Chapter 9: Kreacher Comforts Part 9
The cracked tiles bit into Hermione’s bare knees. She knelt beside the clawfoot tub, the chipped enamel cold under her palms. The single bulb overhead buzzed, casting harsh, unforgiving light. Kreacher huddled inside the tub, knees drawn up, submerged to his waist in tepid, murky water. He looked impossibly small, drowned and terrified, his bulbous eyes fixed on the water’s surface, avoiding hers. The scent of cheap soap fought a losing battle against the lingering musk of sex and the faint, ever-present aroma of boiled cabbage clinging to him.
Water dripped from Hermione’s hair onto Kreacher’s shoulder. She hadn’t bothered to undress fully after the hallway, just peeled off her soaked knickers. Her skirt was damp, clinging to her thighs. The ache deep inside her was a constant, throbbing reminder – of the library shelves, the crumbling plaster in the hall, Ron’s silent, shattered expression. Evidence of Kreacher’s terrified obedience seeped between her legs, warm and sticky against her skin. She felt raw. Used. Powerful.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice echoing flatly off the tiles. It wasn't gentle.
Kreacher flinched. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his gaze. Terror swam in those huge, watery depths. His thin lips trembled. "Mistress," he whispered, the sound barely audible over the dripping faucet. "Kreacher is… Kreacher is sorry…"
"Sorry?" Hermione cut him off. A harsh laugh escaped her, devoid of humor. "For what? Doing what I ordered?" She leaned closer, her shadow falling over him in the tub. The harsh light etched every wrinkle, every fold of his sagging skin. He shrank back, water sloshing against the sides. "You served me, Kreacher. Like you swore to."
He whimpered, nodding frantically. "Yes, Mistress! Kreacher serves! Kreacher obeys!" His gnarled hands twisted beneath the water's surface. "But… the Master Wheezy… the wall… Kreacher broke the wall…"
"The wall doesn't matter," Hermione snapped. The defiance that had roared in the hallway was banked now, replaced by a cold, brittle determination. She needed to own this. To control it. To wash away the feeling of being watched, judged, disgusting. "This," she gestured vaguely at her own body, at the tub, at him, "is what matters. My command. Your obedience." She reached out, her fingers brushing the rough, wet skin of his shoulder. He recoiled as if burned. "Get on your back."
Panic flared bright in his eyes. "Mistress? In… in the water? Kreacher… Kreacher cannot…"
"You can," she stated, steel returning to her voice. The power surged back, hot and intoxicating. "You will. On your back. Now." She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The command hung in the humid air, absolute.
A low, despairing groan escaped him. He moved with agonizing slowness, limbs stiff with terror. He slid down, the water rising to lap at his chest. His thin white hair fanned out like dirty seaweed. His bony knees breached the surface, knobby and pale. And between them, displacing the water with its sheer mass, it rose. Thick, veined, impossibly heavy. The bulbous head broke the surface tension, glistening obscenely under the harsh light. Kreacher squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away, trembling violently. Water sloshed over the rim onto the tiles.
Hermione stared. The sheer, grotesque reality of it, illuminated without shadow or mercy, was almost too much. Yet, the ache inside her pulsed in response. The defiance hardened into necessity. She needed to feel that impossible fullness again. To drown the shame, the fear, Ron’s silent condemnation, in pure, obliterating sensation. She needed him to drown in her.
She stood, water dripping from her skirt hem. Without ceremony, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and pushed it down her legs, stepping out of the damp puddle it made on the floor. Her blouse remained, clinging to her damp skin. She didn't care. Naked from the waist down, she swung one leg over the chipped rim of the tub, the cold enamel shocking against her inner thigh. Water sloshed violently as she straddled Kreacher’s submerged hips.
He gasped, eyes flying open, wide with renewed terror. "Mistress! Please! The water… Kreacher is filthy…"
"Be quiet," she hissed, bracing her hands on the slippery sides of the tub. The water was lukewarm, unsettling against her skin. She could feel the heat radiating from him beneath the surface, the immense, solid weight of his cock pressing against her inner thigh. The fizzing magic prickled where her skin touched the water near him. She positioned herself, the blunt, slick head nudging insistently at her entrance, still stretched and sore from the hallway. She took a sharp breath, steeling herself.
Then she sank down.
The water offered no cushion. The invasion was immediate, brutal, shocking in its intensity. Hermione cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound swallowed by the echoing tiles. She forced herself down, taking him deep, the water swirling around her thighs as she impaled herself onto his impossible girth. The stretch was agonizing, a white-hot tear that stole her breath. Kreacher whimpered beneath her, his hands fluttering uselessly in the water, afraid to touch her.
"Merlin," she gasped, head dropping forward, her wet curls sticking to her neck. She was full. Impossibly, overwhelmingly full. The water lapped against her belly, strangely intimate. She could feel every thick inch buried inside her, the heat of him contrasting sharply with the tepid bath. She shifted slightly, adjusting, and a fresh wave of intense sensation ripped through her. The fizzing intensified, a crackling energy concentrated where their bodies joined underwater.
Kreacher lay rigid beneath her, breathing in shallow, terrified gasps. His eyes were squeezed shut again. "Mistress… hurts… Kreacher hurts Mistress…"
"It doesn't hurt," she lied, her voice tight. She lifted her head, meeting his terrified gaze. "It feels… necessary." She began to move. Slowly at first, lifting herself slightly, feeling the drag as he slid almost free, then sinking back down, taking him deep again. Water surged around them with each movement, slapping against the tub walls, splashing onto the floor. The rhythm was awkward, constrained by the water, by the tub's confines. But the friction… the friction was electric. The water seemed to amplify the sensation, the slide slick and hot and utterly consuming.
"Move," she commanded hoarsely, gripping the tub rim tighter. "Help me."
Trembling, terrified, Kreacher obeyed. His bony hips lifted tentatively beneath the water, meeting her downward stroke. The impact sent a fresh wave sloshing over the edge. He groaned, a sound of effort and distress. "Mistress…"
"Harder," she gasped, finding a rhythm now, rising and falling, driving herself down onto him with increasing force. The water churned around them, frothing where their bodies met. Each descent forced a gasp from her lips, each upward pull a moan from Kreacher. The sloshing became a violent accompaniment to their ragged breathing. She rode him, water streaming down her thighs, her blouse plastered to her back, her focus narrowing to the demanding stretch, the building pressure, the terrifying power she wielded over this wretched, powerful creature.
The fizzing magic surged, a tangible current in the water now, prickling her skin everywhere it touched. Kreacher’s whimpers grew more frantic. His hands, still submerged, finally grasped her hips, claws digging in, not to guide, but to hold on, anchoring himself against the terrifying tide she was unleashing. His thrusts became stronger, more desperate, lifting her slightly with each upward drive before she slammed back down. Water cascaded over the rim in earnest now, pooling on the cold tile floor.
"Yes," Hermione hissed, throwing her head back, water dripping from her chin. "Like that! Serve me!" She met his thrusts fiercely, the water sloshing violently, the sound echoing like a storm trapped in the small room. The ache transformed, molten heat coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. The shame, the fear, Ron’s face – it all dissolved in the churning water, replaced by pure, desperate sensation. She was drowning, and she welcomed it.
Kreacher’s rhythm became erratic, frantic. His bulbous eyes rolled back slightly, showing the whites. A guttural cry tore from him, muffled by the water near his face. "Mistress… Kreacher… cannot… hold…"
"Don't hold!" she gasped, driving down onto him with all her weight, forcing him impossibly deep. The water surged up around her waist. "Give it! Give me everything! Now!"
His response was a choked, underwater roar. His body arched violently beneath her, lifting her half out of the water. His claws dug deep into her hips, bruising, anchoring her as he slammed up into her one last, desperate time. Then he froze, rigid, trembling like a leaf in a gale. Inside her, he pulsed violently, a scalding rush that triggered her own convulsive release. She screamed, the sound raw and echoing, as wave after wave of brutal, shattering pleasure tore through her, amplified by the water’s embrace and the electric fizz of magic crackling around their joining. She collapsed forward, her forehead resting against his wet, leathery chest, gasping, shuddering, as Kreacher emptied himself inside her with terrified, obedient force, his release lost in the churning, murky water.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged gasps and the frantic dripping from the overflowing tub onto the flooded floor. Hermione lay slumped against Kreacher’s bony chest, spent, the lukewarm water cooling rapidly around them. Kreacher remained rigid beneath her, trembling, his breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. His hands still clutched her hips, claws embedded in her skin.
The water dripped onto Kreacher’s chest, cool against Hermione’s forehead. His knobby ribs shuddered under her with each shallow, terrified gasp. His claws still bit into the flesh of her hips, anchored deep. She felt emptied. Hollowed out. Yet the phantom pressure, the ghost of that impossible stretch, lingered inside her, a raw echo vibrating through her core. Ron’s shattered face flashed behind her eyelids again, stark against the peeling bathroom tiles. She needed it gone. Erased. Filled back up with something that wasn't shame.
She pushed herself upright in the cooling water, ignoring the slick slide of him pulling free, the sudden, uncomfortable emptiness. Kreacher whimpered, flinching as her movement jostled him. His bulbous eyes darted, avoiding hers, fixed on the overflowing rim. "Mistress," he rasped, voice shredded. "Kreacher… Kreacher obeyed. Kreacher served." His plea hung there, a desperate bid for reprieve.
Hermione stood. Water cascaded off her, splattering onto the flooded floor. Her skirt lay in a damp heap. She left it. Cold air prickled her wet skin as she stepped out of the tub, legs trembling slightly. She turned, dripping, and stared down at him. He looked utterly broken in the murky water, a drowned, skeletal thing. Power, cold and absolute, surged through her exhaustion. It was the only thing that didn’t feel like crumbling.
"Out," she commanded, her voice flat, devoid of the earlier passion, leaving only steel.
He scrambled, clumsy and terrified, water sloshing wildly as he hauled himself over the chipped enamel rim. He landed on the wet tiles with a soft thud, crouched like a cornered animal, dripping, shivering. His massive cock, slick and heavy, hung obscenely between his stick-thin legs, dripping bathwater onto the floor. He made no move to cover himself, eyes fixed on her feet.
Hermione didn’t look away. The grotesque sight fueled the cold fire inside her. The library. Dark. Quiet. Isolating. Safer than this stark, flooded room echoing with the ghost of Ron’s intrusion. "Follow me," she ordered, turning on her heel.
She walked naked from the waist down through the dim, silent halls of Grimmauld Place. The cold floorboards bit at her bare feet. Dust motes danced in slivers of weak afternoon light filtering through grimy windows. The scent of mildew and neglect replaced the soap and sex. She didn’t look back. Kreacher’s shuffling, dripping footsteps followed, a frantic, scraping rhythm on the wood behind her.
He knew where they were going. The air grew colder, dustier, as she pushed open the heavy library door. The towering shelves loomed like sentinels in the gloom, packed with ancient, leather-bound spines. The familiar scent of decaying parchment and dry rot washed over her, thick and comforting in its familiarity. Her refuge. Her cage. The single candle on the central table flickered, casting deep, shifting shadows. She walked directly to the same towering bookshelf they’d used before, its wood dark and scarred.
Hermione braced her hands against the rough grain, the cold surface a shock against her palms. She spread her legs slightly, presenting herself. The ache between her thighs was a dull throb now, a reminder and an invitation. She didn’t speak, just waited. The silence pressed in, broken only by Kreacher’s ragged breathing and the frantic thud of her own heart against her ribs.
He shuffled closer, the wet slap of his feet on the library floor loud in the stillness. She could feel his presence behind her, radiating fear and reluctant heat. A tremor ran through him, shaking his bony frame. His breath hitched, a wet, miserable sound. "Mistress," he whispered, the word cracking. "Please… Kreacher is spent… Kreacher is filthy… the Library…"
She felt the tentative, trembling brush of his knuckles against the back of her thigh. It wasn't desire. It was pure, abject terror. The cold power inside her solidified, sharp as ice. The guilt, the fear, Ron’s disappointment – she needed them blotted out. Obliterated by sensation only this wretched creature could provide. She needed the impossible fullness back. She needed control.
"AGAIN," she hissed, the word slicing through the dusty air, sharp and absolute. A command. A demand. A lifeline thrown into her own dark sea. Her fingers dug into the unforgiving wood.
Hermione’s fingers dug into the unforgiving wood of the bookshelf, bracing for the familiar, terrifying intrusion, the raw ache a twisted anchor. Dust motes danced in the single candle’s guttering flame, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to writhe on the towering shelves crammed with forgotten lore. The silence was thick, broken only by Kreacher’s ragged breathing behind her and the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. She expected the trembling touch, the terrified fumbling, the desperate plunge to obey her hissed command.
Instead, a gnarled hand, cold and surprisingly strong, clamped onto her hip bone, fingers digging in with sudden, shocking pressure. It wasn’t tentative. It was possessive. A low, guttural sound, utterly alien and devoid of fear, rumbled from Kreacher’s chest, vibrating through the small space between them. Hermione froze, confusion warring with a jolt of unexpected alarm. "Kreacher—?"
"No," the house-elf rasped, the single syllable thick, distorted, scraping like gravel. It wasn't a plea. It was a statement. A command. His other hand slammed flat against the shelf beside her head, trapping her. The wood groaned under the impact. His breath, sour and hot, washed over the back of her neck, making the fine hairs prickle. His bony frame pressed against her back, radiating an unfamiliar, unsettling heat, the massive, heavy weight of his cock a searing brand against the curve of her buttock.
"Wha—" Hermione started, twisting her head, trying to see him. Fear, sharp and cold, sliced through the fog of her desperation.
"Silence," Kreacher hissed, his voice a venomous whisper directly in her ear. That hand on her hip slid down, knuckles rough against her inner thigh, and yanked her leg wider apart with brutal efficiency. There was no gentleness, no hesitation born of terror. Only cold, deliberate assertion. The raw, stretched entrance he’d filled relentlessly just hours before throbbed in anticipation and sudden, dawning dread. "Mistress commands. Kreacher obeys." The words were laden with a bitter, terrifying mockery. "But how Kreacher obeys… that is Kreacher’s choice now."
He didn’t ask. He didn’t seek permission. He simply took. His hips drove forward with a force that slammed Hermione hard against the unforgiving wood, forcing a choked gasp from her lips. It wasn't the desperate, fearful thrusts of before. It was purposeful. Dominating. His impossible girth tore into her with a brutal efficiency that stole her breath, deeper, harder than she’d ever demanded, the friction igniting a white-hot blend of agony and shocking, unwanted intensity. She cried out, a raw sound swallowed by the dusty air.
"Yes," Kreacher snarled, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. His bony fingers gripped her hip like a vice, holding her immobile against his relentless drive. The other hand tangled violently in her damp curls, wrenching her head back, forcing her spine into a painful arch. "Scream for Kreacher, Mudblood." The forbidden word, spat with vicious contempt, landed like a physical blow. "Scream like you made Kreacher scream inside his own head. Scream like the worthless little witch you are." His voice was a low, guttural growl, stripped of all servility, vibrating with a dark, ancient anger she’d never truly witnessed.
Panic surged, pure and cold, momentarily eclipsing the brutal friction. This wasn't submission. This was vengeance. This was ownership. He pistoned into her with a savage rhythm, each thrust jarring her teeth, the heavy slap of his bony hips against her flesh echoing obscenely in the quiet library. The power she’d wielded, the control she’d craved to drown out Ron’s face, her guilt, the war – it crumbled like ash. Kreacher held it now. He filled the aching void inside her not just physically, but with a terrifying, absolute dominance that left her gasping, pinned, utterly at his mercy.
The candle flame dipped violently, plunging the library into deeper shadow. Kreacher’s rhythm became even more punishing, driving the air from her lungs with each brutal impact. His grip on her hair tightened, pulling her scalp taut. "Look," he commanded, his voice thick with exertion and a dark, unfamiliar hunger. He forced her head to the side, towards the towering shelves. "Look at the Black family magic. Look at the history that owns you now." Dust cascaded from disturbed books as her temple pressed against cold leather spines. "You belong to this house. To them. To Kreacher." He punctuated each claim with a vicious thrust that rocked her entire body against the groaning shelf. "Your cleverness? Your orders? Ash." He drove deeper, wrenching a strangled sob from her throat. "Only obedience remains. Kreacher's obedience is done." He slammed into her one final, devastating time, holding her impaled. His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper against her sweat-slicked skin. "You obey now."
The words hung in the dusty air, thick with finality and the sour tang of Kreacher's breath. Hermione gasped, pinned against the groaning bookshelf, the brutal invasion stealing her voice along with her control. His bony hips hammered relentlessly, each savage thrust propelling her body into the unyielding wood, the impact jarring her teeth, the impossible stretch burning white-hot inside her. He owned the rhythm, the depth, the very air she struggled to draw.
Dust rained down from disturbed volumes as he held her head twisted towards the ancient spines. "See?" Kreacher rasped, his voice a guttural scrape devoid of its former terror, filled instead with a chilling certainty. "The Blacks. Their magic. It drinks your defiance." His claw-like fingers tightened in her hair, pulling sharply. "Your clever orders turned to ash in Kreacher's mouth. You thought you commanded?" A particularly vicious drive forced a choked sob from her throat. "You only opened a door."
He released her hair, letting her head slump forward, both hands now gripping her hips like vices, fingers digging deep into the tender flesh. He drove into her with renewed ferocity, the heavy slap-slap-slap of his bony pelvis against her skin echoing like a grim drumbeat in the silent library. The single candle guttered wildly, shadows leaping across the walls like frenzied specters. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking hotly down her cheeks, mingling with the sweat and dust. The physical force was overwhelming, a relentless storm against which she could only endure. Yet, beneath the searing pain and suffocating helplessness, a treacherous coil of sensation tightened deep in her belly, a terrifying echo of the obliterating power she’d once sought. Shame warred with involuntary response.
"Look at Kreacher!" he snarled, his voice cracking with exertion but still implacable. He yanked her upright again, forcing her spine into a painful arch. "Look at what you desired, Mudblood." His bulbous eyes, usually watery with fear, now burned with a dark, ancient fire inches from hers. His breath was rank. "Look!"
She flinched, turning her face away, but he shook her roughly. "LOOK!" The command tore through her, impossible to disobey. Her terrified gaze met his. The raw hatred, the centuries of bottled resentment, the terrifying awareness in those depths – it was worse than any spell. She saw no slave, no pathetic creature. She saw the vindictive soul of the House of Black, embodied.
"Kreacher… I…" she tried, voice a broken whisper, seeking the familiar terror, the servility.
"Silence!" he cut her off, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, a punishing rhythm meant to break more than just her body. "No more clever words. No more orders. Only this." He emphasized his point with a particularly brutal shove that lifted her onto her toes. "You wanted Kreacher’s service? You have his truth. His gift." His lips peeled back from yellowed teeth in something that wasn't a smile. "Take it. Every drop."
He was relentless. The raw friction ignited sparks despite the agony, a horrifying counterpoint to the crushing weight of his dominance. The vast emptiness inside her, the void she’d tried to fill with command and sensation, yawned wider, threatening to consume her even as he filled her physically. Ron’s face, pale and shattered in the hallway, superimposed itself over Kreacher’s furious visage. She choked on a sob. This wasn't oblivion. This was damnation.
Kreacher’s rhythm became frantic, ragged gasps tearing from his throat. His bony frame vibrated against her back, a taut wire about to snap. The grip on her hips became crushing. "Now," he grunted, more animal than elf, driving into her with a final, devastating force that slammed her full weight against the shelf once more. He arched, rigid, a guttural cry tearing loose – not fear, but a raw, primal release of centuries of pent-up fury and humiliation. Inside her, he pulsed violently, a scalding flood that seemed to sear her very core. He held her impaled, trembling, emptying himself with a shuddering intensity that felt less like pleasure and more like a curse being poured into her.
He collapsed against her back, his weight suddenly heavy, breath rasping hot and wet against her neck. His claws slowly unclenched from her hips, leaving deep, throbbing crescents. For a moment, only the frantic dripping of wax from the candle and their shared, ragged gasps broke the silence. Hermione sagged, utterly spent, her forehead pressed against the cold wood, the impossible weight of him inside her a final, oppressive reminder. The heat of his release pooled deep within, a tangible, violating presence.
Then, without a word, Kreacher pulled away. The sudden emptiness was shocking, a cold draft replacing the searing pressure. He stumbled back a step, his massive member slick and glistening obscenely in the candlelight, dripping onto the dusty floorboards. He didn't look at her. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but as if a great burden had shifted, not lifted. His breathing was still heavy, but the terrifying fire in his eyes had banked, replaced by a chilling emptiness. He wiped the back of his gnarled hand across his mouth, smearing something dark. Dust? Blood? He turned, his movements stiff but deliberate, and shuffled towards the library door, leaving wet footprints on the ancient wood.
Hermione slid down the bookshelf, her legs giving way, collapsing onto her knees on the cold floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently despite the lingering warmth trapped between her thighs. The library air felt suddenly frigid. She stared at the retreating, hunched figure, the flickering candlelight casting long, grotesque shadows behind him. The evidence of his possession seeped from her body, warm and sticky, a stark contrast to the cold dread solidifying in her chest. He reached the door, paused for a heartbeat, his head slightly cocked as if listening. Then, without a backward glance, he was gone, the heavy door clicking shut with unnerving finality. The sound echoed in the suffocating silence.
Alone amidst the towering shadows, Hermione pressed her forehead against the cool floorboards. The ghosts of the Black library watched. Her own trembling reflection in the polished wood seemed a stranger's face. Kreacher’s words echoed: "You obey now." A cold certainty settled deeper than the ache inside her. This wasn't over. The bathtub, the hallway, Ron’s shattered face – they were just the prologue. And the evidence? It was still warm. He’d be back to collect.