Chapter Eleven

Truth Will Out

Hermione stared at the table Peter had set in the center of Bellatrix's room. As she'd instructed, it was a small, simple table, a single unlit candle set in the middle. To one side he'd placed a small vesuvian box, to the other—as Bellatrix had chosen to communicate through written word previously—some sheets of the ghost's favored stationary and a working fountain pen. Hermione's bandaged finger still smarted from the unfortunate incident with the dried up implement earlier.

The only illumination in the room, currently, was the lantern Tom held high. Upon her lighting of that candle, the lantern would be extinguished, plunging the room into as complete darkness as possible. Bellatrix had been laid upon the bed, wrapped securely in a white sheet. There seemed some cruel, twisted mockery in settling her so peacefully, as though she were merely at rest. Shrouded as the corpse was, it was simple to imagine that was merely a slumbering, perfectly alive person there in the shadows.

Peter, seeming rather more skittish than usual in regard to the evening's proceedings, had been permitted to retire to his quarters for the night after preparing the room. She could sense Tom and Augustin's wary gazes on her as she stepped from the space where the three of them had been clustered after the butler's departure, just inside the door.

They had to get this started some time, and she was the focal point for Bellatrix's messages. It was a cold, mechanical way to think on the matter, but she held no illusions about the depth of her significance—she was merely part of a relay system without which the specter's words might never be known to the living.

She turned to look back at them. "C'mon," she said, offering an encouraging smile that she only wished she could feel was confident in the slightest. "I need you two close. Just in case."

"Of course," Tom answered with a nod while he crossed the room to follow her. Augustin was silent, but moved at her behest, all the same.

As they approached the table, Hermione indicated each of them to stand on either side of the lone chair. She wanted them near enough that they could interfere, if needed, yet just far enough away that Bellatrix would not feel uncomfortable if she truly did have an issue communicating directly with men.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione tried to bolster her nerves, reminding herself of the good this would do—the peace it would bring, not only to one restless specter, but to the house, itself. She drew in a rattling breath and forced it back out before withdrawing the chair and seating herself.

She flexed her fingers a few times, trying to lessen some of the sudden nervous energy in her hands. "All right," she said in a whisper, her voice low as she reminded Tom once more, "when the candle is lit, turn down the lantern."

"I've not forgotten, Hermione."

The young woman nodded, focusing as well as she could on her breathing. In . . . out . . . . She reached for the box and withdrew a match. In . . . out . . . . Striking the match, that sound of fiction seemed deafening in the otherwise silent room. In . . . out . . . . Her hand trembled a little as she lifted the match to the wick. In . . . out . . . .

The wick caught, and Tom extinguished the brighter illumination of the lantern. There was a faint metal clatter as he set it aside that seemed to ring in Hermione's ears.

In . . . out . . . .

"I call to the spirit of Bellatrix Lestrange," she said, her voice louder than she'd ever imagined she'd be able to make it with her nerves as wracked as they were just now. Her gaze fixed on the standing flame of that single candle, she forced herself to continue, "I implore you, make your presence known to me that I might help you find peace."

That single lick of fire moved. Dancing on its wick as the wax began to drip along the tapered length of the candle, Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. So dazzled by the spot of flickering brightness, she thought perhaps she imagined she was seeing things within. Faces. Movements.

The moment the luster had faded from Bellatrix's dark eyes.

The terror of knowing the breath she'd just drawn was her last.

Hermione tried to remain focused, but she wasn't even sure if what she asked next was in her head, or spoken aloud as she said, "Please, Bellatrix, you've languished long enough. Answer this one question I put to you: what would you have us do with your remains so that you might pass on from this place?"

She wasn't certain of any answer. For some time . . . mere heartbeats, full minutes, she couldn't keep account . . . she lost all cognizance of her surroundings. There was only the flame before her, only the dull echo of her own words in her mind.

The fear of uncertainty. The question of what she'd done to meet such a brutal end tied Hermione's stomach in knots and set an icy chill wrapping her shoulders.

The disorientation of her vision going dim . . . . Of sounds ceasing to make sense to her ears.

And then nothing. Complete and utter. Nothingness. Heartbreaking nothingness.

Gone. All gone. Merope. Light. Feeling. Gone.

"Hermione!"

She choked down a gasp, her eyes snapping open. The flame had been extinguished and Augustin knelt beside her, his arm curled around her shoulders as Tom saw to relighting the lantern. Her entire frame seemed to tremble in Augustin's protective embrace and she looked to her hands. One palm was pressed to a piece of the stationary, the other grasped the pen. That same looping script from earlier had appeared on the page, and Hermione hadn't the faintest recollection of even picking up the pen, let alone writing anything.

The bothersome sensation of tears pinging the corners of her eyes forced her to blink a few times as she tipped her head to one side, letting Augustin press his cheek against the top of her head. She angled her gaze toward Tom as he knelt on her other side.

"I don't remember anything. Why did you end it? Did she try to hurt me after all?"

She was aware of the men exchanging a glance before Tom answered. "We didn't end it. She did. You fell into a trance so fast, we were afraid, but then, after you asked her to come, you picked up the pen and started writing. Yet, when you'd finished writing, you wouldn't wake. And then . . . you screamed."

"I did?"

Tom nodded as Augustin snickered. "Almost startled me into needing a new pair of trousers."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh in return at the younger man's typically inappropriate response.

"But yes, you screamed," Tom reiterated, "and then the candle simply went out."

"I was so caught up in what she was showing me." It frightened Hermione a little that she'd been so very susceptible to such a thing that the ghost, herself, had been the one to break the connection.

"I saw . . . felt the moment she died, I think. She was dying, still, when she was put in there."

Tom's already fair skin drained of color entirely and Augustin shivered in revulsion at her side.

"I don't think finding her would've saved her. She was . . . going. The light in her eyes had left . . . there was nothing anyone could've done, even if they'd kept her from being hidden away." She reached out, clasping both of her hands around Tom's empty one. "Even in that moment, your mother was on her mind. I don't think she was as wicked as the stories held, Tom. I believe Bellatrix truly did love her."

Tom's blue eyes searched Hermione's face as a his mouth pulled into a grim line. "I have suspected since this began that my father was the villain in this story. I had assumed it was only in what he might've done to Bellatrix. But now, I understand it didn't end there. He vilified her. Twisted any tell of her in this house to justify his crime."

If she didn't know any better, Hermione would swear there were unshed tears swimming Tom's eyes, then. None of this could be easy for him. Nodding, she pulled away from Augustin just enough to sit up properly, but did not extract herself from his hold. She would not share any more of what she'd experienced with him. That would be a secret between her and Bellatrix. Nothing helpful to any of them would come from relaying those terrible feelings. Hermione suspected that if she could've, Bellatrix would've stopped her from picking up any of it.

Turning her attention to the sheet of stationary, she motioned for Tom to bring the lantern closer. He set it atop the table, leaning against her other side. She loved the comfort of feeling both of them crowd close around her like this.

"Put me to pyre at the witching hour." Hermione swallowed hard, a sad smile curving her lips. "Well, we have a few hours. That's plenty of time to prepare such a thing. We can actually have her put to rest tonight."

"There's more," Augustin pointed out, tapping some smudged ink at the bottom of the page.

Lifting the paper toward the light, she frowned. The words had been smeared a bit by her palm, and it took her a moment to discern the blurred letters.

The moment she did, however, a sheen of ice coated the pit of her stomach. "Oh."

"What is it?"

Hermione was afraid to say. She'd not told them anything of this. There'd been too much fear. The dreams had been bad enough, but the . . . . The monstrous part of the dreams that she no longer thought so monstrous?

That devilish part that she'd come to find so alluring . . . .

Finding herself unable to answer the question they'd asked in unison, Hermione felt tears gather all over again. She didn't know if they were from fright, or sadness. "I shouldn't say. This part seems a private message to me from Bellatrix."

"I see. If I didn't know any better, I would think she took a liking to you." Tom nodded, closing his hand around Hermione's over the secret message. "I'll fetch Peter to help with this pyre. I expect you'll wish to be there?"

"Of course. As I said, I feel as though I owe it to her to see this through." Pushing back her chair, she stood, clutching the paper to her chest. "But I've had a bit of a trying day. I think I'll get some rest before then, if that's all right?"

"Certainly."

Hermione was quiet as they led her out into the corridor. Quiet as they walked with her back across the house to her own room. Quiet, but afraid she might let out some telling sound as Tom brushed a kiss across the back of her hand, as Augustin was a bit bolder, dropping a kiss on her cheek, while they bid her good evening "if only for a few hours."

Closing the door between them, she turned and put her back to it. After a handful of shuddering breaths, she crossed the floor to the lantern on her bedside table, the sparse illumination from the moonlight streaming through the window just enough that she was able to light it, despite her trembling fingers.

Seating herself upon the edge of the mattress, she smoothed out the page against her leg. In the glow of the lantern, she studied the words, once more. Assured, now, that she'd not misread Bellatrix's smudged writing, Hermione felt a wrenching pain in her chest that outweighed her immediate fear of the message.

Believe the blood.

The pinches . . . the crimson stained lips . . . the twin marks that she glimpsed in her dreams, but were always gone by the light of morning.

But how? She'd seen them in daylight. Yet, didn't they always look paler whilst the sun hung in the sky?

She'd seen them eat food. But they never commented on the taste, never made sounds of satisfaction when the meal was exceptional. As though . . . as though the act of eating was . . . mechanical for them.

Hermione crushed the paper against her heart as her eyes drifted closed.

Their touch was always a bit cool. Expect . . . except in the mornings. They seemed to lose some warmth as the day wore on. Just as how Augustin's skin had felt warmer against hers after he'd taken the blood she'd offered him from her wounded finger.

She didn't know what to feel. Didn't know if she could truly believe her own mind, just now. They cared for her, she knew they did, possibly even loved her—adored her, Augustin had admitted just earlier that very day. And she certainly loved them. So then, how . . . ?

How could it be that they were monsters out of some old world myth? Could she pretend they weren't simply because those myths didn't seem to hold against reality?

Hermione understood with a staggering, deep-rooted certainty that she'd known for so long, now. It should affect her feelings for them, but it did not. She should be terrified of them. She knew what they were, yet she still could not bring herself to truly believe.

How could Tom Riddle and Augustin Selwyn be vampires?