She had believed with her whole heart what she had told Harry, or she wouldn't have said it. She thought she would know if someone was in her mind; she would know by the great, filthy gaps in her memory, like the ones that Tom left when he had overmastered her and made her fetch his basilisk.
There are things, though, that she has forgotten to remember that she has forgotten them. Stolen afternoons and smothered nights when, taking her cue from words flowing across the pages, she learnt that sexual pleasure was not just something for other girls, older girls, given to them behind closed doors by boys; it was something she could take for herself, right there, right then, right hand slipping into her cunt, left hand seeking out her nipples, groping for the right touch. She doesn't remember who taught her that; no shame, so self-loathing, just self-knowledge when she gets herself off in a quiet moment in whatever solitude she can claw out for herself.
Not even her Rodolphus knew; she scarcely even allowed herself to remember that during her third year at Hogwarts, she masturbated almost every night to the thought of Guinevere Weasley, a seventh year girl in Gryffindor House of all the things in the world. There were other people, boys and girls, that she looked at, but it was Gwen, all soft curves and flaming hair and laughing eyes, who made her wet, bypassing her reason and the dictates of society and going straight to her cunt.
One person had known, of course. He had looked right into her and divined all her secrets while she met his cold, cold eyes with her own, and he had informed her that she would kill the red-haired Gryffindor to prove her loyalty. And she had, without so much as a second thought. She had been certain, when they dragged her screaming from the courtroom, that Azkaban could hold no terrors for her, but she had not quite been correct; the glory days of her youth had been tarnished by the Dementors' filthy claws and here she was, pale and drawn and dry and longing again to burn.
"Where are you off to in such a tearing hurry?" an elderly wizard demanded as he steadied her with one hand and brushed off his robes with the other.
"Off to meet somebody," she answered, vaguely, but telling him all she knew. The answer would not have been good enough at home, of course, but she had managed to evade the notice of her family. Her hand on the clock lingered momentarily on "mortal peril", but then flitted innocuously over to "on a date". She didn't know where she was going, yet she found her way.
The room was bare save for an old-fashioned four-poster bed, the corset lying on top of the heavy quilt, the mirrors on the wall, and Bellatrix Lestrange herself. Naked. Waiting.
Ginevera Weasley manipulated the lock on the door with her hands and entered like one in a dream. If Gwen had lived, she would have seen herself reflected in her niece, Bellatrix noted again, and then she shook off the memories as Ginny shucked off her robes, artless and unashamed. She stepped over to the bed and took a post in her hands, bracing herself. Following wordless orders.
Bellatrix came up behind her, cupping a small, soft breast lightly in each hand. Ginny moaned, soft and low, exactly as Bella had always dreamed of. She clasped the girl tightly, pressing herself against her and kneeding her breasts, roughly, violently.
"Ohh," Ginny begged, "Oh, stop teasing. Put it on, now, now."
Bellatrix allowed one hand to linger, clasped around Ginny's left nipple before she acquiesced. It was ready, laces loosened, hooks undone, impregnated with Dark Magic created to mould women, to bend them to one's will. Bellatrix fastened each hook herself, slowly, teasing Ginny's right ear with her tongue as she worked. Ginny sucked air and Bellatrix watched her face intently in the mirror as she pulled hard and even on the laces.
"Tighter," Ginny whimpered, softly, as the unyielding plates in their silken confines lent her a new shape of someone's ideal, waist compressed, breasts formed into cleavage. Bellatrix felt her arousal gathering as she spanned her long, slender fingers about the girl's waist, measuring her progress. Tighter and tighter she pulled until she was satisfied, and then she spread herself out on the bed.
Ginny came to her immediately and bent her pretty red head, brushing her lips against the opening of Bellatrix's labia. Like a perfect dream-lover Ginny suckled and licked and felt with her fingers, and Bellatrix came for the first time wish a shudder and a sigh. Then Ginny sat, the unnatural stiffness of her spine forcing on her a strange grace, and began to tease more slowly with those fingers, pressing them together, forcing them deeper. Her little, shallow breaths with each thrust sparked Bellatrix's clit as surely as her fingers, and as she worked her fist in, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, she began to moan. Orgasm rocked her as Ginny drew her fist out again, long and loud and fantasy pitch-perfect, just as Bellatrix demanded.
Now she wrapped her hands around Ginny's waist and threw her down on the bed like a rag doll. She had never expected to be so aroused by the unmistakable smell of another woman, but Ginny was tantalizing and slightly sweet on her tongue. She made her come, again and again until it was painful, with her tongue and her fingers and her mind. As Ginny sobbed, she got herself off again with the touches of her fingers.
When she was finished, she cleaned herself of every whorish trace and put on her robes and found the portkey she had prepared in her pocket. She stood, with one arm supporting Ginny, before the Dark Lord and his inner circle.
"Is this," she asked, "the girl that you lot couldn't get?"