Title: When Ink Turns To Absinthe
Warnings: bondage, breathplay, initial dubious consent, dirty talk, D/s, Fleur’s partial Veela transformation
Summary: It always paid to have the juicy news.
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A/N: I kept Fleur’s accent in her thoughts so you could tell who was thinking.
It was only after interviewing the other Champions that Rita finally got a good look at the lone female contestant, Fleur Delacour. She had skipped over the girl’s looks as something an otherwise drab family must have taken as a blessing until the two of them finally sat down to talk. This interview was going to be quick, if not necessarily painless. Rita had gotten all she wanted from the Potter boy, and had a delightfully stinging article ready to smudge his reputation all over the Daily Prophet. She knew the editor would gobble it up like he always did, and then Rita could happily fade into the background until she grasped another rumor that held enough spark to make the front page again.
Fleur obediently followed Rita into the broom cupboard, gracefully tucking her silken robes underneath her before sitting down on a crate that if one followed its faded label, was bulging with cleaning equipment. Rita took a seat as well, one that made her a scant few inches taller than the French witch, and flipped to a new page in her notebook. Her quill was poised to scratch a few lines in emerald green ink before she excused the girl away and went for a drink down at The Three Broomsticks. A Firewhisky sounded good right about now, and maybe she could liquor up Bozo so he’d leave her the hell alone for the rest of the day.
She had opened her mouth to speak when the girl interrupted her, saying calmly in a voice thick with her dreadfully foreign accent, “Your reputation proceeds you, Miss Skeeter. I ‘ave ‘eard of you even in my ‘ome country.”
“You’re from France, correct?”
Rita is proud of always having the right answer, whether or not it means hoarding mostly useless information. Fleur nodded, but Rita became a tad uncomfortable when she realized the damned girl was staring at her, as if waiting for a monster to burst out of her chest or believing Rita to be one of those god-awful Muggle television programs. She was tempted to provoke Fleur by asking biting questions about that little too sweet for sugar sister of hers, but the girl interrupted her again.
“Oui, but zat does not really matter. I know why you are ‘ere, Miss Skeeter, and it is not to get interviews from boys and girls you ‘ave never met before. You want ze story zat will make everyone look at you, even though they curse every step you walk upon.”
Haughty French bitch, Rita thought. But arrogant or otherwise, Fleur was quite right, and she decided to test the waters.
“If that’s true, why the hell would I waste my time with you?”
“I ‘ad assumed you were only wasting time because you did not want to raise suspicions by only talking to ‘arry. You do not seem like one to show your ‘and.”
“But obviously you and your pretty little head have figured it out, so if you don’t mind,” Rita made to stand, “I’ll leave you to seduce away idiotic excuses for boys or what ever it is you do in your spare time.”
“I would already be doing zat if I didn’t ‘ave something to offer you.”
Rita snorted and raised an eyebrow.
“What exactly could you give me that I couldn’t get without crooking my finger in someone’s direction?”
“Rumors. Eyewitness accounts. Plenty of fodder for your pretty magazine. Stories from right inside these very walls without anyone being ze wiser.”
Rita chuckled. She could get anything she needed by simply changing into a beetle and buzzing around the school. Though it could be useful to have an inside man, so to speak. But the girl couldn’t know that. Rita did put some stock in keeping things private, but only when it came to her own protection. The rest of the world could fend for itself, thank you very much; she wasn’t there to sugar-coat anything for anyone. Some idiot said that you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but Rita had never found that to be true. Everyone loved tragedy and watching the chump fall down, as long as it wasn’t them and it kept their little worlds nice and secure.
“What could you give me that I couldn’t get by simply asking for? My powers of persuasion are nothing to scoff at, girl, even if one needs to occasionally grease the wheels.”
“‘ow long do you think Dumbledore will let you stay if ‘e finds out you’re panning for stories in ‘is castle? And I don’t need to grease ze wheels after they see my face, Miss Skeeter. I was born with Veela blood, you ‘ad to learn your trade.”
The urge to wring the girl’s neck was rising exponentially, and Rita let her painted nails, sharp as talons and the end of her quill, bite into her palm. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that the girl, however close to an untimely death she may be, to be right. Rita clicked her tongue and said, “Even if I agree that it would be nice to have an informant, what do you want out of it? I’m sure mummy and daddy have plenty of Galleons to dote upon their daughter.”
“Likely more than you ‘ave, Miss Skeeter.” Fleur smirked, “But no, gold ‘olds little interest for me. I prefer a more unique payment.”
“Spit it out. You may be having a right good time, but I have a Firewhisky with my name on it and you’re getting in the way.”
Fleur leaned forward and suddenly gripped the front of Rita’s robes.
“You, Miss Skeeter.”
Anger at the girl’s presumptuous behavior must have been what caused her to do it, or at least that’s what Rita would swear years later. Teeth bared like a lion’s, Rita stood in one fluid movement and shoved Fleur stomach-first against the wall of the broom cupboard, violently knocking the breath out of the French witch. As Fleur gasped loudly, Rita groped through the silk blue robes until she found the girl’s wand. She shoved it into Fleur’s mouth like a horse’s bit, wondering if the girl would leave teeth marks on the wood like Rita had done that night the Black bitch had cornered her.
She laughed as Fleur arched and struggled against the firm grip Rita had on her wrists, forced at a painful angle behind her back. Rita pulled out her own wand and cast an enchantment to keep the foolish girl’s hands bound before locking the old wooden door and casting a silencing charm over the room. She didn’t want to be anxious about getting caught – that would take all of the fun out of this. And until someone realized Fleur was missing, Rita had all the time in the world.
Dropping her wand on top of one of the crates, Rita slid one of her hands under Fleur’s robes, cupping the girl’s breast and roughly pinching the nipple. Fleur made a noise akin to a muffled yelp as Rita’s other hand was firmly placed on the back of her neck to keep her from spitting out the wand. It was rather difficult to make noise when one’s face was shoved into a stone wall, as it were. When Rita raked her nails along Fleur’s abdomen, the girl gasped, but it wasn’t a sound of pain.
Rita chuckled. “This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”
She pulled Fleur’s head back by grasping the whimpering girl’s hair roughly; smirking when the so-called Champion nodded as well as she could without ripping out strands of silver. Rita took advantage of the bared throat in front of her by sinking her teeth into the pale flesh, thoroughly enjoying the high-pitched noises escaping Fleur’s mouth. They slowly disintegrated into barely suppressed moans and shudders as Rita slid the hand (poised like a creature ready to strike) on Fleur’s stomach lower, nails brusquely scraping against sensitive skin.
Fleur spat out her wand to inhale sharp breaths, and although Rita would have loved to strike the girl for being so cheeky, she paused when she realized Fleur was now sporting a set of fangs. Rita wasn’t foolish enough to think Fleur was a vampire, and it dawned on her that the girl’s Veela heritage might still carry enough oomph to usher a partial transformation. Fleur licked her lower lip hungrily and let her head tilt back more, casting a seductive glance at Rita, and the older witch swore when she realized her knees had just gone weak.
“Intolerable bitch,” she hissed.
“Ever been ‘ad by a Veela, Miss Skeeter?” Fleur whispered, fangs pressing against the reddened flesh of her lip in the semblance of a smile.
“You’re the one who’s going to be had, sweetie.” Rita purred, roughly thrusting a finger inside the girl.
Fleur gulped down a breath, her recently unsheathed canines drawing blood from her lip a moment later. Rita wanted to kiss the dark fluid away, but felt that a kiss was far too an intimate a gesture to bestow upon the girl. She was something to be used and possibly Obliviated afterwards, not showered with affection. Fleur moaned words in her native tongue when Rita added another finger, quickening her pace with a small grin. That’ll teach you to fuck with my control, she thought, eagerly watching blood trickle down Fleur’s chin as she whispered nonsensical phrases into the rough stone she faced.
“Is that French for fuck me harder, love? I’m afraid my foreign language skills are a little rusty these days.”
The girl cast a desperate expression in Rita’s direction, but the older witch was merciless. Fleur had asked for this, and there was no Galleons-back guarantee. Rita slowed her thrusts until Fleur finally gasped Oui, it was and let out a shameless groan when Rita told her that only filthy whores said things like that. Fleur bit back a smart response to that when the grotesquely-sized gemstone (Zat ‘as to be fake, she thought in a moment of hilarity) of Rita’s ring brushed her clit, the metal band startlingly cold.
“Putaine.” Fleur hissed, and Rita hoped it was a trick of the odd light in the broom cupboard that was making the girl’s skin slate grey.
“Calling me a bitch won’t change the fact that you hate being teased.”
Fleur laughed softly. “I thought zat you didn’t know French.”
“I don’t, really, but interviewing a couple of angry Frenchmen taught me a thing or two.”
“Get on with it, then.” Fleur growled softly, her eyes no longer a pleasant blue. They bordered on pitch black, but Rita wasn’t afraid of a girl who submitted so readily to the thrusts of her fingers.
“Get on with what?”
“Merde. Don’t play games, you vile woman.”
“I like playing games, girl. And you serve no other purpose besides amusement at this point.”
“Finish this, and I will still get you your information.” Fleur snarled, but that was followed by a breathless, “Please.”
“Please what? Say the magic words, whore.”
“Laisse moi jouir. Baise moi. ” Fleur whimpered desperately.
Rita was fairly sure of what the girl had just said and rewarded her by offering a particularly hard thrust of her fingers. Fleur gasped and Rita caught some mumbled English phrases, begging for her to undo the charms binding her wrists. Rita pinched the girl’s clit just to hear her make that pathetically cute yelp, and Fleur went quiet about the matter, resigning herself to focusing on the glass jewels wickedly glinting in Rita’s glasses instead of risking the older woman’s anger and having her face slammed into the wall. She already had a scratch on her cheek, the angered nerves under her flesh making the littlest of cuts ache horribly.
Rita seemed unconcerned with Fleur’s troubles, quite satisfied with the breathless moans the girl made as she thrust shamelessly against the older woman’s fingers. She thought Fleur looked years younger with the bulky fangs cutting into her lip when the girl tried to hold back cries of pain when Rita used her other hand to leave a web of raised red marks on her flesh. Fleur watched Rita click her tongue nervously when she realized Fleur’s flesh was the dull color of ash. But Fleur found that catching Rita’s moment of weakness was a mistake.
She whimpered when Rita’s mannish hand, shining with false jewels and a sick green shade of nail polish, grasped her throat. Fleur struggled against the tight grip Rita had on her neck before she realized it was useless to fight both the choking and Rita’s fingers pushing so deep inside her. It was impossible to concentrate, and Fleur didn’t think that she cared anymore as the oxygen failed to reach her brain. Rita watched Fleur turn a few shades of pale before releasing her grip, smirking when the girl pulls in a rough breath of air and her eyes roll back for the briefest of seconds.
“Come for me, you little trollop.”
Fleur felt Rita press her body weight forward and whimpered when her cheek hit the rough stone, scraping up the side of her face. But she obediently came around Rita’s fingers, gasping loudly for air. Her muscles strained against the bonds on her wrists, but they held faster, magic making them stronger than any rope or chain. Fleur felt her knees quiver and go weak, threatening collapse if Rita pulled away. She felt her fangs sheathe as she came down off the vestiges of her pleasure, and hoped her skin was smooth and pale once more.
“Please, s’il vous plait, free my wrists.” She finally whispered when Rita took a step back and she half-fell against a crate, her knees quickly growing sore in the unfamiliar position.
“Why should I?” Rita smiled, noting that her quill had been faithfully writing in acrid ink, even if it was a bit more than a few lines.
Fleur looked disconcerted for a moment, but settled with a small smile and said, “I wish to return ze favor.”
“I’m not letting you tie me up, girl. I’m not that stupid.”
“I meant on my knees, Madame.” Fleur said, quite amused.
“Prove it and then I’ll let you go.” Rita countered, an eyebrow raised.
“If you will ‘elp me get in a more amenable position, I would be ‘appy to.”
Rita sighed and picked up her wand, dispelling the magical bonds. Fleur rubbed her wrists out of habit and stood up straight, her knees weakening for a moment and Rita saw the flesh was red from being pressed against the wooden box. But as Rita backed up against the opposite wall, gripping what felt a broom rack above her head, Fleur did not lunge forward or try to leave. She didn’t even reach for her wand.
Instead she fell to her knees (such tender flesh, Rita thought) and put her hands behind her back, looking up at Rita. She smiled a little at the brief flash of shock that went through Rita’s eyes, knowing she was getting wet watching the older witch run her tongue over her lower lip in thought and simply staring, as if one look would make Fleur burst into flames. But Rita finally raised the wand and cast her incantation, and it was now Fleur that showed a look of surprise. She was now naked, rough ropes raping the soft skin of her wrists and promising blood if Fleur decided to struggle.
Rita smiled wickedly, adjusting her robes so Fleur would have easier access. She was slightly startled when Fleur nudged Rita’s hand away with her head, using her teeth to pull down the older woman’s knickers. Once they were to her knees, Fleur kissed the inside of Rita’s thighs, whimpering when Rita roughly grabbed ahold of Fleur’s silvery hair once more and forced the girl between her legs, letting out a noise between a purr and a moan when Fleur began to eager lap at her with her tongue.
She was skilled, Rita had to admit as she held back a moan and barely kept from arching her back. She wondered where Fleur had gotten the experience. The girl couldn’t be more than eighteen, and unless she’d been practicing on her sister or half of Hogwarts…that thought made Rita smile, but Fleur, thrusting her tongue and sucking at Rita’s clit, took no notice. The older woman would have laughed if she didn’t think it would distract Fleur from the work she was doing with her glorious tongue.
Out of the corner of her eye, and as her hips thrust forward, Rita saw her quill scribbling notes as fast as it could, and for a moment, Rita pictured Fleur chained to a bed on her back, moaning and writhing as the older woman wrote her latest report over her trembling body with absinthe-colored ink. Fleur dutifully nipped at her clit and before Rita knew it, she was digging her nails into the girl’s scalp to force her head forward, push her tongue deeper as she came.
Fleur lazily pulled away, licking her lips with an utterly satisfied smile. Rita found that she was shaking a bit and immediately forced herself to stop, pulling up her knickers and smoothing out the green satin of her robes. Fleur managed to stand up despite her awkward position and Rita surveyed the girl’s body like she was a choice piece of meat, allowing herself to smirk before she heard Fleur laugh softly and whisper, “You taste like acid. Like your very being is nothing but poison.”
“Poison has served many people well, girl. Now,” Rita sighed softly, “If you are still so eager to offer information, then I want a promise from you. If I get the tiniest inkling you’re going to reveal our arrangement, you’ll wish that You Know Who would pop up and murder your bloody family.”
“What kind of promise, Madame?”
“A mark, so to speak. Now turn around.”
Fleur bit her lip hard, but without fangs, did nothing more than irritate the tender flesh. She finally turned around a moment later, hoping to every god she knew this wasn’t a trick. She had gotten what she wanted, and was looking forward to more chances with Rita, whether or not they were in a broom cupboard. Fleur had the tournament to look forward too of course, but it would be all the sweeter being able to look up and see Rita in the stands, watching with eager eyes.
She felt a sting low in her back, and almost stumbled into a pile of haphazardly arranged crates. When she turned around, Rita had Transfigured something in the cupboard into a mirror, and Fleur turned her head and saw what looked like a small scar on her back, in the shape of a sharply designed ‘R’. She smiled a little and breathless, asked Rita to put the mirror away. Rita chuckled and stepped forward, running her garishly painted talons over the mark.
“You will always be mine now, girl. Think of what you got yourself into.” Rita smirked. “And if you cry, it’s all the more fun.”
“Zat won’t ‘appen, Madame. Just remember, it always polite to give rewards when one’s servant delivers.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Rita gave her a smile she pretended was genuine, “I’ll have you on your knees in no time.”
After all, it always paid to have the juicy news.