Chapter Text
Notes:
Maksima, this is fucking crazy, I'm laughing into my desk))) co-author Maxim.
The shadows of the ancient Black library writhed like living things, coiling around tall shelves laden with ancient folios whose bindings smelled of centuries-old dust, forbidden spells, and something elusively sweet — as if the pages were soaked not only in ink but also in tears, sweat, and other, far more intimate fluids of those who dared to read these books in the deep hours of the night, when even the ancestral portraits fell into a heavy sleep, leaving the dark corridors of the manor to those who were not afraid of the shadows.
Andromeda bit her lip until it bled as her palm slid under the thin silk of her nightgown, and her fingers found on their own that hot place between her legs that had been throbbing for a good hour — ever since she had secretly seen Bellatrix emerge from the bathroom, all wet, with drops of water streaming down her bare shoulders, down the curves of her firm thighs, down that barely noticeable hollow between her breasts where a single drop had lodged, as if on purpose, so that Andromeda could imagine licking it off with her tongue, slowly, sensually, making her sister moan.
"How much longer are you going to hide, Dromeda?"
The voice sounded right in her ear, scorching with hot breath, and Andromeda gasped, feeling her hand being sharply pulled away from the hem and pressed against the cold wood of the bookshelf, while her whole body suddenly found itself pressed against something hard, hot, wet — Bellatrix stood behind her, naked under her open silk robe, and Andromeda felt every contour of her body, every curve, every roughness of the old scars left by dark curses, and those scars were as much a part of her as those insatiable fingers that were already sliding over her stomach, already hitching up her nightgown, already digging into the skin of her thighs, leaving bruises that would have to be hidden tomorrow under high collars and long skirts.
"You knew I would come," Bellatrix whispered, and her lips slid along Andromeda's neck, leaving a wet trail that instantly dried from the heat of her skin, "you knew, and you still came, all trembling, all wet, all ready."
Her hand jerked down sharply, and the thin fabric of the nightgown tore with a soft rustle, baring her breasts, which were immediately seized by greedy fingers, and Andromeda moaned, feeling Bella's nails dig into her tender skin, leaving red stripes that would hurt tomorrow, would remind her of how she stood here, in the library where every folio was a witness to her shame, and how her own sister fucked her with her fingers, faster and faster, harder and harder, making her scream, but no one would hear — the walls in the Black house were thick, and the portraits knew too well that sometimes it was better to pretend to be deaf.
"Come," Bellatrix ordered, and her voice sounded like a spell that could not be disobeyed, "come right now, Dromeda, or I'll make you wait until morning."
And Andromeda came, clenching around her sister's fingers, feeling a hot wave spread through her insides, while Bella's lips pressed to her ear, whispering something dirty, something that made it even hotter, even more shameful, even more impossible to stop.
And then — a rustle. Soft, barely perceptible, but Bellatrix heard it. She spun around sharply, still holding Andromeda by the hair, and her eyes gleamed in the dim light like a predator that had scented prey.
"Come out, Cissy," her voice was sweet as poison, "or do you like to watch?"
Narcissa stepped out of the shadows, her pale face glowing in the moonlight filtering through the stained-glass window, and her lips were slightly parted — she was breathing fast, unevenly, and her fingers were convulsively clutching the hem of her nightgown, which was clearly soaked in the most interesting place.
"I... I was just..."
"You just wanted to watch," Bellatrix released Andromeda, who immediately collapsed to her knees, still trembling from the orgasm, and took a step toward her younger sister, "or maybe you wanted to join?"
Her hand reached for Narcissa, and she froze like a rabbit before a boa constrictor as Bella's fingers slid along her cheek, then down to her throat, to her neckline, to where the thin fabric concealed her rapidly beating heart.
"You're trembling all over," Bellatrix whispered, "and you smell of arousal."
She tore the fabric, and Narcissa gasped as the cold air touched her bare breasts and her sister's fingers were already squeezing them, pinching them, making her moan, and all the while Bellatrix looked into her eyes, as if testing how far she could go.
"Lie down," she ordered, pointing to a table piled with books, "and spread your legs."
Narcissa tried to protest, but her body was already obeying, already falling onto the hard surface, already spreading its thighs, baring that wet, pink flesh that throbbed in time with her rapid breathing.
"How dirty you are, Cissy," Bellatrix whispered, running a finger along her pussy, gathering moisture and smearing it over her thighs, "all wet from watching me fuck our sister."
Andromeda lifted her head and saw Narcissa squeeze her eyes shut as Bella's fingers entered her, first one, then two, moving in the same rhythm as they had in her own body just minutes ago, and she felt warmth and wetness again between her own legs.
"Lick her," Bellatrix turned to Andromeda and pointed at Narcissa, "right now."
Andromeda crawled forward, her tongue protruding on its own, and when it touched her sister's pussy, Narcissa howled, her hips jerking toward it, her fingers clutching Andromeda's hair, pressing harder, deeper, and Bellatrix watched, one hand caressing her own breast, the other playing with Narcissa's clit, making her scream as the orgasm washed over her, hot and unstoppable.
"Now you," she pulled Andromeda by the hair, forcing her to kneel before her, "I need a reward for such a show."
And Andromeda knew it was useless to refuse. Her lips closed around Bellatrix's clit, her tongue slid over the wet folds, her fingers dug into her sister's thighs as she moved, using her mouth for her own pleasure, and somewhere nearby Narcissa moaned, still not recovered, and all this sin, all this filth, all this impossible, forbidden passion blended together, leaving behind only shadows on the walls that moved a little more than they should have, and a cracked mirror in which something — or someone — foreign flickered for a moment.
But the sisters did not notice. They had no time for that.
And in vain. Because that very night, while they were breathing heavily on the library floor, a letter with the purple wax seal of the Ministry of Magic fell into the manor's fireplace. And it turned everything upside down.
The next morning, when their heads still ached from the firewhisky drunk the night before and between their legs still ached from yesterday's touches, Walburga Black, from her gilded frame, solemnly read the contents of the contract to the sisters. It turned out that the old hag had been secretly renting out the library to the Ministry for six months. And now that the "raw material" (as the cursed folios were called in the contract) had accumulated to a critical level, they needed on-site employees. With good genetics, strong magic, and, quote, "absence of false modesty."
The three sisters exchanged glances. Then they looked at the puddles on the floor, at Andromeda's torn nightgown, at the finger marks on Narcissa's thighs. Bellatrix smirked first.
"Modesty, you say? We haven't had any since last summer."
And so they acquired new positions. Andromeda became a "Performance Artist" — her body was to leave imprints of orgasms, tears, and sweat on the pages, but strictly on the curator's command. Narcissa received the title of "Critic-Analyst 3rd Rank" — she learned to evoke other people's sensations remotely, with a single cold look. And Bellatrix became "Senior Object Curator" — to assign tasks, punish violations, and participate in the most complex volumes herself.
Tonight is their first official night shift. On the table — the folio "Ligamen Animae" (Binding of Souls). If it is not neutralized by dawn, it will release an ancient demon that feeds on shame. And after yesterday, there is enough shame in this library to scoop out with a ladle.
Bellatrix stands by the fireplace, wearing only a long black robe with a silver patch reading "Curator." Andromeda and Narcissa are in identical nightgowns — thin silk, almost transparent, without underwear. This is required by safety regulations: no synthetics, only natural fabrics. No panties — because panties interfere with the saturation.
"Form a circle," Bellatrix commands. "I remind you of the quotas for this shift. Object 'Binding of Souls,' three volumes. Volume A — 'Virgin's Tears,' norm 50 milliliters. Volume B — 'Executioner's Sweat,' norm 30 milliliters. Volume C — 'Lubrication of Three Sisters,' norm 100 milliliters. Questions."
"Bella, why 'virgin'?" Andromeda pipes up. "I haven't been a virgin for a long time..."
"Formally, you are a virgin for the magic of this volume," Bellatrix interrupts, "because it was created in the fifteenth century, and in the fifteenth century, your sex life was not taken into account. Don't be clever."
Narcissa adjusts her glasses and coldly asks whether she should participate physically or only monitor mentally. Bellatrix advises her to play it by ear.
"Then join hands," says the curator. "A brief Ministry prayer: 'In the name of efficiency, KPI compliance, and timely submission of reports. May no one come before their time, may no page remain dry. Amen.'"
Andromeda giggles. Narcissa rolls her eyes. Bellatrix slaps both on the backs of their heads.
"Let's work."
Volume A is open to the middle, its pages of thin calfskin covered in runes, with a hollow in the center of each, like a bowl. Andromeda kneels before the book. Bellatrix sits in an armchair with a glass of firewhisky.
"Begin, artist. Your brush is your body, your palette is your emotions. First, tears."
Andromeda thinks of the saddest things: how her mother disowned her for marrying a Muggle-born, how Ted died, how she will never show her daughter the family castle. Tears drip onto the pages. The runes glow with a dull silver. Bellatrix whispers "slower," approaches from behind, places her hands on her shoulders. Then her fingers slide along her neck, along her collarbones, to her breasts. Andromeda forgets the instructions, her breathing falters.
"Bella, I'm about to..."
"Don't you dare. You haven't received permission."
But it's too late. The orgasm washes over her suddenly, and the drops — no longer tears — fall onto the pages of Volume A. The runes flash crimson. The book emits a discontented hum.
"Violation," Narcissa states in an icy voice, having been standing in the shadows with a notepad all this time. "Clause 7.3. Unauthorized orgasm. Penalty — one additional page."
Bellatrix sighs heavily, but there is no time for reprimands. They move on to Volume B. Here, what is needed is not weeping but physical exertion. Bellatrix drags the trembling Andromeda to a bookshelf and presses her back against the cold wood.
"Cissy, your turn."
Narcissa removes her glasses. Her pale, almost transparent eyes bore into Andromeda. Andromeda sits with her bare thighs on the open Volume B and begins to move slowly, as if on top of a lover. Sweat appears on her forehead, on her chest, under her knees. But it's not enough.
"Engaging mental link," Narcissa says.
Another's desire enters Andromeda like a needle, spreading through her veins. Heat, rage, anticipation. Narcissa's voice sounds in her head: "Think about how Bella took you last time. How her fingers were inside you. How she whispered dirty words." Andromeda comes a second time, no longer able to resist. Sweat floods the pages, the runes of Volume B flash orange.
"Enough," Narcissa nods. "Volume B neutralized."
"Two penalties, Dromeda," Bellatrix sighs. "But we still have the third volume."
Volume C lies on a separate table upholstered in black velvet. It is not a book in the usual sense — three connected spines form a triangle, and each page requires three different fluids mixed together.
"Teamwork," Bellatrix announces. "We all have to come on this volume simultaneously. On the same spot."
"Simultaneously?" For the first time, uncertainty slips into Narcissa's voice.
"Yes. So we'll have to help each other."
Bellatrix sheds her robe. Beneath it — scars from old curses, pale skin, dark nipples. She hikes up Andromeda's nightgown, baring her stomach, breasts, and that already wet, pink, throating place. Narcissa slowly removes her own nightgown, revealing her tall, slender body.
"I've never been with two at once," she whispers.
"First time for everything," Bellatrix smirks. "Work is work."
She lays Andromeda on the table on top of the open Volume C. Mounts her, spreads her legs, presses her crotch against Andromeda's stomach.
"Cissy, stand behind me. Hug me. Press against Dromeda."
Narcissa approaches. Her breasts touch Bellatrix's back, her arms wrap around her waist, her thighs press against Andromeda's thighs. Three bodies, one book beneath them.
"We move together," Bellatrix commands. "Rub against each other. Slowly. So that the lubricant lands on all three pages."
They move awkwardly at first, then more rhythmically. Andromeda moans from below, Bellatrix from above, Narcissa is silent, but her breathing falters. Then — orders, counting, fingers, hair, a kiss on the neck. And on "three," they come together. Andromeda screams, Bellatrix growls, Narcissa lets out a thin, girlish whimper. Three streams of moisture fall onto the triangular pages. The runes flash white and go out. The book closes with a soft, satisfied sigh.
Bellatrix rises first, wipes her fingers on the sheet, picks up her clipboard.
"Checking the results. Volume A — overfulfilled by twenty milliliters due to the penalty orgasm. Volume B — on target. Volume C — on target. Conclusion: shift closed."
Narcissa sits on the edge of the table, breathing heavily.
"Bella, that was strange."
"Strange will be tomorrow when the Ministry inspector arrives," she replies. "He will be evaluating not only the quantity but also the artistic value. So prepare your creative report."
She takes out three glasses and a bottle of champagne.
"And now — overtime. Optional."
She fills the glasses and hands them to her sisters.
"To our bodies never drying out. And to high KPIs."
They clink glasses. The champagne mingles with the taste of three bodies on their lips. The shadows on the walls settle down. The stained-glass window begins to lighten — dawn is near.
The Black library has survived another night.
End of Chapter One.