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Inbreeding.
Natural in nature, when mates are scarce. Disgusting through moral perspectives. Over time, exploited by men for their riches—dowries from cousins, bred to protect wealth like hoarder pigs guarding muddied oats.
Disgusting. But necessary.
Revolting acts born of human selfish greed.
A part of it runs through her veins, nevertheless. The blood of rotten purity—albeit not fully.
Daughter of a prostitute. Bastard of Cygnus Black. Her blood is not pure, not because of the non-magical origins from her muggle mother’s side, but because her birth is not of love.
Only lust.
Someone like her wouldn’t even entertain the notion of true, pure love. But she knows it exists. Just not for her.
And so, Blanc accepts love of all kinds except for the truest kind.
“Mikhaila…”
Bellatrix’s love, for example, is all-consuming.
“Who gave you permission to call me that, little witch?”
A breath, a swallow, and a thrust. Black and white strands stick to her sweaty forehead; stray hairs curl inward, tickling her glistening skin. The uncomfortable heat at her nape itches beneath her wavy locks. She usually has it tied up neatly, but she couldn’t be bothered tonight. Not now.
Another breath, another swallow, another thrust. She hisses at the pair of hands digging deep into her back like metal hooks into bloodletted meat. Greedy fingernails latch onto the skin and muscle of her shoulders, pulling impatiently like a tantrum, clawing for seeping blood in prideful begging for mercy.
Blanc’s hands—usually adorned with rings and gloves—are now fully bare to the uncomfortable air, as if tattling a secret. Her left hand, the back scarred and wrinkled not by age but by the fire from her youth, nestles into wild black locks. Her right hand, smooth and dominant, grips the curve of a bony hip, manicured nails digging into pale skin as if to trap it from fleeing.
A few rough tugs prior had resulted in bloodied strands ripped free, the evidence dried at Blanc’s fingertips. The damage had been returned when Bellatrix sank crooked teeth into Blanc’s jugular, biting down and refusing to let go—too stubborn—until the pounding of unwanted pleasure forced the wild witch to moan out a defeated howl into the night.
Adorable. Like declawing a big feline and fitting it with a toy muzzle.
If Blanc wanted to, she could pull out every single tooth from her wife, render Bellatrix incapable of tearing skin from her, or anyone else. She can. But she won’t. That would take all the fun out of it.
Even when her brothers—darlings, always worried for her—insisted that she does so as soon as possible. Cut off their sister-in-law’s tongue too, they said, and, quote, “Break off the witch’s fingers, or she’ll steal your wand and kill you in your sleep when no one is looking!”
Chain the criminal’s ankles with dragging metal and needles. Muzzle the woman’s foaming bark of a mouth with stainless steel and a long cork shoved down her throat—for peace, for silence, for a world free of curses.
So many pieces of advice. Blanc appreciates them all. Some, she even heeds.
But Bellatrix is hers. Hers to do with as she pleases. And if she lets the witch roam wandless and shoeless—the latter is from Bellatrix’s prideful rebellion rather than Blanc’s orders—then so be it. No one is to touch a single strand of her wife’s hair, and no one is to bat an eye when the little witch screams bloody murder as Blanc rips every single fingernail from disobedient hands during supper.
“Hrrrrk—bitch—”
The creak of the headboard. The tear of silk sheets. The crackle of burning wood. The night is still young, and Blanc intends to eat her wife whole until sunlight arrives and servants knock at their bedroom doors.
The life of luxury it is. Blanc worked hard for it. She deserves it. Though the little witch writhing beneath her was not part of the original plan, she remains a pleasant bonus. And if the world protests, and if any gods decide she is unworthy or undeserving of such a life—she’ll burn it all down. She burned her world once for everything she wanted, and she’ll do it again. After all, she has only a lifetime to do so.
“Don’t be crude…”
“Mmmph—!”
Dark red lips murmur as they press a chaste kiss to the tip of Bellatrix’s ear, then another just behind it.
With a hot breath, those lips trail down the witch’s nape, lower and lower, until they meet the harsh slope of a shivering shoulder.
“Are you cold, little witch?”
Blanc has been told she is very warm, despite appearances. But a colder face makes for warmer words, doesn’t it?
Bellatrix seems to agree. Her body reacts to Blanc so eager and honest. The pretty little liar. She’s simply too stubborn to say so—or, more accurately, too preoccupied to say anything at all.
When a breathless snarl is offered in response, Blanc can’t help but grin. A teeth-full grimace, Bellatrix usually calls it. Blanc disagrees—it is the best smile she can genuinely offer someone special. Her little wife should feel honored. Blanc only smiles when a life is on the line, when she stands as judge and executioner, hands severing fate itself.
“A-are you listening?”
A small crack in her voice, willingly revealed behind closed doors and against bare skin. Blanc knows Bellatrix isn’t listening, she only wanted to rile the witch up for fun. She’s had a long day of work, meetings, and paperwork. A woman deserves her pleasures.
The hip held firmly in her grasp shakes and squirms to the set rhythm. In. Out. And in again. Shallow thrusts, unable to slow but too comfortable to quicken. Blanc grows cold when separated from her bride for too long, and she is an honest woman—to an extent. She cannot lie to herself: being beside—and inside—Bellatrix ignites emotions far more alive than any lover before her.
It is why Bellatrix still lives, long after the war. Without these feelings blooming rottenly beneath Blanc’s ribcage and filling her lungs, the war criminal would have been executed alongside Voldemort’s followers—or condemned to Azkaban for the rest of her miserable life. A far more fitting fate for the eldest daughter of the Noble House of Black.
Blanc would be a hypocrite to claim sainthood through a rags-to-riches tale. The things she did to reach this height are worse than what is ever written on paper.
But there is no body.
So there has been no crime.
“Come here. Don’t pull away.”
Blanc huffs, playful, in a rather pleasant mood. She lets go of Bellatrix’s hair—greasy curls damp with sweat, heat, and passion—and uses both hands to hoist the witch’s lower half up. The weight shifts more comfortably onto Blanc’s firm thighs, between her wife’s legs, forcibly spread wide for easier access.
Why does Bellatrix keep crawling away, after all this time at Blanc’s side?
It is her responsibility—her duty—to tend to her superior’s needs. The life of a housewife, that is. Blanc is a woman herself; she understands the internalized misogyny between women, shaped by long years of unjust patriarchy. She has helped pass bills for the rights of Muggle-born witches, supported the darling Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, and her vision of a new age for the wizarding world. More laws against the exploitation of exotic creatures—from Veela brothels to illegal auctions of abused house-elves. And so much more, in her defense.
Blanc sees herself as an open-minded person. Rational enough to make difficult decisions logically, empathetic enough to sway hearts for smoother consequences—and arrogant enough to sleep soundly after personally signing a shipment contract for one hundred crates of nearly extinct exotic creatures, destined for secret experiments in B.E.’s Research Department alone. This, a mere month after funding Granger’s bill cracking down on illegal poachers—the very bill the young woman publicly praised Blanc for, in the Ministry halls.
The duality of humanity, of course.
All in all, Blanc is a rational person.
Or a “sly piece of shit,” in Rabastan’s last words—spoken before she killed him and pried a mourning Bellatrix from his corpse. A messy ordeal, followed by an even messier aftermath of calming her wife after murdering one of the few people who had known Bellatrix her entire life.
Again, in Blanc’s defense, Rabastan’s death was quick and merciful. Bellatrix, of all people, should know there are far worse ways to die than an Avada Kedavra.
“W-wait…”
Ah? Oh—yes. My apologies, dear Bella. Was I ignoring you again? You know how it is; my thoughts always consume me more than I care to admit.
Blanc’s cloudy gaze focuses back into reality—one eye dark, the other grey and scarred—both fixed on the beautiful mess clawing at satin pillows beneath her.
“Hm?”
Blanc is lost in the way pride clings to her little sister like barnacles to a fisher’s boat. Left unattended, they must be scraped away, or they’ll drag the vessel down over time. Bellatrix’s spine arches, as if she can no longer bear the weight of that pride.
Good.
Just relax, dear. Let your older sister take care of everything. Be good.
Blanc has told her this once—then countless times since. Each time, Bellatrix insists on playing the long game. Not that Blanc minds. Still, wouldn’t it be easier to simply let go?
“My stomach hurts—”
Immediately, a strong hand settles gently over the witch’s lower stomach. The bulge there is visible—not only from the firm length still pulsing between Bellatrix’s thighs, but from the growing seed Blanc planted on that memorable night two moons ago. Fragile to the touch. Blanc never tires of holding the vulnerable parts of life.
“Where? Here?”
Soft probing follows, careful and slow. A stark contrast to the relentless intrusion of Blanc’s needs throughout the tender motion. Bellatrix doesn’t appear to be in genuine distress. As always, her complaints are a futile attempt to distract Blanc. Oh well. Blanc prefers the cute whines and pointless protests to any true screams of pain. Bellatrix is a sadist, not a masochist. For someone who delights in inflicting pain—psychological and physical alike—she receives it rather gracelessly.
The graceless loser.
It is a good thing, really, that Blanc no longer wishes her any true harm.
“Are you lying again?”
Bellatrix always lies. Evasion and half-truths are her specialty. Blanc learned the dance of the witch’s tongue long ago, and took the lead with ease.
“I should punish that tongue of yours.” Again, of course.
Blanc forced herself to slow down, biting her tongue until it bled as she came to a rather sloppy stop. Only then does Bellatrix seem to have gathered enough strength to raise her hips herself again, weakly chasing the pull of Blanc’s hot length. When it is fully pulled out, a glistening bridge of their passion is left—from the dripping tip of Blanc’s angry cock to Bellatrix’s gaping slit. The only thing is connecting their body and desires.
Blanc gave the witch’s supple behind a firm slap, in which she received a protesting moan immediately after.
“Hush. You’ll wake up Delphi.”
Brushing black-and-white strands from her eyes, she glances to the side, where a baby crib sits at a careful distance from their bed.
Her current eldest daughter.
Daughter of Mikhaila Blanc and Bellatrix Black.
But not her firstborn.
Her first baby—her darling boy. Forever frozen in his late twenties, the beautiful spring of a human life. He was not buried six feet deep like his other siblings. When he took his last breath under Riddle’s torture, there was no body left for her to bury.
Even when Blanc personally gutted the false man-god’s precious snake, Nagini, her boy was not there in her hands. Not a single bone to recognize, nor a scrap of cloth from that night. She will never know where her son’s life was taken, or how... even of what he thought and said in his final moments.
Tom made sure of it.
Blanc can only hope he remembered her love for him, despite the circumstances of his birth and her unwanted youthful pregnancy. Of that, she is certain.
She has a new family to care for now—one she will protect and nurture, carrying her past mistakes and lessons forward to do this right.
“Have a short break before we continue. You need it—the night is still young, love.”
The bed creaks beneath Blanc’s shifting weight as she rises. Bare feet pad softly across the carpet toward the vanity, where a servant had clumsily set down a refreshment tray earlier. Blanc isn’t annoyed; the servant must have been new. The poor thing is likely scarred for life after glimpsing how she handled her wife these past hours.
The macarons are too sweet for Bellatrix’s taste. Blanc hums to herself as she pops another miniature confection into her dry mouth, washing the clinging sugar down with water straight from the pitcher’s curved spout. She can’t be bothered to pour it into a glass.
Holding the pitcher in one hand, she ambles back to the bed. She taps Bellatrix’s shoulder for any sign of life. An annoyed glare through tangled hair is answer enough.
The witch lies limply on her stomach, forehead pressed into wrinkled pillows, as though trying to hide from the world. It reminds Blanc of a cartoon she recently watched with Delphi—a large bird shoving its head into a hole in the ground to escape danger. Absurdly funny. She isn’t certain whether it’s true in real life.
“Drink.”
Blanc grips the skin at the back of Bellatrix’s bruised neck, flipping her onto her back and supporting her head as she lifts it. Cracked lips quickly wet themselves with cool water from the pitcher’s mouth. Blanc tilts it carefully until a hand taps her arm, impatient.
On purpose, Blanc tilts the pitcher higher, catching the witch off guard and making Bellatrix choke on the water.
Cute.
She lets the pitcher clatter to the floor and keeps her wife’s head steady, forcing her to swallow between coughing breaths.
An apology kiss—one in which Blanc delivers both the reason and the apology in the same breath.
“I’m tired,” Bellatrix whispered against Blanc’s lips—hoarse and fragile, but not weak.
“You woke me up,” Blanc replied coolly. “Screaming, if I recall.”
“Well.” Bellatrix coughed once, clearing her throat. “I scream often. You should be used to it by now.”
“I am. But choking me in my sleep isn’t something I’ll let you off with a slap on the wrist.”
“I’ve done far worse to you, bitch.”
“Yes.” Blanc nodded, fingers tightening once more in fragile locks. “You once stabbed me in the neck while I slept.”
Bellatrix had atoned for that mistake by cradling a broken arm until every bone in the hand that had held the poisoned dagger healed. It hadn’t healed properly, though, so Blanc had personally volunteered to break the places where the bone tissue had reconnected poorly—and then summoned a Mediwitch to heal her wife correctly.
A week later, Bellatrix tore apart all the important paperwork in Blanc’s study. Blanc took the knife Bellatrix had used to slash the pages, using the handle end, and gave her wife a rather sweet punishment instead of something far bloodier than most would have received.
“I want my sleep.”
Bellatrix hissed at the older woman, irritation sharpening her glare.
“And I needed mine.”
Pale thighs were forced apart once more—but truthfully, Blanc didn’t even need force to slip a hand between them.
“You took my precious sleep away,” Blanc continued, voice calm and sharp all the same. “Rather rudely, too. Now I’m wide awake.”
A raspy howl of a moan answered her stern lecture. Blanc lifted a brow at that.
“It’s your duty to help me, is it not? You know full well—may I remind you—that sleep has been difficult for me lately. Some days, I don’t sleep at all. And when I finally leave work early enough to bury myself in domestic bliss, I expect you to behave. Honestly, how hard is it to act like a normal person for one day?”
Blanc huffed, frustration barely veiled.
“And I’m still the one doing all the work here. Stop whining.”
The only response was the kicking of long, milky legs.
Well—there were also a few familiar curse words. But for Delphi’s sake, Blanc kissed and swallowed them before they could escape. At least Bellatrix was properly riled now. It stirred the ache low in Blanc’s stomach again.
Come on, baby. Play with me—well into the night, and the morning.
“You’ll get your sleep once you’ve paid off all your debts, Bella.”
You will rest only when you repay everything you and your master took from me.
Blanc sighed—a sound meant to be loving. But the witch it was intended for was deaf to genuine love in any form. Blanc doesn’t blame her. Her own love is rotten and filthy, as vile as any pureblood marriage between siblings—and as pure as any animal in mating season.
The debt began with our father. Then your uncle. Then your master. In the end, it is you.
Bellatrix. Warrior. Survivor.
You are the one who bears the weight of all those piled debts, my little survivor.
Blanc watched as Bellatrix slowly opened herself to her—hesitant, but willing. An invitation for redemption. But there is nothing to repent, nothing to redeem that could erase the witch’s past. And Blanc is no god, to be worshipped or begged for forgiveness.
Still—
It is a pleasant thought, how considerate her little wife can be. Blanc rarely receives this kind of softness, and she treasures it when it appears.
“B-be quick, you mutt!”
Blanc barely blinked at the insult, only glancing back with mild curiosity.
Bellatrix scoffed, but the sound was choked off when their lower bodies connected once more. An embarrassingly wet squelch—evidence of Blanc’s affection for her wife—followed, accompanied by the slick slap of skin against skin.
“You’re in no position to order me around, little witch.”
No, truly.
If her darling wife were still round and heavy with child—as Bellatrix had been half a year ago—then the witch could shout unreasonable demands into Blanc’s ear without earning a harsh slap in return. But Bellatrix was still riding the arrogant memory of Blanc personally running late-night errands for her, forgetting who it was that had once shoved her face into the nearest body of water and drowned her repeatedly for ruining Blanc’s neatly styled work hair.
The secretaries had seen far too much that day.
Bellatrix stopped her unannounced visits to B.E. headquarters—where she delighted in making a mess of Blanc’s office—for quite some time afterward. Still counting. A world record, really.
Bellatrix growled and snarled, rude and loud as ever, so Blanc shoved half her hand into that wretched mouth to silence her. It worked wonders, despite sharp canines biting down hard enough to pierce skin and draw blood.
Blanc watched as saliva coated her fingers and mingled with the wound.
How unsanitary. One might think Bellatrix more animal than pureblood—despite being raised in a wealthy, dysfunctional household.
“Be quiet.”
The soft glint in Bellatrix’s overly dramatic glare made Blanc withdraw her hand. Bellatrix flexed her sore jaw, breathing heavily with each quickening movement from the woman pinning her down.
“I need to feed Delphi soon.”
The words were murmured—quiet, pleading—so soft that Blanc almost missed them, and her hearing was usually sharp.
“That task was given to the servants,” Blanc replied—and occasionally to herself, when Bellatrix was too absorbed in her chaotic personal projects, indulgences Blanc had permitted. “Why the sudden concern?”
“She’s mine!”
The snarl was sharp, familiar—one Blanc encountered daily ever since their small, disastrous marriage.
“You bear her, yes. She feeds from your breasts, yes, for only a time.”
Firm hands slid around Bellatrix’s throat, fingers flexing as they traced over sensitive skin.
Bellatrix bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out like a damsel in distress. She never did. Not even when Blanc’s pace turned relentless, violent for violence’s sake. The sounds echoed through the bedchamber—still controlled, still careful enough not to wake the innocent child sleeping peacefully in her crib.
“I’m her mother, Black.”
Blanc never raised her voice, not even in anger. But she spoke Bellatrix’s proud surname as though its very existence offended her tongue.
You will replace every love I have lost. From my family—my children, my brothers, and theirs. Every single one. You will replace all the love I once gave freely.
Blanc has so much love to give, despite never accepting any in return. And she pours it all into Bellatrix, because the witch was the last to destroy those she loved. The curse in Blanc’s veins stirred with every thought, a familiar storm gathering. It clicked and growled and wept inside her—out of lust, out of love. Just as Bellatrix fought back her own grief, mourning a dead master and a wretched father who had brought them both into the world.
The creature—old, vile, cursed—lashed its feathery tail and flexed its heavy wings in frustration. Blanc felt it. It longed to merge with her once more.
But Blanc was holding one of the most precious things in her life, even as her hands cut off Bellatrix’s breath. She released her grip and kissed the witch before she could inhale. The body beneath her writhed—wanting more and less at once, greed and pride and every sin entwined.
“You’ll be mine, and only mine. Delphi isn’t yours, love.”
Bellatrix was allowed only Blanc.
And no one else.