Chapter 2: The Black Madness Consumes Them
The sudden jerk of Apparition felt like being ripped through a keyhole. Ginny stumbled, the worn velvet under her bare feet cold and unexpectedly gritty. The scent hit her next – not lavender and dust, but cold stone, damp rot, and the heavy, cloying ghost of mothballs and old incense. Grimmauld Place.
Kreacher’s gnarled fist was still twisted painfully in her hair, the other clamped like a vise around Hermione’s upper arm. He’d Apparated them mid-thrust, mid-scream, ripping them from the floral ghosts of The Burrow into the oppressive gloom of the Black family townhouse.
"FILTH! ABOMINATION! DESECRATING THIS SACRED HOUSE WITH YOUR FILTHY BLOOD!"
Walburga Black’s portrait erupted, her painted face contorted with apoplectic rage, spittle flying from her shrieking mouth. The curtains Ginny and Hermione had once struggled to close remained stubbornly open, framing the portrait’s obscene fury.
Kreacher didn’t flinch. He dragged them deeper into the gloom, towards the monstrous four-poster bed that dominated the room. It was a relic of long-dead opulence, its dark wood ornately carved but scarred, its once-rich velvet hangings tattered and grey with dust. The mattress sagged in the middle like a defeated beast. The Black family crest, embroidered in tarnished silver thread, was just visible on the stained coverlet.
He threw Hermione forward. She stumbled against the high edge of the bed, catching herself on the carved post, her shoulders hunched, breathing hard. Her skin looked pale and vulnerable against the dark wood. Kreacher shoved Ginny down onto the floor beside the bed. Her knees hit the cold floorboards hard, the impact jolting up her spine, mixing with the deep, sick ache still throbbing low in her belly from The Burrow. She could feel the sticky residue from his earlier release cooling against her inner thigh.
"Stay, blood-traitor scum," Kreacher spat at Ginny, his milky eyes glinting with malice in the dim light filtering through the grimy window. "Watch the Mudblood learn her place."
He turned on Hermione. Before she could react, his bony hand slammed between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest down onto the sagging mattress. Her face pressed into the dusty velvet near the faded crest. Her fingers instinctively clawed at the fabric, scrambling for purchase.
Kreacher grabbed her hips, yanking her back towards him. He positioned himself behind her with brutal efficiency, the obscene, veined weight of him already rigid again, swinging heavily. Ginny watched, frozen on her knees, the portrait’s screams echoing in her skull. She saw the moment Hermione braced, the tensing of her shoulders, the slight turn of her head, her cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes wide open, fixed not on Kreacher, but on Ginny. That same unnerving fire was there, banked but unmistakable. An invitation? A demand?
Then Kreacher thrust.
Hermione gasped, a sharp, choked sound swallowed by the velvet. There was no slow entry here, no fumbling. He drove into her with the same brutal piston-force he’d used on Ginny, burying his impossible girth in one savage motion. The ancient bed groaned a deep, wooden protest. Dust puffed from the mattress.
"FILTHY HALF-BREED WHORE!" Walburga screeched, her voice raw. "DEFILING THE ANCESTRAL BED! KREACHER! STOP THIS AT ONCE!"
Kreacher ignored her. He set a punishing rhythm, his hunched form pumping relentlessly. The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh filled the space between the portrait’s screams, a perverse counterpoint. His gnarled fingers dug into the soft flesh of Hermione’s hips, sure to leave dark bruises.
Hermione’s breath came in ragged gasps, muffled by the mattress. Her fingers tightened convulsively on the embroidered crest, twisting the faded silver threads. Her eyes never left Ginny’s. There was pain etched around them, a tightness in her jaw, but also that terrifying, unwavering intensity. As Kreacher slammed into her again, forcing a sharp cry from her lips, her gaze seemed to deepen, pulling Ginny in, holding her witness to this violation that felt less like an assault and more like a dark communion Hermione was actively participating in.
Ginny felt a confusing rush. Horror, thick and nauseating. A deep, sympathetic ache. And beneath it, coiled low and traitorous, a flicker of that same sick heat that had ignited in The Burrow, watching Hermione fall apart under Kreacher’s fury. It warred with the cold dread squeezing her chest. The air was thick with dust, ancient decay, the sour smell of Kreacher, and the sharp, unmistakable scent of sex. Walburga’s shrieks were a constant, jagged soundtrack.
Kreacher grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. "Mudblood cunt," he rasped, his voice thick with exertion and hatred. "Taking Kreacher’s cock like the slut she is. Tainting the Black bloodline with her filth!"
Hermione moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the mattress. Her back arched involuntarily, pushing back against him. Her eyes, locked on Ginny’s, blazed. Look, they seemed to scream within the silence of her suffering. See what I need. See what we are now.
Ginny couldn’t tear her gaze away. The raw power of Kreacher’s assault, Hermione’s terrifying surrender, the sheer taboo of it all in this decaying shrine to pureblood madness… it was horrific. Hypnotic. Her own body, despite the throbbing pain, responded with a treacherous pulse of arousal, sticky and shameful.
Hermione’s gaze held Ginny’s, unblinking, as Kreacher hammered into her.The portrait’s shrieks were a constant, jagged backdrop. Ginny’s own treacherous pulse throbbed low and sticky beneath the lingering ache Kreacher had left inside her at The Burrow. Shame warred with a dark, unwelcome fascination.
Hermione’s gaze held Ginny’s, unblinking, as Kreacher hammered into her. The portrait’s shrieks were a constant, jagged backdrop. Ginny’s own treacherous pulse throbbed low and sticky beneath the lingering ache Kreacher had left inside her at The Burrow. Shame warred with a dark, unwelcome fascination.
Hermione gasped, her body arching sharply as Kreacher drove deep. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the dusty coverlet near the faded Black crest. "Harder," she choked out, the word muffled but unmistakable, raw and desperate against the velvet. "Don't... stop..."
Kreacher snarled, a sound like tearing cloth. He pistoned faster, his bony hips slamming against her flesh with brutal force. The sagging mattress groaned under the relentless assault. Dust motes danced wildly in the thin shafts of light piercing the gloom.
"Begging Mudblood," Kreacher spat, his rancid breath puffing against Hermione's sweat-slicked shoulder. "Filth always begs." His bulbous eyes rolled towards Ginny, glinting with malice. "Blood-traitor watches. Likes seeing the Mudblood used."
Ginny flinched, the accusation hitting like a physical blow. She was watching. Frozen on her knees, the cold floorboards biting into her skin. The sight was grotesque, horrifying – Kreacher’s hunched, repulsive form rutting over Hermione’s sprawled body. Yet, beneath the horror, a coil of heat tightened in Ginny’s gut, sickening and undeniable. Hermione’s choked moans weren't just of pain anymore.
Hermione turned her head further, her cheek still pressed to the mattress. Her eyes, dark pools reflecting the dim light, locked onto Ginny’s again. They held no plea for rescue. Only that terrifying, consuming fire, hotter than before. A silent command echoed in the charged space between them: See me. See this.
As Kreacher pulled back for another thrust, Hermione moved. With startling speed and strength, she twisted beneath him. Her legs, previously braced against the bed frame, snapped up. Her calves locked around Kreacher’s narrow waist, her ankles crossing tightly behind his hunched back. She pulled him down, hard, forcing him impossibly deeper inside her with a wet, grinding sound that made Ginny’s stomach lurch.
Kreacher froze, startled, his milky eyes widening in genuine shock. His momentum halted mid-thrust, pinned by her unexpected strength. He grunted, confused, off-balance.
Hermione didn't hesitate. Her hands flew up from the mattress, tangling in the sparse, greasy strands of Kreacher’s white hair. She yanked his head down towards hers with brutal force. Ignoring his gasp of pain, his foul breath, the spittle flecking his lips, she crushed her mouth against his.
It wasn't gentle. It was fierce, possessive, a claiming. Her lips moved hungrily against his thin, cracked ones. Ginny watched, breath trapped in her throat, as Hermione kissed the ancient, hate-filled house-elf with a desperate, consuming passion that obliterated every boundary, every shred of decency Ginny thought remained. Walburga’s shrieks reached a new, deafening pitch of outrage, but the sound felt distant, muffled by the sheer, shocking intimacy unfolding before Ginny’s eyes.
Hermione kissed Kreacher with a desperate, bruising force, her lips moving hungrily against his cracked, thin ones. The house-elf froze, rigid with shock, his milky eyes wide saucers reflecting pure disbelief mere inches from Hermione’s intense gaze. A low, guttural sound escaped him, muffled against her mouth – confusion, outrage, perhaps the first flicker of something obscenely akin to bewildered arousal. Ginny watched, horror and fascination freezing her to the cold floorboards, as Hermione’s tongue flicked out, probing, demanding entry past Kreacher’s yellowed teeth.
Walburga’s shrieks escalated into incoherent, ear-splitting fury. "ABSOLUTE DEPRAVITY! KREACHER! YOU WRETCHED, FILTH-LOVING TRAITOR! UNHAND THAT MUDBLOOD SLUT!" The painted face contorted, spittle flying onto the protective glass.
Kreacher didn’t unhand her. Instead, a tremor ran through his hunched frame. His gnarled hands, which had been braced on the mattress beside Hermione’s hips, lifted. Slowly, jerkily, they moved to grasp her shoulders, not to push away, but to hold her in place. His mouth opened slightly under Hermione’s relentless assault, a strangled groan vibrating in his throat. He began to kiss her back. It was clumsy, fumbling, a grotesque parody of passion fueled by decades of bitter loneliness and sudden, overwhelming sensation. His tongue, thick and rough, pushed against hers.
Ginny felt the world tilt. The room swam – the dust motes, Walburga’s purple face, the sagging velvet, Kreacher’s veiny monstrosity still buried deep in Hermione, now twitching visibly against her thigh. The coppery taste of her own bitten lip flooded Ginny’s mouth again. This was worse than the violence, worse than the pain. This intimacy, this horrifying mutual consumption, shattered any remaining illusion of violation. Hermione was a willing participant, dragging the ancient elf into her own desperate abyss. Ginny retched, dry-heaving, but her traitorous body clenched deep inside, a fresh wave of slick heat pulsing between her own battered thighs. Shame burned hotter than dragon fire.
Hermione finally broke the kiss, gasping for air. A thin strand of saliva connected her swollen lips to Kreacher’s. She stared at him, wild-eyed, chest heaving. Kreacher stared back, panting, his expression a mask of stunned confusion, hatred momentarily displaced by raw, alien sensation. The air crackled with perverse electricity.
Then Hermione’s gaze snapped to Ginny. Not triumphant. Not questioning. Commanding. "Ginny," she rasped, her voice shredded from screams and the kiss. "Get up here. Now." She didn’t ask. She demanded. Her hand, trembling only slightly, reached down between her and Kreacher, fingers brushing the obscene base of him where he was still sheathed inside her. "He won’t break you again," she stated, a dark promise in her tone. "Not while I'm holding him."
Kreacher made a choked sound, his bulbous eyes flicking between Hermione and Ginny. He didn't contradict her. His bony fingers tightened almost convulsively on Hermione’s shoulders, nails biting into her skin, holding her anchored to him and to the bed.
Ginny’s legs felt like water. The cold of the floor seeped into her bones. The memory of tearing agony at The Burrow was a phantom knife twisting in her core. Walburga was still shrieking, words blurring into a cacophony of pure hatred. Ginny looked at Hermione, at the terrifying certainty in her eyes, at the way Kreacher seemed momentarily cowed, held captive by Hermione’s legs and her will. She looked at the monstrous, glistening length of Kreacher still protruding obscenely from Hermione, slick with both of them. She saw Hermione’s fingers curl, not in pain, but in possession, around the veined shaft where it met her body.
Slowly, mechanically, Ginny pushed herself up. Her knees protested. Every muscle screamed. She didn't speak. She couldn’t. She moved towards the bed, each step heavy, the dust puffing under her bare feet. She stopped beside Hermione’s head. The scent of sex and Kreacher was overwhelming, mixed with dust and decay. Hermione tilted her head back slightly, her hair spread like a dark halo on the stained crest. "Touch me," Hermione ordered, her voice low and thick. "While he fucks me. Show him."
Kreacher’s breath hitched. He began to move again, a slow, tentative thrust, his eyes fixed on Ginny’s approaching hand. Ginny hesitated, her own hand hovering inches above Hermione’s flushed, sweat-sheened skin. Hermione’s gaze was iron. "Do it."
Ginny’s hand descended. Her fingertips brushed the curve of Hermione’s breast, the skin hot and damp. She flinched at the contact, at the intimacy, at the sheer wrongness of touching her best friend like this, in this place, with him buried deep inside her. Hermione moaned, the sound low and genuine, arching slightly into Ginny’s hesitant touch. "Yes," she breathed. "Like that." Ginny’s fingers traced lower, skimming Hermione’s ribcage, trembling violently. She avoided looking directly at Kreacher, focusing instead on the frantic pulse jumping in Hermione’s throat, on the desperate need blazing in her eyes. Kreacher’s thrusts grew bolder, deeper, encouraged by Hermione’s sounds, his gaze fixed on Ginny’s moving hand. A low growl started in his chest.
Hermione’s hand shot out, grasping Ginny’s wrist. Not to stop her. To guide her. She pulled Ginny’s hand lower, past her navel, through the coarse dark curls, down to where Kreacher’s impossible thickness disappeared inside her. Ginny’s fingertips touched slick, stretched heat, the junction where Hermione’s body yielded to the elf’s grotesque invasion. She felt the powerful slide of him moving within Hermione, the impossible stretch, the searing heat radiating outwards. Hermione gasped, her back bowing. "Feel it," she commanded, her voice cracking. "Feel him inside me. Feel how full I am."
Ginny’s stomach heaved again. Tears blurred her vision. But her fingers, trapped by Hermione’s grip, remained pressed against that impossible joining, feeling the slick, rhythmic slide, the terrifying reality of Kreacher pistoning in and out of her best friend. She felt the deep, internal throb of Hermione’s muscles clenching around the intrusion, not in rejection, but in a perverse, possessive rhythm. Kreacher’s growl deepened, becoming a continuous, guttural rumble. His hips snapped harder, the wet slap of flesh echoing Walburga’s fading shrieks. He was watching Ginny’s trapped hand, watching her feel where he claimed Hermione, and the raw, hateful power of it was a drug.
"Now you," Hermione gasped, her eyes burning into Ginny’s, her voice thick with exertion and dark intent. Her other hand let go of Ginny’s wrist and snaked out, fingers tangling painfully in Ginny’s fiery hair. She yanked hard. "Get on the bed. Behind him. Now. Take what he gave you at The Burrow. Take it properly this time. Show me you can."
Kreacher snarled, not in protest, but in feral anticipation, his milky eyes alight with renewed malice and a horrifying, eager gleam. He drove into Hermione one last, brutal time, holding deep, his body shuddering as Ginny, propelled by Hermione’s grip on her hair and the terrifying inevitability coiling in her gut, climbed stiffly onto the sagging mattress behind his hunched, thrusting form. The dusty velvet of the Black family crest scratched her knees. The portrait of Walburga fell silent, perhaps struck dumb by the final, absolute desecration. Kreacher’s monstrous, slick length slid free from Hermione with a wet gasp, already surging anew, swinging heavily towards Ginny. Hermione released Ginny’s hair, her command hanging in the rancid air: Take it properly. Ginny closed her eyes, bracing against the carved wooden footboard, the cool touch of decaying aristocracy under her palms the only solid thing left as she felt the hot, blunt pressure seek her out. She didn’t brace against him. She braced for the fall.
The carved wood of the footboard felt like ice against Ginny’s palms, a stark counterpoint to the feverish heat radiating from Kreacher’s hunched body just inches away. His monstrous cock, glistening with Hermione’s slickness and pulsing with renewed urgency, brushed the back of her thigh. The memory of the tearing agony at The Burrow was a phantom blade poised to plunge again. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing not just her body, but her entire frayed sense of self. Take it properly, Hermione’s command echoed, a dark dare slicing through the thick air, thick with dust, decay, and the cloying sweetness of the elf’s earlier release still drying on Ginny’s skin.
Kreacher snarled, a guttural sound that vibrated deep in his chest. He didn’t fumble. His gnarled hands, knuckles like knots in old rope, seized Ginny’s hips with bruising force, hauling her backwards onto him. The blunt, obscene pressure surged against her, hot and impossibly large. Ginny gasped, a sharp intake of breath choked off as he shoved forward. It wasn’t the savage tearing of before, but a brutal, relentless stretching that stole her breath. A low groan escaped her, raw and involuntary. "Filthy blood-traitor whore," Kreacher rasped in her ear, his rancid breath hot on her neck. "Desecrate the Mistress’s bed. Defile yourself." He drove deeper, forcing a ragged cry from Ginny’s throat. The sagging mattress beneath her knees offered no cushion, only the scratch of worn velvet and the hard outline of the embroidered Black crest digging into her skin.
Hermione watched, propped on her elbows beside them. Her chest still heaved, her lip was split, her skin marked by Kreacher’s fingers. But her eyes, fixed unwaveringly on Ginny’s face, held no pity. Only that intense, consuming fire, banked now but glowing dangerously. "Look at me, Ginny," Hermione demanded, her voice hoarse but steady. "Don’t hide." Ginny forced her eyes open, meeting Hermione’s gaze. The pain was immense, a burning pressure that threatened to crack her pelvis, but beneath it, under Hermione’s unwavering scrutiny and Kreacher’s brutal rhythm, a treacherous current of heat began to flow, mingling with the agony. It was humiliation, degradation… and something else, dark and addictive. Kreacher’s thrusts settled into a punishing cadence, each drive forcing a grunt from Ginny, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth, cold wood. The portrait of Walburga remained eerily, menacingly silent, a painted gargoyle witnessing the final corruption.
"Feel it?" Kreacher hissed, his bony hips slamming against her. "Feel Kreacher’s gift? Punishment for your tainted blood!" His spindly fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, anchoring her as he pistoned. Ginny could only gasp, her vision blurring, the room narrowing to the sensation of being impossibly filled and stretched, the sound of wet flesh slapping, and Hermione’s burning eyes. The initial white-hot pain had dulled to a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with Kreacher’s movements. A traitorous shiver ran through her, a slick warmth blooming despite herself, mingling with the lingering soreness. Hermione saw it. A flicker of something – satisfaction? – crossed her face. "That’s it," she breathed, almost to herself. "Let it happen."
The conflicting sensations were overwhelming. Revulsion warred with a sick, creeping pleasure born purely from the sheer intensity, the taboo, the surrender Hermione demanded. Kreacher’s grunts grew louder, more urgent. He leaned over Ginny’s back, his weight pressing her down, his thin chest heaving against her spine. The stench of him – stale sweat, damp earth, and something unidentifiably ancient – filled her nostrils. "Dirty blood-traitor," he panted. "Taking it… like the whore you are." His thrusts became shorter, harder, more erratic. Ginny felt the tension coiling in his frail body, the impending release. A wave of pure panic surged through her, chased immediately by a shocking jolt of anticipation. She saw Hermione’s lips part slightly, her eyes darkening further, fixed on where Kreacher joined Ginny. The pressure built, unbearable, terrifying. Kreacher let out a guttural roar, driving himself impossibly deep one final time and holding there, rigid. Ginny cried out as the hot flood filled her, a violation that triggered an involuntary, shameful clenching deep inside her own body, a traitorous echo of release that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the shockwave of sensation.
He collapsed forward onto her back for a moment, panting raggedly, a dead weight that smelled of decay and spent lust. Ginny lay crushed beneath him, gasping, the stickiness inside her a nauseating counterpoint to the cold sweat on her skin. Hermione didn’t move, her gaze still locked on Ginny, a strange, almost tender expression softening the fierceness for a fleeting second. Kreacher groaned, pushing himself off with visible effort, staggering back. His monstrous cock slid free with a thick, wet sound. Ginny shuddered, curling in on herself slightly, the ache profound, the humiliation complete. Kreacher swayed, looking down at the two witches sprawled on Walburga Black’s defiled bed, his milky eyes glazed and unfocused. He wiped his mouth with a gnarled hand, smearing something dark.
He swayed, wiping his mouth with the back of a gnarled hand, smearing something dark. His milky eyes, glazed and unfocused, drifted from Hermione to Ginny, curled trembling on the defiled coverlet. The oppressive silence stretched, broken only by their ragged breathing and the faint, distant hum of London beyond the shuttered windows. Kreacher’s immense cock, slick and glistening, began to thicken again with terrifying speed, defying exhaustion. The sight sent a fresh jolt of dread and something else, something darkly electric, through Ginny’s exhausted body. Hermione pushed herself up fully, her movements deliberate despite the marks on her skin. She didn’t look at Kreacher. Her eyes, burning with that terrifying intensity, fixed solely on Ginny. "Look at him, Ginny," she commanded, her voice low and thick. Ginny forced her head to turn, her gaze landing on the obscene, veined weight swinging heavily between Kreacher’s spindly legs. It was impossible. Monstrous. A fresh wave of nausea threatened. Hermione’s hand shot out, grabbing Ginny’s chin, forcing her to maintain the gaze. "Look at what he has. What he can do to us." Her thumb brushed Ginny’s lower lip. "What you really want him to do again."
Kreacher took a shuffling step closer, drawn by the focus, by the palpable tension. A low growl rumbled in his chest, more predatory this time. Ginny’s breath hitched. The aching throb deep inside her wasn't just pain anymore; it was a hollow echo, a terrifying emptiness craving that brutal fullness again. Shame burned her cheeks, hotter than ever. Hermione leaned closer, her lips almost touching Ginny’s ear. "Say it," she whispered, the command a hot brand against Ginny’s skin. "Tell him what you want. What we both want." Kreacher’s bulbous eyes narrowed, fixed on Ginny’s face, waiting. His cock twitched, straining upwards. The fear, the revulsion, the lingering pain – they were all still there, screaming. But beneath them, amplified by Hermione’s fierce presence and the raw, undeniable power radiating from Kreacher’s grotesque form, the dark, addictive current surged, swamping everything else. It wasn't pleasure. It was annihilation. It was freedom. Ginny’s mouth opened. The words, thick and raw, ripped from her throat, shattering the silence, echoing Walburga’s forgotten curses with their own obscene power:
"FUCK ME WITH THAT BIG ELF DICK KREACHER," GINNY MOANS.