"What's her name?" Bellatrix questioned as she turned, smiling, to look at a dripping wet Hermione. Her lover had just walked through the door, and though Bellatrix could hear the rain pounding on the roof above, and knew the rain would have drenched the woman in front of her, she could smell the faint scent of chlorine hanging in the air. Bellatrix knew that smell, hated that smell. She had smelled many times before.
It had been purely accidental of course. Ignoring the floo network, Bellatrix had opted to instead walk on foot to her destination. She knew neither where she was headed, nor where she'd end up. For all her reputation had afforded her in the past, she found that walking now helped clear her head, especially in times of turmoil. For Bellatrix, this was one of those times, and she gave in to the compulsory need to stretch her legs. The house she shared with her lover was not far from the nearby Wizarding town, and the dirt road and smell of wildflowers called to her. Though Bellatrix was infamous for wearing black (a testament, some postulate, to her maiden name), the woman had a penchant for bright flora, and thus stopped casually on her stroll to smell and pick those worthy for her love.
It was because of this constant halting to amass the perfect bouquet that Bellatrix did not arrive in town until dusk. Hermione had warned Bellatrix of walking at night, her practicality far outweighing her trust in the wild-eyed woman. If Hermione had thought harder of it, she'd of known her love would not go out looking for trouble; at least, not anymore. The thought darkened Bellatrix's features momentarily as she contemplated Hermione's overbearing personality. It vanished quickly, however, as the smell of flowers permeated her nose. It reminded her of safety and closeness; love and hope; forever and always. It reminded her of Hermione.
She picked the flowers absentmindedly, lost in the thoughts swirling around her head like memories in a pensieve. Hermione's strange behavior weighed heavily on the older woman's mind, and her attempts at reconciliation had, as of now, proven quite fruitless. Her scrambled thoughts were now the reason she was on a walk, and each lithe flower was carefully scrutinized for her lover that over assessed everything. Before long, however, Bellatrix pressed on, delicately holding the bouquet against her chest; afraid swinging it might break the stems. Hermione, you see, abhorred broken things.
It wasn't long until Bellatrix found the newly erected courtyard; it was the smell biting at the ever-darkening sky that brought her there. It was a strange scent, metallic yet chemically. It was altogether unfamiliar to Bellatrix, and hesitation pulled at her limbs. It was not fear, however, oh, no. Bellatrix feared only one thing, and this, she was certain, was far from what terrified her. Her legs moved forward on their own accord, until her hands grasped gently at the metal fence in front of her. She absentmindedly ran her finger over the spike at the top of the pole, a testament to her love of sharp, pointed objects; daggers, in particular. Two women, both highly attractive, sat at the edge of what looked to be a manmade body of water. 'Curious,' thought Bellatrix, 'that one would encircle a lake in concrete.' Knowing little of muggle creations, indeed despising them, she was unable to correctly identify the pool in front of her.
She watched, smiling inwardly to herself as the two women laughed idly by the water. Their behavior was mildly flirtatious, and Bellatrix felt her stomach muscles tense; she had always been attracted to women, and two of them together only furthered her intrigue. Not meaning to spy, and knowing Hermione's disapproval of Bellatrix looking at other women, she gently raked her hands through her ebony hair and willed herself to leave. As she began to walk, the faint sound of a playful scream caused her head to snap around. Scanning the water, she found the older of the two had pushed the other into the water, and the younger woman (perhaps in her late teens?) was now attempting to drag the other in. Bellatrix gripped the fence tightly, ignoring the pain that radiated through her palm as she squinted in the darkening courtyard.
It was Hermione - her Hermione – pulling the young girl in for a furious kiss. Panic gripped Bellatrix's heart and threatened to collapse her lungs. What was happening? It couldn't be happening.
She watched as the young one pulled herself from the water and enveloped Hermione in a drenching hug. Watched as she pulled on – what were those? Denim? – pants and some sort of sweater with a hood. Bellatrix searched frantically, but saw no other possessions on the girl. The girl wore no robes, carried no wand. A muggle. A muggle (in a Wizarding town!) was now pressing tightly against her love, exploring her mouth with her tongue. Bellatrix's fist clenched as the fury rose in her throat like bile; a soft stem snapped in Bellatrix's ever tightening grip. 'Hermione hates broken things' she thought quickly, before her other hand released its grip on the fence. 'Hates broken things, hates them, but will run her hands over a muggle.' Her hand, now slightly cut from the fence, reached for the wand in her robe.
Bellatrix's movements stilled, however, as the two women, hand in hand, left the pool's vicinity. Why had no one told her of this? 'Cowards,' she thought, 'everyone. Bloody gits.' Wishing to avoid detection, Bellatrix quickly dropped the bouquet as she raced to find the nearest fireplace. Walking, she quickly deduced, was not an option at this point; she needed to get home, and fast…before she killed someone.
It had been weeks since the incident at the pool; weeks of Hermione coming home with chlorine in her hair. Hermione, believing Bellatrix to have no interest in muggle creations, let alone pools, found it unnecessary to secretly wash before walking through the door. For weeks Bellatrix had thus been licking the tangy taste of pool cleaner from Hermione's neck as they fucked in bed. She no longer called it making love, though love was all she craved. It was now a duty more than a passion, though Bellatrix now pushed her fingers into Hermione with a newfound desperation. Hermione mistook this arousing aggression for Bellatrix finally allowing herself to let go and trust herself with her emotions, and with her passions; her back arched as her neck muscles strained with the burgeoning orgasm. It was precisely because of this misunderstanding that now led to Hermione's confusion.
'Bel-?' Hermione began, before Bellatrix quickly questioned her again.
'I said…what's her name?' Bellatrix's lips curled into a slim grin, and the air around her crackled. If Hermione had not been so taken aback by the question, had not been so completely caught off guard, she might have looked beyond the unnerving smile, up in to the eyes of her lover and accuser, and into the pain buried there. But she was selfish, so she did not look, and she did not see.
It was well known that Bellatrix had had – still had – a love of pain. What was hardly known, even to the girl standing in front of her now, was her love of pain did not extend unto herself. Though she laughed at taunts and held in her cries with cuts, the woman responded violently to any attempts to physically or mentally wound her. It was for precisely this reason Bellatrix wore a slight grin. No one, not even Hermione, was ever allowed to wound her.
