One thing has always bothered me about the way the Harry Potter series was written. Don't get me wrong; I love the books, the characters, and everything. It's just that there seems to be only "good" and "evil" without any in-between. And when we get right down to it, just what is evil? In the Harry Potter series (and many other stories as well) there's this idea that someone does bad things because he is bad. This circular logic is uninteresting and flawed. I know I'm not the only person who likes to try to understand the bad guy. Why, then, do authors create them so shallow and one-dimensionally? Voldemort was, if nothing else, a man obsessed with the fear of death. Who can't relate to that?
The purpose of this story is to explore these ideas in a setting that I'd enjoy writing about. Hermione and Bellatrix: two (of my favorite) characters that are in no way right for each other. What series of events could cause them to share something, or to understand each other and see eye to eye (or girl to girl)? What would be the consequence of such a bond?
Mudblood.
Her dried tears prevent her eyes from opening at first, though opening them does little good. It's somehow darker now than when she'd had them closed. She had wanted to look at the wound, because for a second it hadn't seemed real. None of it had. Now she can feel it again; the stinging bite of pain on her forearm, pulsing with an ever-faster rhythm. She tries to move and speak at the same time, and finds she can do neither. Her throat is dry and she chokes her words. She recognizes it immediately for what it is: a very powerful Silencio. Her wrists and ankles are bound. She shuts her eyes tightly, and again she sees it.
Mudblood. The wound. The knife.
Her face.
She can feel a scream at the back of throat, trying desperately to surface. She wants to call for Harry, or Ron, or anyone, really. Where were they? Why weren't they here? Where was here? A Cell? An Oubliette? She shivers at the thought, or is it because she's cold? The stonework on the floor and walls is uninvitingly coarse and damp.
She wonders suddenly if perhaps Harry and Ron are here, somewhere in the dark, tied up and charmed as she is. She manages to push herself off the wall she'd been leaning against, and with her hands tied behind her back she tries to push herself (quite clumsily and with the smarting pains and aches to scold her) around the small cell. She hits a few walls and gives up. Nothing.
Time passes. It's impossible to know how much. Her forearm never stops stinging, but her stomach is starting to growl. Other than that, complete silence. She fidgets and strains against her bonds even though she knows she shouldn't. Tries to sleep but can't. Her exemplary mind races in a feverish state beyond panic. She curses her intelligence for the first time in her life. If only she were ignorant enough to not know the effects of sensory deprivation, maybe she'd get through it. But through what? For all she knows, she's been left here to die.
She awakes to a sharp knot of pain in her stomach and wonders how she could have fallen asleep. She opens her eyes. The Sword of Godric Griffyndor lies on the ground before her.
"You're a hallucination." She mutters, surprised both at being able to speak and at the very sound of her cracked voice.
The sword sits still, glowing faintly. She shuts her eyes and goes over the important figures and dates of the Goblin Rebellions one by one. After she's satisfied, she opens her eyes. The sword is still there. She tries to control her breathing.
"Go away..!" She whispers hoarsely, looking no longer at the sword and instead at each of the darkened corners of the room. She squints through the darkness, nerves on edge. The sword emits a small rumbling noise as it begins to change form. It shrinks; the handle and blade reform… into Bellatrix Lestrange's knife. Hermione whimpers and tries to back away, hitting the wall as the rumbling grows louder.
Her eyes snap open. She's breathing harshly. She holds her head in her hands, delicate fingers curling into her thick, brown hair. She knows she's losing it.
A door opens.
The light is blinding. She turns away from it on instinct at first. She squints with one eye open to look. In the doorway is a silhouette she recognizes almost instantly. Tall and thin, with long, drifting dark curls of hair. She can see the outline a wand, too. Her heart skips a beat.
"Were you lonely down here all by yourself?"
Hermione cringes at the sound of that saccharine-sick twitter. She presses herself into the wall, straining against her bonds once more out of desperation.
"Oh, don't look so pitiful. You don't know your luck!" Bellatrix Lestrange cries out, almost laughing.
"H-Harry and Ron will be back f—" was all she got out of her quivering lips before the older woman made a powerful jab with her wand and bellowed: "Silencio!"
"That won't do!" Bellatrix nearly whispers, going from sounding threateningly powerful to mockingly sweet in one crazy instant. "We've to move you. We can't have you crying out just yet, can we?"
Tears fill Hermione's eyes, but she resolutely blinks them away. Anywhere is better than here, she thinks, even if it's with the most dangerous, deranged person she's ever come into contact with.
Later, she would realize that she had Bellatrix to thank for keeping her sanity.