Disclaimer: I own nothing...obviously. Just borrowing JK's lovely world.

Authors Note: Hi everyone and welcome to my newest story, this time based in the Harry Potter realm of things. As this is a Bellamione fic and rated M you should be prepared for some sort of adult scenarios later in the story; as well as that, be aware this story will deal with slightly darker things - as one would expect with a story involving Bellatrix Lestrange. If a chapter does contain anything dark or remotely triggering it will be mentioned in the author's note of that chapter and you will be reminded to read at your own discretion.
Also to my lovely "The Normandy Academy" readers expect an update for that soon, I have been bogged down with university work and then a long overdue holiday I had booked for months beforehand.
Now on with the story~!


Prologue

Nothing could have prepared her for the sounds the walls of Hogwarts carried that night, nor could have it prepared her for what came after. The spells and cries of anguish ripped her from her already uneasy sleep; and in seconds she was on her feet and out of the dormitory, taking two steps at a time before bursting into the common room. Seventh years were calming down those younger than them. They had been told to stay inside their dorms, that they were under attack.

Hermione ignored the pleas from her fellow Gryffindor's as she sprinted out of the room, her mind running a thousand paces a second. Harry was out tonight. With Dumbledore. Where they alright? Was he alright? Who was screaming?

She allowed her body to lead her at will, zipping down the stairs, wand at the ready. She crossed into a hallway on the first floor. What if Harry was dead? What did that mean for her, for the Order- for the world?

So engrossed in her own thoughts she had turned a corner too fast, narrowly dodging a spell that ricocheted toward her, throwing her off balance. And yet the fall never came. When she was able to focus her gaze again she found herself securely locked in the arms of a stranger - no, not a stranger, the enemy. Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione bolted up, scrambling out of Death Eater's arms, flicking her wand into a defensive position. The woman was smiling. Not smirking, actually smiling.

"Careful there Tripper, you're no use if you're out cold," Bellatrix spoke in a tone so unlike her usual one. This voice lacked all the evil, all the hatred it had ever carried, replaced instead with an uneasy sense of gentleness.

Of course the demeanour disappeared as quickly as it appeared. The raven witch snarled in disgust; whether it was at herself or Hermione, neither would ever know. Her own gnarly wand brought up to point at the girl. The Mudblood.

Hermione was far out matched and she knew it. What she couldn't fathom however was why the Death Eater, famed for her ability to strike first ask questions later, had not yet cast the curse she so fondly used.

Daring herself to say something Hermione spoke, her words broken and angry, "What are you doing here Capt- Lestrange?" the nickname fell briefly before she corrected herself.

Bellatrix didn't bother calling her on it. She knew all about the nicknames. All about Captain and Tripper. And she knew that Hermione did too. However like Hermione, that knowledge of the pet names, of their changes whenever they happened to meet, cursed her and followed her wherever she went.

"Your Headmaster is dead, and your friends will be needing you, just as mine will be needing me," Bellatrix replied as curt as possible. She couldn't help but feel for the girl as she watched her face twist into a horrible look of pain. No. These were not HER feelings. NOT HERS. Bellatrix Lestrange did not feel for a petty little Mudblood.

Hermione had felt her heart rip from her chest. Albus Dumbledore was dead. Her eyes found Bellatrix's. Surely it hadn't been her. She would never have killed the man. Bellatrix Lestrange was a torturer, sickened and twisted by a snake of a man - but she was not a person who would strike a man who had helped her the way that Dumbledore had done. It wasn't HER he had helped. It wasn't US. IT WASN'T.

The woman had begun to walk away before Hermione had leapt forward, wrapping her hand around her wrist, "Tell me it wasn't you," she pleaded, her voice cracking with sprung tears.

Of course Bellatrix made the mistake of turning around and meeting her eyes. Somewhere inside of her she felt something break. Touching a hand to the girl's she whispered, her voice still somehow sounding over the ruckus within the castle, "Stay safe Tripper, this marks the start of the war."

And she walked away, a thousand different voices screaming inside her head to return to the Gryffindor and yet a thousand more telling her to leave and never come back. She could hear the girl's sobs echo after her as she caught up with a few straggling Death Eaters, her 'game face' having been put back into place as she torched a painting. It wasn't us. These memories aren't mine to own. These feelings are not MINE.

Hermione had made her way outside some time later, gathering herself and pretending the tears were shed for the Headmaster laying in the courtyard, never to move again. Straight away she knew it couldn't have been Bellatrix. She trusted the woman unconditionally. It was twisted and it was sick and yet she didn't mind. Somewhere deep down, past all the denial and confusion that clouded her thoughts, she knew the dreams she was sure they were both having were memories. Their own memories. Of a time and place that was not their own. And as she clutched her wand aimed at the sky in memory of a great wizard lost, she vowed to figure it all out.