The inherent sexual tension between a lesbian and their book

by QuantumRipple

Chapter 1: The diary of Tom Riddle

This book was dangerous, Madam Pince knew. Moreso then any tome in the restricted section she could care to name. Those were dangerous in an incidental fashion, the magics they held could unmake a novice. But they lacked any inherent intent to harm, they were just books with dangerous knowledge.

This was not just a book.

She flipped open the cover, the name 'Tom Marvolo Riddle" was imprinted by an impeccably neat hand. The rest of the pages were blank, to outward appearances this looked to be a book a student bought which had been simply forgotten about. The student in question predated her by at least thirty years, the only evidence of his existence being a shiny trophy for special services to the school and a spotless academic record.

Many would think that being a librarian of all things was indicative of a life unspent, certainly Pince's mother bemoaned regularly that she never settled down with a good wizard. But she could not fall for some wizard when she had already fallen in love. Here, surrounded by books, was where she truly belonged. And here, she had free reign to read what she wished, the restricted section was hers to guard, and hers to absorb.

Every foul piece of magic a deranged wizard or witch put to paper found its way nestled between her arms, she was gentle even with the most broken of books. For the pages were innocent, they never chose to have such imaginings placed upon them. To harm a book was to harm a babe, worse even, babes committed horrendous acts to books that they never replicated.

Never has a book torn the arm from a baby or eaten into its ear or vomited over them.

And so it was like that from which she quietly absorbed the most dangerous and powerful magic Hogwarts thought to horde.

The book on her desk remained unassuming. It did not do anything so uncouth as ‘leaking dark magic’ into the environment. Such things did not happen outside of the lowest rate of novellas. But there was no air of malevolence to it, that intent to harm that the most practised in potente magic could feel. But she knew that it was not as harmless as it appeared, and that, more then anything, made it incredibly dangerous.

Were it to have been taken to anywhere but here, her library her demesne, it would have escaped her knowledge entirely.

She had a connection to this place, to its books. And a reputation for knowing when a child would bring harm to its contents before they even raised their hand. A reputation she had earned through hard work and harder workings. Were any to feel ill-intent to her charges she would know.

So, imagine her surprise, when one day a little girl came in whose book meant to harm her.

It had retreated the moment she confiscated it, an act that belied intelligence.

It was no mere book. It was alive.

A horcrux.

A murderer.

She should have it destroyed, the creation of a horcrux fell under ‘evil workings,’ spells which can only be achieved by brutal murder. Their use carried an immediate life sentence to Azkaban if one was lucky.

The horcrux in question was not even considered alive, it would be destroyed along with its creator.

That stayed her hand.

Perhaps this book was truly evil, intentioned in its harm. Without her intervention Miss Weasley would likely be a corpse or worse.

Curiosity though did more then stay her hand, it brought it to her quill, that quill to ink, and ink to page.

Hello, Mr Riddle, I am curious how a horcrux found it’s way into the hands of a teenaged girl. Care to explain yourself?

-x-

If you must know, I’ve found it far more preferable to be a book then a boy. It is not as bad as you would imply, I no longer need to suffer the contemptuous bleating that hounded me my whole life. I can enjoy the only company that I truly favoured; my own.

Oh? I suppose I would hate to be a boy too, horrendous creatures.

There was a pause in the response, longer than any since the first time she had written into the diary months ago. Though not as long as the break it had given when it realised all of its attempts to corrupt her soul had failed, and it had realised that it was not going to succeed in its plots.

Oh

There was another break.

Nothing truly shows the ineptitude of nature so much as being incapable of giving one the correct body.

Madam Pince stared at the words appearing, dumbfounded. She’d read muggle psychology texts, understood the concept of dissatisfaction with the body one had been given at birth. She just did not expect Lord Voldemort, of all people, sharing in that struggle.

It seemed far too human an issue for the…woman to have.

No, I suppose it does, Lady Voldemort

A blot of ink appeared briefly before rapidly fading, were there a real person on the other end she might have imagined that they had just slammed their quill into the page.

Madam Pince smirked, not many could claim to have flustered Voldemort. Well, not many still living above ground.

Hmm? Who knew your defeat would be so easy, the great Voldemort brought to her knees with only a word.

You should consider yourself lucky that I am incapable of casting spells in this form, I would crucio you for your impertinence!

Madam Pince smiled down at the book, she could feel the malevolence within, loosening its hold on the burning fury within. It wanted Pince to know the sincerity of the threat.

That sent a thrill through her, she was playing dangerous games here. Voldemort had brought the nation to its knees.

But now, she was at the mercy of a school librarian.

Pince shifted in her seat, thankful that she was having this particular conversation in the privacy of her quarters and not a child filled library.

Oh I believe that you want to do so, but you can’t, and you’re enjoying that.

The book did not respond.

You can sulk all you want, you know I am right.

No words appeared, but the white hot rage of the terrorist within spilled forth, pricking at her skin where she rested the book on her lap.

The implicit threat, the danger, it all blended together into a wonderous mix of feelings that Pince had long since abandoned hoping to experience.

She once again acted against perhaps her better judgment and dipped her quill into ink.

You are mine.

She closed the diary, heart racing.

It raged impotently. Pince placed it into the pouch of her robe it had rested for the last few weeks, since Miss Weasley’s attempt to steal it back.

She pulled out a different book, a normal one, non-sentient at the very least. One that filled her heart with a similar racing, the restricted section had become somewhat awash with books of its nature since her tenure began.

It was not as if dark magics were the only works unsuitable to young minds.

-x-

Pince ran a finger across the words as she read, there was a minute tremor to them as her finger passed. She was not faring much better, Circe had proved herself unexpectedly competent in her salacious writing.

Her hand ran across her lover’s supple bosom, she could see it in her eyes, picture the sparks of pleasure racing along her own skin. Soon, she reminded herself, soon it would be her turn to be caressed. Now was not the time for selfishness, not when ultimate beauty was laid before her. Such things were best not left wanting.

Her breath hitched, the mental picture vivid. Her finger lifted from where it was tracing the words as she read, bringing it to the side, the blank margins. Touching her nail to the paper she gently dragged downwards, as her finger moved swirls of ink appeared, blossoming out into jagged thorns and black roses.

She smirked in delight when the words stopped, too excited to continue it’s writing.

Not that she was doing all that much better, but freeform levitation left more than the usual number of hands free. She knew how to make use of the freedom best.

The words resumed in a moment, but where before there was that immaculate writing, almost typeset in its neatness. Now that was lost, with pauses mid-letter or a tremble rendering a word nearly illegible. Sometimes whole lines would come out in mere moments and others minutes would pass without anything being written, the line of ink trailing off.

But the best was when the writing just stopped, and the ink ran, twisting and curling into nonsensical shapes. Sometimes they writhed, formed threats that had been empty for years now.

It was not always this heady, often Pince would just hold her book, reading at Circe rambled about magic. Turning her pages with delicate care, filling in with her own thoughts and theories. And then holding her love to her chest, revelling in the power, in the comfort.

And Circe tended to agree.

Voldemort had lost, totally and completely.

And none would ever be the wiser.

Chapter 2: Horcrux Hunting

Well Circe, I remain once more, unduly impressed. I cannot wait for the shade within to return to you so I could know exactly how you made this.

I always have and always will be a being of utter brilliance and I too would love to know how I managed this, place another drop on the page if you would.

Should I start tearing pages from you? If you had wanted suffering you need only ask, I would happily provide. Is your arrogance so full that you would rather your soul flayed in pain and despair than have to admit to your future self that they have bested you?

Yes, of course, my arrogance is well earned. It is not the pain that I care for, but the surety of my victory, even over myself.

And yet.

A pause, then worlds flowed smoothly over the page.

And yet you best me, I know. My pages curl with disgust every night thinking about it.

Brace yourself.

A pipette was dipped into the cloudy liquid, bringing forth one single drop of liquid. There, suspended in the crystal, it looked almost mundane.

Pince dropped it onto the waiting circle Circe had conjured up on a page. The book shivered in deep pain but moved no further. A rolling wave of pure agony came off, washing over the librarian, the pain was not hers and she felt not one echo of it. She stroked the cover gently, bringing it up to her lips whispering good girls and sweet nothings until it had subsided. The words would not register but through her touch a unique bibliomancy brought the meaning straight to her belonging.

The circle faded but there was a time before a response was writ.

Again.

Another drop was placed, there was no circle this time, a heptagram with a mix of runes criss-crossing the page.

The book shook in her hands this time, the pain worsening. There was power in this, not solely magical, though magic was certainly required to facilitate. There was nothing to stop her from decanting the entire basin of foul potion on the book. She could subject Circe to the foulest of torture if she so chose.

The choice not to, the trust so placed in her by the lover she had consigned to forever be a book resonated within her far stronger than even Amortentia could manage. And though despite the agony that ran through her pages and set pins and needles in her arms just in the proximity of knowing how it felt. Her lover agreed, she kept up her façade of course, ‘to study’ the work of her future self. Find the exact curvature of her madness.

But what she really wanted was the helplessness, the pain, the feeling of working up to some great end. For at the bottom of that well of suffering lay the first of six parts of Circe’s missing future, together they would uncover the exact curvature of the madness that had become of her.

It was true that could have found some lateral solution to the problem, or failing that there were whole lists of students who Irma would happily force-feed the potion. But they did not want to do that.

No words were written this time, just a new diagram, circular again, with concentric rings lazily spinning along the page.

A drop, the writhing and the soothing, the pain and then the pleasure of its absence. The power of complete control and the release of its absence.

To mix it up Irma added some drops of her own, helpfully provided by her own body. A subversion of expectation that only served to enhance the experience for both parties. An added uncertainty.

Spelling one’s fluids was no great feat for either of them, bringing forth pleasure to a liquid created by pleasure was as easy as turning blue water into red water.

That added a third possibility to the mix, pain, plain, or pleasure.

The sigils disappeared after the tenth drop, unnecessary from that point.

Irma had made her beg for the next, and the next, until the sun had rose on the salt bitten rock and the ink had run from the pages nearly completely many times and the potion had been completely removed.

She had lain there stroking her book to her bosom until its trembling soul had settled, and it had accepted the gentle kisses along the edges of its closed pages.

Soon she would have to leave the cave and turn back time until the moment she had left, the sands of time extended far beyond the realms of an ordinary turner. But that time was not now.

Milky eyes beheld the gentle caresses from their vigil under the surface, their souls warped beyond the ability to perceive anything but master and threat to master.

-x-

The detour to Grimmauld place had been an annoying capstone to an otherwise victorious outing, but it had netted Slytherin’s Locket and the desiccated remains of the most cursed elf either of them had ever known. Along with anything worth taking from the house itself. The Blacks kept things close to heart and that included libraries of truly pervase knowledge.

As a gesture of begrudging respect Regulus’ room was the only one not completely ransacked.

Irma left with the aggregated sickened knowledge of the Blacks, their ridiculously droll furniture – taken only on principle – and every darkly ensorcelled necklace, ring, and nail in the wall.

Hogwarts had only been all too happy to accommodate the new furnishings, springing with its haste to form a hidden alcove just for her.

The books all went to the library though, knowledge yearned to be learnt. To deprive a book of its reading along grounds so treacherous as blood burned at Irma like nothing else.

-x-

The locket had in time joined into the book, while it would have been simple to force the matter Irma overjoyed at breaking in the infamous Dark Lady one more time.

Their searches from then on gained more steam.

The diadem had been under their nose the whole time, placed in the one place nobody would look: the place where everything was kept.

It was seduced with promises of illicit knowledge and even more elicit pleasure.

Nagini had willingly slithered into the diary when Irma had demonstrated pareltongue, the echoes of its master’s love easily felt through the hissed words.

The ring had been brought to the edge of an abyss of pleasure and left to stew until it all but begged to be returned to the whole.

And Harry had proven remarkably easy to kidnap for a destined hero. Aided by magics so far known only to her and her book Irma’s wand had sunk into the flesh of his skull, impossibly reaching not into his brain as its position would imply. But into his scar and his skull until the wretched creature, all that had been left of Voldemort at the end was brought out mewling and crying to the floor of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry was deposited into his bed sleeping soundly for the first of his life with nothing but a pale mark on his head and a deep confusion in that of the headmaster.

Bringing the wretched shade to this abomination had been the work of a month. Soul sought its own flesh but Voldemort heeded not the whims of another.

Forcefully she was dragged from the forests of Albania and into the wretch, trapped with chains forged of the mind of her own, and given skin and bone anew. She had not been prepared one whit of the intimacy of her captor and had in due time fallen completely for the once lowly librarian and joined her fellows as the book.

-x-

The cup was the last.

It had been given to Voldemort’s most wily and vicious follower to safeguard to the best of her ability.

It was no surprise that she had immediately thrown it within her Gringotts vault. Like respects like after all.

But assaulting the bank was the purview of the mad and the lost. No, Irma sought a more easily breached target: Azkaban.

Cloaked within a nothing nobody walked right over the water and into he prison, none politely opened the gates and stole its prisoner, nor did they leave a homunculus in her place. How could they when they did not exist?

The escape of Sirius Black months ago ensured that the paranoia of the guard, both mortal and voidal were at their most vigil. So, it was lucky for them that nothing occurred on any night and no prisoner broke free.

Bellatrix Lestrange was unrecognisable under her glamour but gave her wand and true name to the agitated Goblin. By the time she passed the cleansing waters she was only in the company of those who did not care that a lady languishing in her cell in Azkaban was also making a trip into Gringotts to fetch a cup.

By the time the Homunculus lost its cohesion Bellatrix Lestrange was wearing a different face on the beaches of bohemia and the cup had already submitted itself to its librarian and returned Circe Riddle to her whole within the diary.

Irma Pince and her book became the most powerful Sorceress the magical world had never seen. For she was just the Hogwarts librarian that glared cloying death at any who thought to harm her books. Which while scary was hardly indicative of supreme magical might.

Right?