Chapter 2: Mudblood on Her Knees
The peacock feather lay on her polished Ministry desk, tucked between a stack of house-elf rights proposals and a memo about cauldron bottom thickness. Hermione stared at it, the vibrant blues and greens a violent splash of color against the grey bureaucracy. Her hand drifted to her abdomen, still flat. For now. The healing charms had done their work, but the memory of being filled, of that unbelievable stretch, was a permanent engraving on her nerves.
Ron had made cottage pie. He’d kissed her cheek, asked about her day. She’d described imaginary archive rooms. The lie was a wool blanket, smothering and itchy.
Two days later, the itch became a burn. It started as a dull throb when she passed a house-elf in the Ministry corridors, carrying a tea tray. By nightfall, it was a frantic, screaming need between her legs. She apparated to the steps of 12 Grimmauld Place after sending Ron an excuse about a last-minute international portkey filing.
The house swallowed her. The air was cold, tasting of dust and old magic. Kreacher was waiting in the drawing-room, silhouetted before the shrouded tapestry. He hadn’t lit any lamps. Walburga Black’s portrait was silent, the curtains drawn.
“The whore returns to her proper place,” he said, not turning around. His voice echoed.
“Don’t call me that,” she said, but it was automatic, hollow. Her heels clicked on the floor.
He turned. In the gloom, his bulbous eyes gleamed. His cock was already half-hard, a grotesque, heavy shadow against his spindly legs. “What does Mistress want from poor Kreacher?” he mocked, shuffling forward. “More elf-spawn? The last one is barely a whisper in your belly.”
She said nothing. She couldn’t. The want was a physical taste, coppery and desperate. She dropped her beaded bag. It hit the floor with a thud.
He understood. A cruel smile split his face. He pointed a knobby finger at the center of the floor, at the large, intricate crest of the House of Black embedded in the wood. “There. On your knees where the mud belongs.”
Her stockings whispered as she sank down. The carved metal of the crest bit into her kneecaps. She didn’t care. Her hands trembled as she reached for him. He stank of mildew and something bitterly organic. Up close, his cock was a detailed map of veins, the head a swollen, purplish plum, leaking a bead of moisture. Her mouth watered.
She took him in, not with tenderness, but with a ravenous hunger. Her lips stretched obscenely wide. She could not take him all, not even half. She gagged immediately, her eyes watering, but she pushed forward, letting him hit the back of her throat. She sucked, hard, her tongue working the thick vein on the underside.
“That’s it,” Kreacher rasped, his hands settling on her head, not guiding, just owning. “Use that clever Mudblood mouth. Good for something, it is.”
From above, the curtains on Walburga Black’s portrait flew open with a violent snap.
“FILTH!” the portrait screamed, its voice a sonic scar on the air. “DEFILING THE ANCESTRAL SEAT! SCUM! BLOOD TRAITOR! MUDBLOOD SLUT!”
Hermione flinched, but Kreacher shoved her head deeper onto him, making her choke. The screamed insults, the violent purity of the portrait’s hatred, did something to her. It didn’t quell the fire; it fed it. She sucked harder, taking him deeper with each agonizing thrust of her head, her nose buried in the wiry, foul-smelling hair at his base. Saliva dripped down her chin, onto the noble crest. Walburga’s tirade was a soundtrack to her degradation, each screamed “whore” making her cunt clench around nothing, a wet, empty ache.
“See how she loves it, Mistress,” Kreacher called out, his voice strained with pleasure. “See how the Mudblood bitch worships the elf’s cock in your house!”
He suddenly yanked her off him by her hair. She gasped, air burning her raw throat. Before she could process it, he manhandled her, turning her, forcing her back against his front. He bent her over, her hands slapping against the cold floor for balance. With one brutal motion, he hoisted her skirt, tore aside her underwear, and drove up into her.
The cry that left her lips was torn in two: pain and overwhelming relief. He was thicker than memory, splitting her wide, a burning, perfect fullness. He fucked her standing, her feet barely touching the ground, his entire length pistonning into her with a wet, rhythmic slap. And he positioned her so she was facing the portrait.
Walburga Black’s painted eyes bulged with insane rage. “BEAST! ANIMAL! YOU BREED WITH FILTH IN MY SIGHT!”
“Look at her!” Kreacher grunted into Hermione’s ear, his bony fingers digging into the soft flesh of her enormous tits, pinching and twisting her nipples until she cried out. The pain was bright, sharp, merging with the deep, internal battering of his cock. “Look at your mistress, whore. See her watch you get bred.”
Hermione looked. She met the painted gaze. Shame, hot and nauseating, flooded her. And beneath it, a darker, more potent thrill. She was being seen. In her absolute debasement, she was finally, truly seen. Her eyes rolled back as a particularly savage thrust hammered into her cervix, a dull, deep shock that radiated through her womb.
“You’re… you’re going to… put another… in me,” she panted, the words blurry, not entirely her own.
“Going to flood your filthy cunt,” he snarled. His pace became frantic, erratic. One hand snaked down, calloused fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, fast circles. It was too much. The portrait screaming, the crest grinding into her palms, the incredible fullness, the sharp pain on her nipples. Her orgasm detonated, a silent, seismic wave that locked her body, her cunt gripping his shaft in violent, pulsing spasms.
That pushed him over. With a sound like a dying animal, he slammed her down onto him, hilted deep, and she felt the hot, rushing gout of his release fill her, painting her insides. He held her there, impaled, as Walburga screamed herself hoarse.