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Hermione Granger and the Bastet Collar	By : HunterOpera Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 53567 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: This is something, yes indeed. Discretion is advised. The characters, locations, plots, and tropes of Harry Potter and JK Rowling are not owned by me and have nothing to do with the mess I'm making in their sandbox. I make no money

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All feedback is very much appreciated and will be replied to here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/36931-metroid-the-bergman-affair-feedback-comments-and-workshopping/ which is a general thread for this fic, my other fic, and any other fic I end up writing. I'll respond as quickly as I can, and like to think I have a two or three day turnaround time. Hope you enjoy...

The thing that Delores loved most about the Bastet Collar was the way she could still see what was happening in the mudblood's eyes. The enchantment of the collar did not strip away will or even perception, not truly, but it did make difficult children more compliant.

Hermione Granger, the lying mudblood who had faked being such a very skilled witch, brushed pressed her face against Headmistress Umbridge's skirts. Delores could feel the girl down there, trapped by the collar, reduced to the behavior and thoughts of a kitten even while her body remained the same and her mind lay trapped in some distant corner of herself.

Delores reached down, absently stroking the girl's head, cooing at her, letting her know that she was such a very good kitty. And the naked girl purred at the touch, the scream in her eyes never reaching her lips. When she lay down on her side or stretched out Delores savored the sight, knowing the truth of these lessons would burn themselves into the girl's mind.

“Such a good kitty,” Delores said, running her fingers along the girls spine, patting her on the bum, smiling at the way the girl accepted this. It delighted her, the way the girl licked her hands clean, the way she curled into the fur lined basket that had been purchased for her.

The liar, the thief, the little troublemaker, Delores thought, smiling. Now she knows her place. She would call to the kitty and look at her and stare into her eyes, loving the despair painted there, held in eyes that did not belong in such a happy face.

Silent as a child should be, Derlores said, rubbing the kitten's belly, surprised at how tight the line of midriff was. She brushed a hand through the mess on the girl's head and smiled.

Every time the girl came here she would be spanked. Delores would have her lie on the table and punish her for being a lying little mudblood, for being the little troublemaker than she was. And every time the girl came in with a Gryffndor's stupid resolve, sniffling and clearly thinking this would be the time she resisted.

She never resisted. She always broke, always lost... her dignity, her clothing. And then Delores would offer her the collar or more spankings against her taut naughty bottom and, eventually, she would accept the collar.

As soon as the collar was clasped around her throat she became a cat in mind, remaining a girl in body.

This was a delicate time in a girl's life, she just swelling into womanhood. Delores knew this, remembered her own pains with puberty, the difficulty of adjusting to unwanted desires and dreams. She had controlled herself, even if others had been less prim.

But a mudblood had no need for dignity. They and their stolen capacity for magic... it was a joke, and one in rather poor taste. And this particular girl deserved every last little trauma that could be carved into her psyche.

It might not have worked if the girl had not been such the loner. She didn't have many friends outside of the boy-who-was-going-to-die and that idiot ginger. What was his name? Ryan? Rudolph? Delores shook her head, dismissing her need to know as unimportant. It was Harry that mattered, and Harry was too busy learning his own lessons to worry about his friends.

Boys at that age were never aware of anything not happening directly to them. They were selfish, uncouth little things. So when Delores told the mudblood to let her friends know that she was going to be in the library, no one questioned this.

And that left the girl free to come here, spending her nights as a kitten.

The first time she'd added the cat ears the girl had bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears, but then she had nodded and stayed still as Delores fit them over her crown. Their effect clearly shook the girl's confidence badly, making her shiver and huddle down and become all the more willing to accept the collar.

Delores had a little more trouble convincing the mudblood to accept the tail. The spanking had reduced the simpering girl to wordless sobs, but eventually she had relented. Her rear passage had been so tight, but eventually the girl had come up with a way to force the plug in, a way that must have pleased them both – otherwise, the mudblood would not have suggested it.

The Headmistress took the way Hermione was taking an interest in her life as a good thing. It proved to Delores Umbridge that she was a better teacher than Dumbledore had ever been, for she had seen through the mudblood's deception and taught her the place that life had meant for her.

And, sure enough, under Delores' attention the truth was quickly becoming apparent. She kept track of the girl's studies and took satisfaction in the way her grades began to decline. A handful of professors approached her about that, but Delores assured them all that the situation was well in hand.

It very much was. The kitten's mons was cupped in her hand, shaved bare to remind her when she was not in the office of the lie she still persisted was truth, a fiction crumbling to reveal a simple truth. The mudblood, like all her kind, was meant to be a pet for those trueborn, natural wizards and witches.

Already, the girl was becoming less willful, less bright, less curious. Her Gryffindor tendencies were fading, her resistance weakening – fewer swats to her rear produced the desired result. It was almost enough. Delores was planning a special scholarship for the mudblood, one that would allow her to keep the girl for the summer months and perhaps longer, perhaps forever...

Sometimes, Delores would watch the girl in her classes. The Potter boy was too lost in the pain of his own life to notice hers, the ginger too lost in his own idiocy. She had become quiet and withdrawn, not volunteering information any longer, not interrupting classes in futile attempts to show-up those that were better than her. When called upon, she answered in whispers.

When she had begun skipping meals Delores had been worried. She heard, however, that the mudblood told the few that cared to ask that she was spending time in the library and the others accepted this. She had done it before. Delores followed her in once or twice, watching as she found quiet corners to hide in, hugging her knees to her chest and softly crying until it was time.

And that brought them to the present moment, here and now. Delores knew the mudblood was outside her door, shaking, reaching up with a trembling hand. She knocked on the door, the sound so quiet and full of potent fear.

“Come in, dear,” Delores said, and the door opened and closed and the mudblood shuffled in, her head bowed, her cheeks stained with tears. Delores stood, looking down at her and smiling. She had decided to offer the girl a very special scholarship after she was expelled from Hogwarts, when all the will and brightness and curiosity was finally extinguished and she had finally accepted her place.

She did not think it would take very much longer.

///

Hermione stood outside the office and trembled, holding herself. She woke every morning and looked in the mirror and wondered who the pale girl with the trembling lips looking back at her was. No one seemed to notice how badly she was hurting, and thanks to the imperious curse she could tell no one.

Even if she could tell, she feared her friends could do nothing for her. Dumbledore was gone, Harry's lessons now laid bare and his students sharing his agony. No one had noticed that she was exempt from the line writing but no one asked her about it. They trusted her.

So, she would be strong. For them, for the people she loved, she would be strong.

Her knuckles brushed against the door, the sound a soft whisper compared the the strong rap it had once been. Her strength was fading with her courage. She waited until she was invited in, softly closed the door and shuffled to stand before her tormentor's desk.

Headmistress Umbridge ignored her. She always did. It was part of the game – Hermione was to stand quietly, waiting, her hands behind her back, her head up and eyes lowered. The one time she had failed to follow that rule her bottom had been beaten so bad she had been unable to sit for a week without remembering her failure.

A portion of the desk was cleared, Hermione watching and silent as the Headmistress prepared the room for her punishment. She closed her eyes, whispering promises to herself with a voice so soft that her words could not be considered such.

This time, I'll keep my hands at my sides, vowed the trembling girl, letting the Headmistress push her down on the desk. The edge of the desk was a little higher than her hips, forcing her up on tip-toes, her hands at her side. She closed her eyes, preparing herself.

No matter how much time she was given she was never ready.

The first swat against her rump was painful, the second worse, the third a mounting pressure of pain. A forth had her gasping, a fifth sobbing. By the sixth she was kicking out, and then there were more and she was kicking out and shaking, her hands no longer at her sides and Headmistress Umbridge tsked.

“To think a Gryffindor capable of such weakness,” the woman said, stroking her hair, her voice so very kind. “It's proof, I think, that you are not a witch. Just a mudblood. Are you ready to confess...? No? Well then, my poor girl, you know what to do.”

And she did. No more words needed to be exchanged between them, not anymore. Hermione took a deep breath and stood. Her sweater was pulled over her head, her skirt unclasped and left to pool around her ankles. Her bra went next, the cool air of the office sucking at her soft exposed skin. Trembling fingers pushed down her tights till they dripped down her thighs, her knickers following.

A single languid action to collect her clothing, to fold it and put it on a chair she would never be allowed to sit on.

Her Headmistress' eyes roaming her young and shaking frame as she left clothing and safety and dignity behind. She hugged herself, shuffling back to the desk, her sensitive breasts pressing down on the cold wood as she bent over, pressed herself up on her toes, calves and thighs tightening as she grasped the other edge of the desk with her hands...

... and the spanking continued. Hermione could never keep track of more than three swats when she was naked, the pain lancing through her, a thick sick wet dribbling down her thighs as the spanking got more intense. She promised herself she wouldn't give in this time, that this would be the time that she would resist the collar.

She failed to live up to that promise. She begged as the slaps against her rained down, as she kicked and quivered and shook. It rocked her to the core of her soul, the way she begged, the way the pain had broken her down into a pleading wet mess.

The Headmistress made her stand, her legs shoulder width apart, her hands clasped behind her back, her elbows out. This stance exposed every last curve of the trembling girl and Headmistress Umbridge never failed to take advantage, tracing curve and line with her cool wand.

Hermione closed her eyes and bowed her head and sobbed but she did not break position; doing so would result in her being back on the table, begging for forgiveness, begging for the collar. She would not resist, not anymore, not ever again, not when it came to the Headmistress.

She'd only resisted once after the initial beating, when Headmistress had drawn her wand across the moist apex between Hermione's legs. She had collapsed, overcome with sensation as the woman had toyed with her, and afterwards Headmistress Umbridge had gently cupped her cheek, lifting her face until their eyes met.

“Not only a mudblood, but a slutty mudblood.” The Headmistress had ordered Hermione to open her mouth, cleaning the mess from her lower lips on her tongue.

So, she waited. The ears were offered and Hermione accepted them, placing them on her head. A hairband with cat ears, they had been enchanted so that the wearer could not understand human language. It reduced her to an animal, stripped her of language, of her mind in a way that even the Bastet Collar did not.

The tail came next. A long phallus meant to go into her back passage, with a bulb to keep it locked in place. The first time had been agony, the Headmistress attempting to stab the weapon inside her. When she'd begged for a chance to help the Headmistress had relented, perhaps because she'd been unable to make Hermione's bum accept the massive invader.

And that was how Hermione first took the monster into her mouth, coating it with her saliva before moving it between her legs, shuddering and whimpering as she used the monstrosity to impale herself. Like the ears, the tail was more than just cosmetic – it moved like a real cat's, betraying her emotions.

Shattered from the thing in her ass and broken from having lost language, soft sobs pushed past her lips, cool tears tracing lines down her cheeks as she resumed the position Headmistress demanded of her.

Feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind her head, elbows out. Headmistress Umbridge walked around her, tracing her naked flesh with the wand, poking her as she cried. She knelt when the Headmistress touched her head, pulling her hair back so that the Bastet Collar could slide against her neck.

Hermione Granger bowed her head, naked and kneeling, waiting for the clasp to fasten and steal away every last part of her that was left...

... and then she would scream and not make a sound, trapped in her own body. The Bastet Collar controlled her, making her body act like some sort of perverse cat while her own will was brushed aside. All she could be was a witness as the cat took over, purring under the affections of the Headmistress.

She was just a cat like this, a pet with some very special uses, and Headmistress Umbridge took advantage of them all. Her tongue touched feet and hands and other places, every inch of her stroked, every curve and crevice explored and prodded.

The Bastet Collar enjoyed it all, pleasure seeping into her, and she could do nothing but endure.

Headmistress Umbridge would talk to her and she understood nothing, not a single word. The cat ignored books but Hermione sometimes saw titles and wept when she realized she could not read anything, but the cat didn't care. Tail straight, the cat walked to her owner and let the sensitive core of her pleasure be cupped and toyed with and was only too happy to like her owner's fingers clean.

And it was getting worse, Hermione knew. She was getting addicted to being the cat, the simple pleasure of it losing horror. Her desires made it easy to beg when the spankings got bad, made it easier to strip every last stitch of clothing and self off her, leaving her exposed and begging.

She wanted to be the cat so badly, to be under the foot of her teacher. She knew that was the cat but she was having trouble telling where she ended and the cat began.

The cat's life was simple. Her marks were dropping and the world was asking so much of her, but when she was the cat all she had to do was give and receive pleasure. Wouldn't that be a better life? Should pleasure be something she wanted...?

Thinking like that terrified her. Delores Umbridge was breaking her mind, breaking her soul, and she had no one to turn to in this. Worse, it was getting harder to think, harder to remember why she did not want to be the cat.

No one batted an eyelash when she told them she was skipping meals to study. Headmistress Umbridge had followed her a few times, but Hermione had seen her and spent her time in the library hiding and crying until the woman had left her – not out of shame or mercy, Hermione knew, but out of boredom.

She tried not to let that get to her.

Days passed in a blur. The only time that felt real was when she was the cat, when she was being stroked and purring under the affection. She wasn't there yet, though, she was in the library. She was wearing clothes and she startled sniffling when she realized how odd they felt, when she realized how badly she wanted to take them off.

She knew that a Bastet Collar had done this to her. She'd read about that before... she stopped, starring down at the book on the table in front of her, and realized that she couldn't read anything on the page. She opened another book, another, but none of the written words made any sense to her.

Jumping back, she stumbled away from the table and crumbled against a shelf, steadying herself and hyperventilating. To have lost the ability to read, the razor intellect she had honed and been so proud of... she was being destroyed and she did not see any way out.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder and she whimpered, crawling away. Whoever it was followed her, holding her close when she tried to escape, just holding her and whispering in a soothing tone. Soon, Hermione held onto the other person and wept, taking what comfort she could.

It took her a while to realize the person holding her was young, female, and wearing Gryffindor colors. She looked up, blinking tears out of her eyes, trying not to shake as she met the eyes of Ginny Weasley.

“What's wrong?” Ginny whispered, brushing the tears from Hermione's eyes. There was a quiet anger there and for a moment Hermione thought it was aimed at her, but when she tried to speak she shuddered and choked and Ginny caught her, held her, two words hissing from her mouth. “Imperious curse.”

“W-what?” asked Hermione, looking up at the other girl.

“Don't push the boundaries of it,” Ginny said, shaking her head, holding her close, rocking her back and forth. “They can go nasty if you push them.”

“How d-d-do...,” sniffled Hermione, bowing her head, trying to collect herself. “How do y-you know?”

“I was possessed by you-know-who, remember?”

“I... I'm s-so s-s-sorry. I f-forgot a-about that.”

“Lucky you,” Ginny said, her voice cool. Hermione felt the other girl release her, watched as Ginny walked over to the books, glancing at the titles with that same chilly anger and narrowing eyes. “That's a book on medicinal artefacts.”

“It's n-nothing,” whimpered Hermione, but Ginny ignored her, selecting the last book Hermione could remember reading, holding it up and looking at the page with wide eyes.

“A Bastet Collar?” Ginny hissed, furious now, and Hermione cringed when the other girl stalked over to her, brushing the hair away from her neck. Hermione flushed, squirming as the other girl stared.

“H-how d-d-do y-you...?”

“How do I know what a Bastet Collar is?” Ginny asked. Hermione managed to nod. “They're used to help serious trauma patients. Animals deal with trauma quicker than humans do, but they're also more vulnerable to it. These artefacts are strictly controlled.”

“Y-you use...?”

“Yes.” Ginny was quiet for a long moment, then sighed and sat down beside Hermione, looking up at the cieling. “You're under an imperious curse, so I'm guessing you're not getting this to help you with trauma. Someone is inflicting trauma on you. That means Umbridge.”

“H-how...?”

“Snape's the only one with the skill to make one left at this school, and he wouldn't hurt you.” Ginny's voice was utterly certain. “Umbridge could ask for one as Headmistress.”

Hermione said nothing, simply stared at Ginny as the other girl turned to look at her.

“I'm a Weasley,” Ginny said, grinning and shaking her head. “Ron and Percy aside, we're not known for gullibility or faulty reasoning. Don't worry, Hermione, I'm going to take care of this...”
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Hermione Granger and the Bastet Collar