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Relaxation.
Knowledge.
Answers.
Hermione Granger loved the library. As a child, it had been her favorite refuge from the world. Now, back at Hogwarts for her N.E.W.T.s, she found herself hidden away like when she was little. The library proved itself still to be a worthy sanctuary.
Though admittedly, it was a bit more difficult to gain the old peace and quiet there. Hermione was a best friend of the Chosen One, a national hero, and practically a celebrity. It was understandable that sometimes she couldn't escape all the people.
Advanced Rune Translation.
Confronting The Faceless.
Guide To Advanced Transfiguration.
The list of difficult textbooks went on and on, but Hermione had never been one to be daunted by intellectual difficulty. It was late, and the library was empty at the moment. She intended to make use of that fact.
She sat at a wooden table, taking notes on various textbooks and researching things she did not immediately understand. Her things were spread over the table: parchment, ink, and quill, her thick stack of books, and the glass lamp in the corner. The golden glow from the lamp was just enough to light her writing.
Warmth.
Focus.
Solitude.
Hermione waved her wand to summon a book to her, entitled The Whats And Hows Of Transfiguration. Her aim was off, and instead she accidentally summoned a different book. It landed with a heavy thump on her stack of books, and before she sent it back, Hermione took a look at the cover. The title had long since peeled away.
Opening it curiously, she began to turn the yellowed, cracking pages. A musty scent came from the binding. She turned to the table of contents, and eyed the dodgy topics. The book was clearly an instruction manual for Dark Magic, and she was about to close the book when something caught her eye.
The signatures of students that had borrowed the book was there on the left hand side, complete with dates and occasionally Houses. The last one on the list had been in 1967, the book forgotten since then. Her signature was steep and sharp, followed by the word Slytherin as proud as can be put in writing.
Bellatrix Black.
Shock.
Remembrance.
Horror.
Hermione stared at the name penned coldly into the ancient pages, a flood of memories from the previous year shattering her tranquility. Her fingers instinctively went to her throat, and caressed a long thin scar, barely visible anymore.
She once read this book. That... creature once read this, Hermione thought. Look, she'd checked it out many times. Over months.
Nausea.
Silence.
Discomfort.
So this was where the young Bellatrix Lestrange had learnt her spells. Some picked up here and there from the other human terrors she spent her time with, some from her precious Master, and some, perhaps, from this book?
What about the Cruciatus Curse? Did she learn it here? Was Hermione holding the very object that taught Bellatrix how to do the things she'd done to Hermione, to Neville's parents, countless others? Dear God.
Rage.
Disbelief.
Hatred.
Hermione slammed the book shut, and thrust it away from her on the table. The lamplight flickered, and Hermione noticed a piece of parchment wedged between two pages. A bookmark, or perhaps a sheet of notes?
Don't touch it, what if it was hers...
In spite of herself, Hermione pulled the paper out of the book. It was indeed notes, and judging by the handwriting it was indeed Bellatrix's. Various curses and Dark Magic, and of course it wasn't for school. She had done this for fun. Bellatrix had learned the Dark Arts the way Neville had learned Herbology and Hermione had learned Ancient Runes: she loved it, studying it in her free time and secretly perfecting her skills.
God, how Hermione hated her.
Learning it.
Perfecting it.
Practicing it.
The woman made Hermione's stomach turn, caused fear to jump into her throat and make her unable to breathe. Ratty black curls and mad black eyes. Movements of a rabid animal and the laughs and screams of the devil himself.
How many times would she feel the woman's long fingers in her hair, tugging? How many times would she smell that nightmarish perfume of violets and death that haunted her memories? How many times would she see Polyjuice Potion and remember the taste, the essence, of Bellatrix Lestrange?
Tasted like murder.
Tasted like obsession.
Tasted like destruction.
Hermione continued to stare down at the page of notes, completely stricken. There were drawings infused in the notes, doodles and daydreams.
Stick figure drawings of herself with a wand emitting spells, the wavy lines landing on people with looks of terror on their faces. Drawings of Voldemort, before his new snakelike face, looking on her with lust and approval. And again and again, doodles of the Dark Mark. They filled the parchment. And the little word bubbles emerging from the mouths of stick Bellatrix and her Death Eater companions made Hermione's heart sick.
"Take that, you Mudbloods!"
"Disgusting, filthy Half-Bloods!"
"Long live the Dark Lord!"
Bellatrix was dead. The Death Eaters had fallen, Lord Voldemort defeated. No one needed to fear her anymore. She couldn't hurt any more people.
So why did the thought still terrify Hermione? Grief and horror swam through her at the thought of the woman. Ron and Harry and the others didn't know about this lingering dread. Hermione couldn't banish that feeling of macabre disbelief that anyone could be so awful as to do what Bellatrix had done.
Voldemort had done unspeakable things to people too, Hermione knew.
But it wasn't the thought of Voldemort that made Hermione want to leave the suddenly eerie library forever and crawl into her bed, never to leave.
Flickering lamplight.
Hateful notes and drawings.
A choked-off sob of misery and fear.
Bellatrix Lestrange is dead! She's dead and gone!
Yet she continued to return.
I saw her last breath!
Here she was, with Hermione. Once again.
No! Stop! Bellatrix isn't here!
The long fingers tugging. The mad eyes staring. The terrifying laugh echoing. The violet perfume wafting. The murderous taste filling her mouth.
Why can't she just die?