, almost mocking, its pressure intensifying until her knickers dampened and her composure wavered. Narcissa drew in a sharp breath, jaw clenching, spine ramrod straight in the armchair. She was Narcissa Black. She was control incarnate. She would not yield to this forced, sordid hunger. 

But the magic was relentless, flooding her with want until her body trembled against her will. With a frustrated growl, she snapped her book closed and set it aside. Her free hand gathered her skirts, lifting them just enough as the other slid beneath her waistband. Her fingers met wetness, and she hissed through clenched teeth. 

“You like that?” she spat at the invisible force, as though the bond could hear her defiance. But her fingers betrayed her, moving slickly, her hips jerking upward against her own hand. 

The whispers came then, insidious, curling through her mind like smoke. You want her. You need her. The refrain repeated, low and intoxicating, until her breaths broke into ragged gasps. Her control frayed strand by strand as her body bucked, chasing release she had sworn to resist. 

It took longer than she would ever admit. Longer than it had for her sisters, because the desire in her veins was not hers—it was the bond’s. Yet when it came, her climax was feral, ripping through her in a wave of heat and fury. A snarl tore from her throat as her slickness coated her trembling fingers. 

She slumped back, hair tumbling loose from its perfect bun, chest rising and falling too fast. For one horrifying moment she was simply a woman undone, not the untouchable matriarch she had always been. 

The slam of the front door shattered the silence—Draco. 

Narcissa scrambled, straightening her skirt, smoothing her hair, reclaiming her book. By the time her son’s footsteps echoed down the hall, she was once again immaculate, her face serene, her poise unbroken. Only the quickened rhythm of her heart betrayed what had transpired.

Chapter Text

That night, when Hermione drifted into a restless sleep, Bellatrix collapsed into hers as well—though not in the sanctity of her bed. She sprawled drunkenly across a velvet couch in the Great Library of Black Manor, an empty wineglass dangling from her fingers. The fire had long since died, but her mind smoldered restlessly even in slumber. 

And then the bond seized them both. 

Hermione gasped as her awareness snapped into being, her body sprawled on a floor that seemed to shimmer between stone and smoke. She pushed herself onto her elbows, confusion fogging her thoughts—only to be knocked flat again as another body fell hard across hers. 

Bellatrix. 

The older witch straddled her hips, curls falling in wild tangles around her face, eyes burning down like twin pools of molten darkness. A slow, hungry smile spread across her lips. “Mmm,” she purred, rolling her hips deliberately against Hermione’s. “This is a delicious way to begin a dream, pet." 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed scarlet. Her throat went dry, every rational thought scattering like startled birds even as her sex clenched hard at the friction. She managed a strangled whisper. “This… this has to be the bond.” Her gaze darted around the dreamscape. “It dragged us here.” 

Bellatrix’s grin widened, feral and triumphant. “Then we should thank it, shouldn’t we?” She leaned down, her breath hot against Hermione’s cheek. “No sense wasting the gift.” 

Her hand slid boldly to Hermione’s chest, cupping and squeezing through the thin nightshirt. When Hermione failed to protest, Bellatrix’s thumbs brushed deliberately over her nipples until they stiffened beneath the fabric. Hermione arched, the movement grinding her against Bellatrix’s core. 

A sharp gasp slipped from Bellatrix’s mouth. Her eyes dilated, wild with want. “Careful, pet,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a whimper. “You’ll make me soak your pretty shorts.” 

Hermione’s panting grew frantic, dampness already spreading through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts. Bellatrix’s gaze dropped, noting the dark stain between Hermione’s thighs, and her smile sharpened into a wicked gleam.  “Oh, you do like it,” she crooned, teasing her thumbs across Hermione’s nipples again until Hermione squirmed beneath her. She bent low, lips brushing the shell of Hermione’s ear, her voice velvet and venom both. “I’ve wanted this for ages. Wanted you, pet.” 

Hermione whimpered, her hips thrusting upward into the grinding pressure of Bellatrix’s body. 

Bellatrix’s hand slipped lower, trailing fire as it slid between Hermione’s thighs to press against the damp fabric of her shorts. She rubbed slow, maddening circles, the heat building until Hermione’s cry broke free. “Fuck!” Hermione gasped, voice raw with need. 

Bellatrix’s face twisted with wild delight, her expression unhinged and hungry. She pressed harder, grinding down as her hand worked faster. “Oh yes, pet,” she whispered, her voice a low promise in the dark. “We’re going to have such fun tonight.” 

Unfortunately for Bellatrix, a ripple shimmered through the strange, smoke-like floor, and a third figure stepped into being: Andromeda. 

She halted at the sight before her—Hermione pinned beneath Bellatrix, cheeks flushed, Bellatrix straddling her like a predator with its prize. Hands on her hips, Andromeda’s brows arched sharply. “Bella? Hermione? What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” 

Hermione’s blush deepened. She squirmed, trying to push Bellatrix off, but the older witch only pressed down harder, curling a possessive arm around her waist. Hermione’s face was crushed into Bellatrix’s chest, though the frantic pounding of her heart told her she wasn’t exactly struggling as hard as she should have if she really wanted out. 

Bellatrix bared her teeth in a grin, feral and triumphant. “She’s mine!” she snarled, clutching Hermione closer. 

Andromeda blinked once, then narrowed her grey eyes, cool authority threading her voice. “No, Bella. We all know the terms. We share her. All of us.” 

“I’ll not share her with the likes of you!” Bellatrix spat, sneering like a child denied a toy. 

“Bella—” Andromeda began, but Hermione’s voice cut cleanly across the dreamscape. 

"Enough!" Bellatrix froze. Hermione shoved upward, breaking free just enough to breathe, and fixed the elder witch with a steady glare. “All three of you are bound to me. Me. You don’t get to decide who does or doesn’t share, Bella." Her voice was calm, sharp with command. 

Bellatrix’s pout was almost comical, though the hunger in her eyes never dimmed. “Mmm, I love when you call me Bella, pet—but not when you’re scolding me.” 

“Then stop acting like you’re in charge,” Hermione snapped back, surprising herself with the steel in her tone. 

Bellatrix’s pout curved slowly into a dangerous smirk. She leaned down, lips grazing Hermione’s ear as she purred, “Didn’t see you trying to dominate me earlier, pet.” 

Hermione’s blush flared crimson. Andromeda’s frown deepened, suspicion dark in her eyes. “Hermione,” she said flatly, “what exactly does she mean by that?” 

Before Hermione could stumble out a denial, Bellatrix turned with a smug tilt of her head. “I was the one in control earlier, and she didn’t complain.” Then, with childish defiance, she stuck her tongue out at her sister. 

Hermione’s breath hitched. An errant thought flashed through her mind—how much hotter it would be if Bellatrix shoved her tongue down Andromeda's throat instead of mocking her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but thankfully neither sister heard the thought. 

Andromeda only rolled her eyes, exhaling in long-suffering irritation. “Real mature, Bella.” 

Bellatrix merely shrugged, still perched firmly on Hermione’s hips like a throne she had no intention of surrendering. Hermione sighed, abandoning her attempts to shove her off. It was clear Bellatrix wasn't going to budge, no matter how hard Hermione tried. 

The dream shimmered again, shadows twisting into shape until a fourth figure coalesced like smoke solidifying. Blonde hair caught the dim light, pale as moonlight. Narcissa. 

Hermione blinked and realized belatedly that the dreamscape had shifted—it was her childhood bedroom now, every detail recreated in unsettling clarity. Narcissa’s ice-blue eyes opened slowly, and the first thing they landed on was Bellatrix straddling Hermione’s hips. Her lips parted, and a single word left her mouth, firm and cutting as steel: "No." 

Without another glance, Narcissa turned sharply on her heel, stalking to the window. She yanked it open—but instead of the familiar backyard beyond, there was only endless, yawning blackness. She slammed it shut with unnecessary force, whirling back to face them. “Let me out of here!” she snarled into the dreamscape. 

Silence pressed in, thick and stifling. Hermione’s breath caught, wondering who Narcissa thought she was addressing. 

Bellatrix answered with a grin sharp enough to cut, “The bond wants us here together, little sister.” She shifted deliberately against Hermione beneath her, glancing down at her with a triumphant expression. “The bond wants us to claim our prize.” 

“What? No—” Hermione started, but Narcissa’s voice sliced across hers. 

“I want no part in this,” she hissed, each word coiled tight. 

Andromeda folded her arms, grey eyes hard. “You wouldn’t be here if some part of you weren’t willing.” 

Narcissa shot her a glare like daggers. She would never admit the truth—the bond had already dragged her to the edge, made her betray her own composure in the privacy of her reading room. Instead, she snapped, voice cold as ice, “I am not willing. The bond is forcing me.” The lie slipped from her tongue as easily as Lucius once donned his Death Eater mask. 

Bellatrix’s grin sharpened further, her tone a taunting sing-song, “She’s lying.” 

Narcissa turned her venom on her sister. “Don’t you dare read my thoughts, Bella. It’s rude.” 

Bellatrix only shrugged, thoroughly unrepentant. 

Andromeda dragged a hand down her face, exasperation plain. “Like it or not, Cissy, you’re here. And the bond only drags us where there’s some spark of want to anchor to.” 

“Exactly!” Bellatrix crowed, nodding, oblivious—or uncaring—that she was agreeing with Andromeda. 

Narcissa’s mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. She turned her head away, facing the wall of Hermione’s childhood bedroom as though ignoring them might banish the dream altogether. Hermione wanted to scream at her childish actions. The tension was so thick, even a butter knife couldn't slice through it. 

As suddenly as she had appeared, Narcissa vanished—her form unraveling into wisps of smoke. 

Andromeda blinked, startled. “Where did she go?” 

Bellatrix shrugged, unconcerned. “Forced herself awake, most likely. Only real escape.” 

Andromeda tilted her head as though listening to something beyond their range, then her shape wavered, thinning like smoke on a breeze. Within seconds, she too was gone. 

Bellatrix’s grin widened as she looked back down at Hermione, still pinned beneath her. “And then,” she purred, “there were two.” She leaned closer, curls brushing Hermione’s cheek. “So, pet… how about that fun we were going to have?” 

Hermione’s breath hitched, words caught in her throat—when suddenly the weight above her disappeared. Bellatrix’s body flickered, dissolved into nothing. 

Hermione scrambled up onto her elbows. “What—?” 

But the question was swallowed by the blare of her alarm clock. Her eyes snapped open to the bright morning light of her bedroom. She groaned, fumbling to slap the alarm silent—only for her hand to brush against something warm and soft, yielding under her touch. 

She froze. Turned her head. And found herself staring at Bellatrix, very real and very present, lying beside her in her bed. 

Hermione’s face burned as she realized where her hand had landed—full against Bellatrix’s breasts. 

Bellatrix’s chuckle was low and pleased, her eyes still closed. “Mmm. Eager for a morning feel, pet?” she teased, voice sultry as velvet. 

Hermione bolted upright, shoving her hair from her face, heart hammering. “How did you get here, Bellatrix?” she demanded, her voice sharper than it should've been. 

The older witch stretched lazily, obsidian eyes flicking open with a smirk. “You called me,” she said simply. “The bond answered. And here I am.” 

Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock. “You mean—I can summon the three of you from anywhere?” 

Bellatrix’s smirk blossomed into a triumphant grin. “Apparently so.” She reached up, curling fingers into Hermione’s shirt to tug her back down. “Now come here.” 

Before Hermione could react, Bellatrix dragged her into a kiss—hungry, possessive, tongue sliding past her lips without hesitation. Hermione stiffened briefly, shocked at Bellatrix's forwardness, but the bond hummed hot in her blood, drowning any resistance she may have had. Her hands fisted in Bellatrix's dark tresses as she yielded, breath stolen by the ferocity of the kiss. 

They broke apart only when breath became necessity, both panting, foreheads nearly touching. Bellatrix licked her lips, onyx eyes molten with wicked delight. “I knew you’d be a good kisser, pet,” she purred. 

Hermione’s blush deepened. Her lips tingled, her heart still racing. She couldn’t stop herself from biting her lip in quiet surrender. Because Merlin help her—she had enjoyed it.

Chapter Text

A shriek echoed up from downstairs, followed by an unmistakable exclamation—“Merlin!” 

Hermione and Bellatrix froze, eyes locking. Hermione’s widened in horror. “Was that—?” 

Bellatrix’s expression, in contrast, lit with wicked delight. “Cissy,” she breathed, her grin feral. “Narcissa in a Muggle house. Oh, I have to see this.” 

Before Hermione could so much as grab her wrist, Bellatrix rolled off the bed and sprinted for the door, flinging it open. The slap of bare feet on the hall floor echoed once, then silence—she was gone. 

Hermione swore under her breath, scrambled out of bed, and rushed for the hall—only to collide with a figure rounding the corner. Andromeda. Her hair mussed, her face etched with confusion. “Hermione?” she said sharply, grey eyes wide. “How did I get here?” 

Hermione raked a hand through her curls, exasperated. “The same way Bellatrix did, I imagine.” 

Andromeda’s eyes narrowed. “Bellatrix?” 

Another scream rang out from the kitchen below. “Hermione!” her mother’s voice thundered, sharp with shock. “Get down here this instant!” 

Hermione winced. She darted toward the stairs, Andromeda close behind. 

The kitchen scene they stumbled into nearly stopped Hermione cold. Bellatrix lounged atop the kitchen table in her nightgown like she owned the place, lazily biting into an apple from the fruit bowl on the table. The crunch echoed obscenely in the tense silence. 

Across the room, Narcissa stood stiffly before the refrigerator, glaring at the microwave as if it had personally offended her. Disbelief—and disgust—twisted her elegant features. 

And by the sink, Emma Granger stood frozen, her gaze darting between the two strange witches in nightclothes. When her eyes landed on her daughter, they hardened. Hands planted firmly on her hips, she leveled Hermione with a scolding glare. “Hermione Jean Granger,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass, “I cannot believe you have been… entertaining three women under your parents’ roof! You should be ashamed of yourself!” 

Hermione’s face went scarlet. “Mum, I didn’t—it’s not what—” she stammered helplessly. 

Bellatrix’s smirk curved like a blade, lips parting to no doubt pour fuel on the fire. But Andromeda, ever the peacemaker, cut across smoothly. “We didn’t sleep with her, Mrs. Granger,” she said evenly. “The bond pulled us here—by magic, not choice.” 

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Emma threw her hands up, muttering darkly under her breath about magic always ruining everything, and stormed out of the kitchen, footsteps echoing up the stairs. 

Hermione buried her face in her hands, wholly embarrassed. 

Andromeda slipped a comforting hand onto Hermione’s shoulder, grounding her. Hermione barely had time to draw a steadying breath before Narcissa’s clipped voice cut across the kitchen, “How did we all end up here, Granger?” 

“Ravenclaw,” Bellatrix corrected, almost sing-song, from her perch on the kitchen table. She crunched noisily into her apple, grinning as though she’d staged the whole scene herself. 

Narcissa’s ice-blue gaze snapped to her sister, voice cool and sharp, “What?” 

Bellatrix licked juice from her thumb, smirk curling her lips. “Her name is Ravenclaw now. Try to keep up, Cissy.” 

The glare Narcissa leveled at her was scalding, but she let the point drop, pivoting instead toward Hermione. “And yet,” she drawled, each syllable heavy with disdain, “this supposed pureblood still lives with her Muggle parents. How… unbecoming.” 

Hermione’s cheeks flamed. “I’m saving up for a flat!” she protested, bristling. 

Andromeda leaned in quickly. “Hermione, you’re always welcome at my house. There's plenty of room—” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Bellatrix cut her off gleefully, her voice slicing through like a shard of glass. “She’s coming to live with me at Black Manor.” She flicked her gaze toward Andromeda with a pointed smirk. “No noisy toddlers running amok there.” 

Hermione faltered, torn between them. Andromeda’s lips tightened, color rising in her cheeks as she snapped back, “Perhaps not, but my home is warmer than that drafty mausoleum you call a manor.” 

Narcissa rolled her eyes, arms crossing elegantly over her chest. “Yes, by all means, let’s squabble like children over where Ravenclaw lays her head.” Her tone dripped with disdain. 

Bellatrix ignored her, crunching loudly into her apple, the sound obscenely deliberate. Andromeda, by contrast, looked down at the floor, expression sheepish, like a child that was scolded for stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

Hermione sharply inhaled, straightening her spine. “If I’m to… further the Black line,” she said carefully, “then it makes the most sense for me to do it from the Black family ancestral home.” 

Andromeda’s expression pinched, but Bellatrix’s laugh rang through the kitchen, delighted and triumphant. “Ha! Hear that? She wants me more than either of you.” 

Narcissa picked imaginary lint off her nightgown, expression cool. "That's fine with me." 

“That is not what I meant,” Hermione snapped, cheeks burning, arms crossing defensively over her chest. She met Bellatrix’s molten gaze with a glare. “Think about it. What better place to raise the next generation of Blacks than in their ancestral home?" 

For a moment, silence hung thick. 

Finally, Narcissa exhaled, her expression cool but grudgingly agreeable. "She does have a point."  

Andromeda’s jaw tightened, but after a beat, she nodded, once, in agreement. 

Bellatrix only purred, her grin wickedly pleased, “That’s my girl.” 

Hermione paused at Bellatrix’s unexpected praise, a pleased squirm rising in her chest at it, but she pushed it down, forcing her voice steady as she turned to Andromeda. “I think you should come stay with Bella and me at Black Manor,” she said. Her gaze slid to Narcissa as well. “Both of you.” 

Predictably, Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want her in my house!” she snapped, jabbing an accusatory finger at Andromeda like a spoiled child. 

Andromeda, unruffled, ignored her. Her brows knit as she looked at Hermione. “But I already have a house. Ted and I bought it together." 

Hermione exhaled softly, choosing her words with care, “Tonks can look after it. She’s a Senior Auror now—the pay is more than enough for upkeep.” 

Andromeda’s expression softened with conflict, torn between practicality and sentiment. Bellatrix, meanwhile, crossed her arms and pouted, lower lip jutting in a parody of petulance. 

“I live at Malfoy Manor,” Narcissa said coolly, her tone a sharp blade. “With my son. That is my home.” 

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “But the bond dissolved your marriage to Lucius. That chapter is closed.” 

Narcissa arched one perfectly groomed brow. “And? What of it?” 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Black Manor would be better suited for all of us.” 

“I wasn’t aware you had any authority over where I lay my head, Miss Ravenclaw,” Narcissa said, voice smooth as ice, that single arched brow daring Hermione to challenge her. 

Before Hermione could, Andromeda cut in, arms folding, “We're bound to her, Cissy. Like it or not, it's her decision where we live.” 

Hermione’s eyes flicked to her gratefully. 

Narcissa gave a delicate sniff. “I never asked to be bound to anyone, least of all her.” 

Andromeda rolled her eyes, patience thinning. “None of us asked for it. But your endless resistance is wearing thin.” 

Narcissa’s eyes flashed, ice crackling into fire. “Perhaps because I’d like a say in my own life,” she snapped. 

Hermione stepped forward quickly, cutting through before Andromeda could bite back, “You do have a say, Narcissa. But look at this rationally. Black Manor is the seat of your family. If the purpose of this bond is to preserve the line, then there’s no stronger place for us to do it.” Her hazel eyes moved between them all. “But I won’t force it. You both have to agree.” 

Bellatrix leaned back against the table, grin curling slow and wicked. “And Black Manor,” she purred, “has more than enough room for whatever the bond wants us to do, compared to your dreary little abodes, anyway." 

Chapter Text

At last, Andromeda sighed, arms loosening from their fold across her chest. “Fine. You’ve made your case, Hermione. Black Manor it is—for me.” 

Bellatrix immediately pouted, lips jutting like a sulking child. “I wanted her all to myself.” 

Andromeda’s expression sharpened, ready to fire back, but Narcissa’s voice slid through like a shard of ice, “For the time being, I remain at Malfoy Manor. At least until Draco weds Astoria in the fall. After that, I will relocate.” Her gaze flickered downward as she murmured almost to herself, “Perhaps by then, what I feel will be real.” 

Bellatrix’s head tilted, dark eyes glittering, a smirk curving sharp as a scythe. “What was that, little sister?” 

Narcissa’s expression frosted over. “None of your concern, Bella.” 

Bellatrix threw her head back and cackled, the sound wild in the Granger kitchen. She leaned forward again, eyes dancing with mischief. “Keep pretending, Cissy. But sharing has a way of turning into caring… if you catch my drift.” 

Both younger sisters stiffened, brows furrowing. Then, Narcissa’s expression cleared and her lip curled in disgust. “That is revolting, Bella—if you’re implying what I think you are.” 

Andromeda frowned, looking between them. “What is she implying, Cissy?” 

“Trust me, you don’t want to know, ’Dromeda,” Narcissa muttered coolly, though the slight hitch in her voice betrayed irritation. 

Hermione’s cheeks burned, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. She said nothing, but Bellatrix’s insinuations had been something Hermione had been considering herself already, but she buried those thoughts quickly, though some part of her whispered it was only a matter of time before the others felt it too. 

Bellatrix only shrugged, leaning back against the table, one hand braced against the wood. Her grin was all teeth. “Don’t look so scandalized. Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion were second cousins. The Blacks have always kept things… in the family, haven't they?” She let the pause linger before adding with a wicked purr, eyes sliding to Andromeda, “At least we’re all women. No risk of swollen bellies from each other.” 

Narcissa shuddered delicately, her face twisted with revulsion. “I cannot believe I share blood with you. Your mind is an abyss, Bellatrix.” 

Andromeda blinked, staring at her elder sister. “You’re not serious, are you?” 

Bellatrix wagged her brows shamelessly, her smirk widening. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Andie.” 

Andromeda shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of her nightgown as her gaze flicked between her sisters. At least hers was plain black, modest and practical. Not like Bellatrix’s black silk thing that barely brushed the tops of her thighs, clinging like sin wrapped in silk. Heat pricked at Andromeda’s cheeks as a blush formed, and she mentally scolded herself. Why was she even looking? 

Silence stretched taut across the room—until Narcissa broke it with a sharp inhale. She pressed slender fingers to her temple, eyes narrowed. “I’m going home. Being around you three is… intolerable at present.” 

The words landed like a reprimand. Andromeda guiltily shifted. Hermione flushed scarlet, teeth catching her lower lip. Bellatrix only grinned, feral and unrepentant. 

With a spin of her heel, Narcissa vanished in a snap of displaced air. 

“I should go as well,” Andromeda said quickly, her voice rushed. “Dora will be wondering where I am.” In truth, the weight of Bellatrix’s earlier insinuations gnawed at her, and she wanted distance from her grin before it burrowed any deeper. Without waiting for a reply, she too Disapparated. 

The kitchen seemed larger suddenly, emptier—save for Hermione and Bellatrix. She slid gracefully off the table, landing lightly, stretching her arms overhead. The silk of her nightgown rode up with the motion, baring a glimpse of lacy black knickers. 

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted to the doorway in panic—no parents lurking, thank Merlin—and she released a shaky sigh before glancing back. 

Bellatrix’s smile curled slow and sinful. “Wanna come with me to Black Manor, pet?” she purred, voice dripping with promise. 

Hermione hesitated, guilt tugging at her. “I… have another job interview today,” she said, tone regretful. 

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, dismissive. “You don’t need to work, pet. You’ll be spoiled on Black fortune soon enough—once our bellies are swollen with your spawn.” 

Hermione blinked, pulse jumping at the bluntness. The words were horrifying—and yet undeniably true. She bit her lip, wrestling with the conflict. “I don’t want to seem like I’m leeching off Black gold without contributing.” 

To her surprise, Bellatrix’s chuckle was warm, even fond, though still threaded with hunger. “You are contributing, pet. You’re giving us what no gold could buy—you’re continuing the line.” 

Hermione’s chest tightened. She bit down on her lip again—then gave a small nod. “Alright. I’ll come. But let me get dressed first. Meet you there?” 

Bellatrix’s grin turned salacious, her voice a low purr, “Can’t wait, pet.” 

With a twist, she vanished, leaving the scent of apples and wine lingering in the air. 

When Hermione Apparated into Black Manor, the first thing she noticed was Andromeda, already there. Her future wife-by-bond was carefully moving boxes and trunks through the Floo, one by one, resettling her life into the ancestral house. 

Bellatrix, fortunately—or unfortunately, depending one's point of view—was nowhere in sight. 

Not knowing the manor’s expansive layout, Hermione lingered in the Floo room, waiting. About half an hour later, Andromeda finally finished… only for the flames to flare again. Tonks stepped out, Teddy balanced on her hip, the toddler’s hair a vivid lilac. 

Tonks gave a long whistle, eyes sweeping the high ceiling and dark wood. “Blimey, Mum. This place is massive!” 

“Dora!” Andromeda hissed, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Lower your voice. You know your Aunt Bellatrix—she has an unpredictable personality." 

Right on cue, a crack split the air as Bellatrix Apparated into the room. Andromeda jumped violently, nearly dropping the urn she carried. Bellatrix’s grin was sharp as broken glass. Her voice, however, came honey-sweet, as false as poisoned wine. “What’s that about my unpredictable personality, Andie?” 

Andromeda’s lips parted, dry. “You… heard that?” 

Bellatrix laughed, the sound wild, head tossed back. “Oh, I hear everything. This is my house, after all." 

Before Andromeda could retort, Tonks stepped forward, still holding Teddy. “Hey, Auntie Bella.” 

The feral grin Bellatrix wore sharpened. “Nymphadora,” Bellatrix purred, using the name with relish, knowing it annoyed Tonks. 

Tonks flinched, her jaw tight, her hair shifting to bright red with her temper. She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she shifted Teddy against her hip and muttered, “Right. I’ll go, then. Have fun with Auntie Bella and Hermione, Mum." 

She gave Hermione a small, apologetic glance before vanishing back through the Floo, leaving the room abruptly heavier with thick silence. 

Bellatrix’s eyes slid toward the urn clutched to Andromeda’s chest. Her lip curled in open distaste. “Still carrying the Mudblood’s ashes, Andie? Honestly. I thought you preferred women, anyway?” 

Hermione’s heart sank. Of course Bellatrix would choose to be difficult today. 

Andromeda’s grey eyes sparked, her grief flashing hot into anger. “Ted was my best friend, Bellatrix,” she snapped. 

The room bristled, sharp words ready to fly. Hermione stepped forward, raising her voice louder than she meant to, “Can’t we all just—just get along, please?” 

Both women looked at her. Bellatrix’s grin softened to something almost caring, her voice dropping low, “For you, pet? Anything.” 

Andromeda rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply, but after a moment she gave Hermione a small, reluctant nod. 

For now, at least, the storm had passed.