Senses Fail

Remus can’t see. His shoulders ache, and he tests his bonds, hard metal digging into his wrists when he pulls. His head is still spinning from… from something, and he blinks, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

He sees nothing but dream-like shadows, surreal, swirling across his vision and cloaking anything he could gather, so he closes his eyes again, tries to rely on his other senses, but he’s dizzy and can feel nausea rising in his throat. This sensation overtakes him, and he tries to simply breathe, to gather his wits.

He inhales, smells burning wax. He can feel something soft beneath him: a bed? He focuses, hears the creak of a door, the soft thud of footsteps.

“So you’re awake,” says a voice, and it sounds distant, wavering, as though he is dreaming it, so he opens his eyes again, tries to see. Through the swirl of shadow, the vague shape of a body appears, and he tries to speak, but no sound escapes his throat.

There is a laugh, and he hears springs squeak and feels the dip of the mattress. He pulls again at his bonds, but they stay firm, metal rubbing his wrists raw. “Don’t fight it,” the voice purrs, and something about it is feminine this time. Then her nails scrape down his chest, and they feel like needles. He shakes his head, unable to make a sound, but it only makes the nausea rise again.

A hand reaches out, feeling like fire against his skin, and he hisses out air when those nails dig into his cheeks. “Look at me,” comes the command, and he does as he’s told, focusing straight ahead, though he isn’t sure exactly where to look. She laughs again.

“You’ve been poisoned, Mr. Lupin,” she purrs, and he glares, though she has moved her hand away, so he isn’t even sure she’s right there any more. She knows his name. “You think you can fight it?” Now her finger is tracing his scar, the one from the bite, and he flinches away. “I hear werewolves are quick healers; perhaps your body will reject it.”

Her fingers move to his nipples, and they twist roughly. Pain shoots through his body and he arches, hissing. “You’re slowly losing all your senses.” She twists again, harder this time. “Except, of course, for touch.” And she laughs, again, her nails raking down his stomach, down his chest.

Then one hand curls around his cock, and he flinches away again. It scorches him, but she closes around him and pulls, slowly, softly, and against all odds, he begins to harden. He shuts his eyes, the nausea rising again, and he buries his face against the side of one arm, teeth clenching shut. “It’s a brilliant potion, isn’t it?” she asks him, as she scratches again at his stomach, leaving him breathless. “It was made specifically for Our Lord Voldemort by a very clever man. I believe he’s a colleague of yours: Severus Snape?”

He jerks at the mention of Snape, and he twists again at his chains, bucking his body up to try to push her away. She laughs, reaching to brush his hair from his forehead. “You used to be much prettier, Mr. Lupin,” she says, and he jerks from her touch. “But I suppose we all did.”

Her hand is still on his cock, impossibly hard as it is, and then she’s straddling him, sliding back to press herself against it, though she doesn’t impale herself. Instead she rubs, her folds teasing with wet, volcanic heat, and he chokes off a sob.

She laughs again, her tinkling, cruel laugh, and then she presses her mouth to his skin, a wet, sucking heat that burns and prickles his skin, and she lowers herself onto him. He lets out a silent cry, and her hands slide over his ribs, her slick heat suffocating him, squeezing too tight and driving him mad with the pain of it. Then she begins to move.

He arches, fights it with every movement, because even the blood in his veins has begun to burn, but she just laughs her maddening laugh, clawing at his skin until he feels the hot oozing of blood sliding over his flesh. He squeezes his eyes closed, but it is worse than the swirling shadows, because he knows who this is, and he can picture her perfectly, riding his cock with her beautiful, terrifying smile.

Her fingers wrap around his neck, sharp nails digging into his skin, and he comes before his body finally, blissfully, goes numb.

He wakes to a sticky mess, and he is covered in sweat. He can see, and Bellatrix Lestrange is nowhere to be found. Just a dream, then, certainly, though even once he is clean the nausea remains, and it is a long time before he can sleep again.