Hermione ran her tongue along the inside of Bellatrix’s thigh, followed up and over the curve of it and out onto scars that were decades old. She pushed, savoured, moved closer to Bellatrix’s centre. She lapped at the dew her efforts brought forth, her ministrations and growling need bringing sweetness to her lips. The witch brought a hand down, pet soft hair and tugged it sharply enough to let Hermione know exactly what she wanted. A soft bite, claws digging eagerly into the meat of Bellatrix’s stomach, and a tongue that was every bit as feral as it’s owner.