The Illegal Animagus Subjugation Front

Resistance could be fun, if you liked the struggle.

Sometimes you only struggled because she liked it.

And sometimes you both did.

By turns sharp and sweet, Hermione Granger was a valuable friend and a formidable enemy. As a lover, though, no one knew what she was like. But that was about to change, or so she reassured herself one gloomy, overcast day, as she stole surreptitiously through the narrow roads of Hogsmeade.

Though it was by no means a proper city, Hermione soon found herself in the corner Hogsmeadians thought of as their slum district. This was entirely the fault of the notorious, dilapidated structure lurking at the end of a particularly crooked road. The Hog\'s Head Inn was to The Three Broomsticks, as Knockturn Alley was to Diagon Alley, and on entering, Hermione noted incredulously that it was now even grimier than it had been on her last visit there a year ago with the DA.

She withdrew twelve Sickles from her pocket and placed them in a neat stack upon the scummy counter, taking care not to touch it directly. Interrupting his half-hearted yet never-ending losing battle with the filth that engulfed his pub, the barman stumped over and grouchily slammed a butterbeer and a rusty key down for her, then went back to scraping something disturbing off of a defenseless wooden table. Snatching her purchases to her chest, the girl whisked out of the frowsty pub, and up the rickety staircase.

With no small amount of difficulty, she managed to unlock a small room and darted inside, looking guilty. Inside, it was even filthier than the tiny pub below, and a heady smell of stale butterbeer and dry rot hung thickly in the air. One bug-encrusted window offered a dull view over the village, and though she was fairly certain no one could see in, Hermione nevertheless drew out her wand, produced a heavy black curtain, and once hung, proceeded to tuck it into the window ledge, just in case.

In lighting that was now more depressing than ever, Hermione strode over to the lone bit of furnishing and sat down. The thin straw mattress and forbidding iron frame beneath it gave not an inch, in drastic contrast to the obscenely plush beds Hogwarts students enjoyed nightly, but she didn\'t care. She hadn\'t intended on lying down anyway.

Gryffindor\'s academic pride and joy sipped her butterbeer without tasting it, and checked her watch compulsively, nervous excitement slowly overtaking her guilt at sneaking off to Hogsmeade without permission. She couldn\'t help it. She needed this, and once Hermione made up her mind to do something, not many could dissuade her from it.

As if to underscore her commitment to the task ahead, she flicked her wand and a split-second later, half a dozen candles were floating eerily around the room, bathing it in their wild glow. She was idly wondering exactly what kinds of blood the mattress was stained with, when she heard someone stomping up the stairs, and flew to the door. Unemployment had never been so attractive.

The number of people who despised Rita Skeeter had never been equal to the number that trusted her, but it had always been close, and each among them would\'ve been more than happy to inform Hermione of what the woman behind the Quick-Quotes Quill was really like, but she already had it.

Rita was like gasoline. Volatile, poisonous, expensive.

She held the public in her power, smart, decent people even, people who knew better but couldn\'t resist indulging in her brand of toxic gratification, and in the girl who held her so firmly under duress, she had met her match, burning hot and bright.

\"So!\" said Rita, as she barged in clutching a Firewhisky, \"Who\'s going to profit off my slave labour this time, huh?! Gobstones Illustrated? British Mandrake Farmer? Have you got Salamander Dushrie hidden somewhere just dying to give me an interview?\"

Hermione locked the door.

“Oh be quiet, you should be proud to have finally published something without horrible lies.\"

Rita snorted. “Oh yes, thank god the world\'s got you protecting journalistic standards!\"

\"I wasn\'t aware journalists bothered to hold themselves to any.\" Hermione snipped.

Rita bristled. “Maybe little miss standards should just shut up and tell me why she dragged me out to this one-hippogriff town already!\" But she knew. In the back of her mind she had known the instant she\'d glanced over the neatly scripted words, ‘Hog\'s Head Inn\' not five days previously.

The girl fixed Rita with a calm look, but her cheeks were burning.

\"I’ll tell you after you undress.\"

A broiling thrill washed through Rita.

Fuck, why did this stupid kid affect her like this? How could she do this to her? How dare she! “Merlin on a crutch, you can just forget it you silly girl.\" Arms akimbo, she glared at Hermione daringly.

\"Give my regards to the Death Eaters then, will you?\"

At these words, a singularly delicious electrical charge jolted between the women, and Hermione drank in the familiar glint of fear sparking in the bespectacled eyes. Despite having gotten precisely the reaction she\'d expected, she dug in yet again with, \"In Azkaban, I mean. Especially the ones you outed in that delightful interview.\"

“That you made me write!\" Rita accused.

“You did a surprisingly good job, really. Much better than I expected from a vengeful, drunken, liar.\" She paused, letting the words burn into ego like acid. \"I think you do your best work under pressure, Rita.\"

\"Ha! You don’t give a damn what I write, you just get off on lording it over people, you twisted little-\"

\"As for the Death Eaters,\" interrupted Hermione, \"you can either let me have you now, or I can let them have you later. It’s your choice.\" she finished.

“Some choice!\" Rita snarled. Little miss superior could fool herself into thinking she was upright and fair all she wanted, but dare to dent the oh-so precious public images of her stupid friends and how did she react? By spitting on the freedom of the press, that\'s how. Killing the messenger. Censoring what displeased her, the fucking hypocritical control freak.

Piece by tacky piece, each article of loud clothing was sullenly wrenched off and thrown roughly to the floor, and by the time Rita’s varnished scarlet had clawed free her tellingly damp unmentionables, each witch was aware of a painful throbbing below her hips. Only one of them welcomed it.

Hermione gorged her eyes on the voluptuous form before her, and became slightly lightheaded. Rita’s features possessed a certain world-worn quality that was characteristic of middle-aged women, and which Hermione found prurient. Gazing from the satisfying weight of her luscious breasts, to the plump of her belly, to the curvaceous temptation of her hips, Hermione felt her mouth begin to water in lascivious anticipation.

This beauty was all hers.

Pity it was only skin-deep.

She swallowed self-consciously.

\"Lie down,\" she said, gesturing to the battered bed.

With a steely glare, the elder witch flung herself down upon it, with Hermione eagerly shadowing her down. As she watched the youth greedily sucking her breasts, Rita was reminded of someone trying to extract poison from a wound, and decided that she liked the girl quite a bit better from this angle, better with her eyes closed, better with her mouth stoppered.

Dark cherry staining bloomed easily under Hermione\'s rapacious mouth, and when low, velvety obscenities began flooding into her ears, she looked up and was met with a scowl. It was infuriating. She could feel Rita’s body excitedly responding to her mouth, knew the bitter witch wanted to come as much as she did. She can’t even be honest now, the girl thought. Of course, she had expected nothing less of Rita. In her heart of hearts she had been looking forward to it.

And here it was.

“Get up,\" she said tersely, tearing herself away.

“Scared of something?\" Rita teased, sitting up.

“Hardly. Now get on the floor. I, I want you over my knee.\" said Hermione shakily, seating herself on the edge of the mattress.

Fire licked Rita’s heart. This little brat was going to be sorry for this. Oh yes, was she ever. On that thought, she once again co-operated, draping herself across the girl’s warm lap, her arms and legs planted on the floor like pale, flabby columns. Hermione breathed deeply, pulled the older woman\'s thick thighs apart and began to stroke at the gloss seeping between them. She would make Rita be truthful. Force her to own up to the reality of what was happening to her.

And why.

It would absolutely kill her.

She deserved it, Hermione reasoned, squeezing Rita\'s breast so the tender flesh bulged out between her fingers. After all, Rita trafficked in sensationalism, would write any horrible lie as long as it engaged the public. Problem was, Hermione knew she couldn\'t break the elder witch of such a deeply ingrained habit, and subconsciously understood that forcing Rita out of her livelihood was, in itself, crueler than what Rita had done to her friends in the first place.

Meanwhile, the rise and fall of the pudgy stomach plastered against Hermione\'s denim-covered lap was growing quicker and quicker.

Someone had to do something about this trash, thought Hermione. She wet her lips. Trash.

Yeah, that\'s what Rita was all right. Didn\'t she live for dirt? Yes, yes she did. She lived for exposés, exposés stuffed with manipulated truth and righteous indignation, all the while daring to claim objectivity! Hermione thought unironically. Releasing the sore breast she had been playing with, Hermione instead picked up her empty butterbeer bottle and amused herself by feeding it\'s sticky neck into Rita\'s coral smeared lips, then leisurely sliding it back out again. Her blood thickened in her veins. This was the woman who traduced everyone she wrote about and was due a little humiliation.

\"You\'re such a whore, you know that?\" Hermione whispered, \"You don\'t care about the truth, you only care about exploiting people\'s basest emotions for money, no matter who gets hurt. Anything goes and anyone will do, as long as it pays, isn\'t that right, you old whore?\" Here a handful of soaking flesh and tangled hair was squeezed quite maliciously, and Rita reflexively pushed into the pressure.

\"Feels good then, does it? C’mon Rita, tell me what I want to hear.\" said Hermione, absolutely sick with lust.

\"Fuck you,\" came the tortured reply. What a little pervert. And who the hell was she to give lectures on truth? She understood nothing about it. Everyone knew it was subjective. They knew, really, that it was whatever the bottom line said it was, in the end, Rita thought, dripping wet, and losing herself in a feeling of helplessness. Savouring it. Her coral pulled on the smooth glass, and her cunt begged and wept in Hermione’s soft hand. She had no escape, no choice, she told herself.

It was like being under the Imperius Curse.

No, worse! At least that you could fight. Like those pathetic Crouch saps. Lot of good it did them, too, both dead and after all they went to, to ensure...

Then it hit her.

Her breath caught. The scales shifted. Of course! How could she have been so thick? Little miss would pay now! She’d pay until she was streaming with tears and blood, Rita would see to that.

And it was then Hermione slipped inside her, feeling a humid viscous pressure close around her fingers. Rita exhaled shudderingly into her transparent gag. Realizing her body was not going to let her leave any time soon, she braced for what was sure to come next, hating herself.

The youth, on the other hand, was doing her best to carve this particular image into her memory, knowing how much mileage she could get out of it back in her own bed. With pure eros pulsing through her, she began an excruciatingly languid pushing that soon had Rita spreading her knees as wide as possible in a shameless invitation to go deeper.

However, no invitation was needed, and it was not too long after, that Hermione succeeded in easing her knuckles past the barrier of aching tension, her wrist gliding effortlessly in after. Rita shrieked in spite of herself, and fluid gushed warmly down her thighs. Precious few had ever ripped such a cry out of the cynical witch, and as soon as she had, Hermione longed to hear it again. She bent over and planted a few lingering kisses along the smooth back with a reverence that completely belied the circumstances under which they were being given.

Having gotten as deep as she could, the girl began pumping with a careful viciousness that was at once giving and taking, while indulging in lewd, arrogant thoughts such as, \" I bet no one’s ever had her like this,\". And she was right.

Shoulders contorted, Rita had just reached back for her own wailing nub, when Hermione withdrew the bottle and wrapped her hand across Rita\'s mouth like a bit, slender fingers splaying along the heavy jaw. Just like a horse, thought Hermione, and her right arm continued it\'s furious thrusting with two chipped, scarlet talons impatiently rawing the swollen bundle of nerves below.

They always had liked being hard with each other.

Rocking her hips with a violent recklessness usually reserved for her writing, the older woman gave a great wet gasp when it hit, and it hit with a force that threatened to sever her ties to consciousness. A panicked, heartbreaking scream scorched the well-used room, and Hermione felt her convulse with lust, inside and out, felt her ride out wave after wave of overwhelming sensation, felt her own small hand sear with pain as white and gold bit down with a ferocity that she thought would break the skin.

And then it was over, with Rita panting and spent and wetter than she had ever been.

All thanks to a promise that never was meant to be kept.

Hermione graciously pulled out, and gently petted along the spine before her, wiping her drenched hand off as she did so. But Rita had had her fill of this game.

She stood up.

\"Now you’re getting what you deserve, you silly little girl.\" she growled, picking among her discarded garments.

\"Oh god, call me that again. Except slower.\" Hermione breathed mockingly.

With her grubby magenta robes now on, but open, Rita turned toward the bed, wand in hand.

\"What do you think you\'re doing? I\'m not done with you yet.\" Hermione said bossily.

In a flash, a large, mannish hand was seizing her throat, pushing her roughly down on the heavily-stained bed with surprising strength. The elder witch hovered over her disbelieving expression with an unnerving, gold-checkered smile.

\"I\'m not going anywhere, sweetheart,\" she hissed truthfully.

Rita gave Hermione one long, brutal kiss and stepped back, wand raised.

\"Incarcerous!\"

Hermione made it back to the safety of Gryffindor Tower that night, mind shot-through with distress and confusion. Simply waking up in the Hog\'s Head had been upsetting enough, to be sure, but considering the state she found herself in, it was the least she had to worry about.

Her back and thighs radiated pain, a meshwork of screaming crimson welts lashed across them. Deep indigo bruises dappled her breasts and knees with agony. The delicate skin around her wrists and ankles was chafed, her throat sore, her voice gone. A curiously elusive taste permeated her mouth, and there were disquieting tooth marks on her left hand. What on earth had happened?! Why couldn\'t she remember?

But the answers to these questions were only too obvious, the details not so much, and Hermione couldn\'t help but let her frustrated mind wallow in horrific scenarios of progressing depravity as she desperately searched in her trunk for the bottle of murtlap essence she vaguely recalled stowing there. Fishing it out of a corner with relief, she puzzled at the odd slip of parchment rolled tightly around the cork. What was this about, again? She quickly uncorked the bottle and unfurled the note.

\'Dear Hermione,\' she read, \'I\'m so sorry, let me explain. Rita Skeeter is an animagus, she takes the form of a beetle, is unregistered, and thus, illegal. You originally figured this out at the end of the Triwizard. If this is news to you, know that Rita has placed the memory charm on you. Know also that you were using this information to blackmail her. She was pretty mad about it all, and as such, almost certainly gave you the wounds you, having opened this bottle, must be suffering. I know you\'re probably angry with me for putting myself in a situation I knew was dangerous, but I\'m sure you still harbour my desire for, if not my complete memory of, Rita Skeeter, and hope this helps you to understand that I just had to do it. Now that you know who hurt you and why, I beg you not to try breaking though the memory charm. I just can’t bear to think of myself ending up like poor Bertha Jorkins.\'

Eyes swimming with tears, Hermione gingerly plucked something off her abused bust and was just about to drop it, when an alarm went off in her head.

Resistance was only fun when you authored your own struggle.

Tenderly, she closed her fist, closed her eyes, and her heart smiled.