Chapter 17 – Patience

"My real name is Hermione."

Hermione paused, unsure of what to reveal next, of how much to tell Bellatrix about herself. While excited for the chance to be open and honest, finally, she didn't want to goad the dark witch into tracking her down and attacking her here, at home.

Crap! How had she not thought before about safeguarding her home? Hermione immediately stood up and began casting protective enchantments over her house and family. When she began to tire, she lit a few candles in the room and used their energy to add to her own. When she finished, she looked around the candlelit room, and despite herself, she chuckled.

It looks like I'm about to have a séance in here. Like a REAL witch might.

The thought made her stop and frown contemplatively. Perhaps that's why all those old-timey witches always had all those candles strewn about. She'd have to do some research.

Back to the book.

"My real name is Hermione." The words were still there, seeming to mock her on the fresh white page, as she couldn't think of what to write next. She could virtually feel the impatience of the woman on the other end.

… I'm a muggleborn… No, she already knows that about me. I think. Does she?

… I really appreciate all that you've taught me… no, good grief. I'm not going to lick her boots.

… You have really pretty hair… Hermione snorted in surprise laughter at that one, then shook her head before laying her forehead down on the book. May all the right words just write themselves, please. It wasn't going to be that easy.

Hermione sat up, picked up her quill, and took a deep breath. She felt like she had to get it right, but also knew that it might take many starts before Bellatrix would listen to her, and the older witch might never even respond. Her student had to start somewhere.

"I am regarded as the smartest witch of my age, and I" she began, feeling like some confidence and a little pride might be a good start. Even if she didn't feel either. She didn't get to finish her sentence.

"So what. I am too. Perhaps as the smartest witch of ANY age." The words materialized on the page, stopping her quill in its tracks. Hermione was astonished to receive a reply, and was so delighted that she gave a WHOOP! of triumph. Her bravado had worked! Now she needed to write something to keep the conversation going.

The bushy-haired woman bent to her task again.

"I know. I think that's how we found each other." She was going to continue being ballsy. It just felt… right. She had played the shy student, the sincere pupil, the eager learner for so long. Ok, much of it wasn't play-acting. But still, she had stifled a part of herself, and now that the cat was out of the bag, why not go big or go home? Surely Bellatrix would identify with that approach?

The page charred, blackened once again by the dark witch's fury. But just as quickly, it became clean again, and words appeared.

"I found YOU, dearie. You were nothing when I found you, and I built you up."

"Maybe you did too good of a job."

Blackened page.

Hermione held her breath.

Clean page.

"Maybe I did."

Hermione chuckled. Then took a deep breath and held it. She used that moment to remind herself that she was engaged in a conversation with a Death Eater, and not just any old Death Eater. The one who killed Sirius. The one who would have killed them all that night. Voldemort's right-hand man. Woman. Whatever. And Hermione was attempting to rekindle… something… with her. Was she insane as well?

The young witch exhaled. Was she really conversing with that woman? She barely recognized the Bellatrix she'd seen that night, and there was that odd moment when the dark witch seemed to set down and then pick back up her insanity, her violent psychopathy. Was that the witch on the other end of this strange version of text messaging?

Hermione didn't think so. The woman on the other end of this conduit was some strange mixture of all the Bellatrixes and Lyras that Hermione had encountered, and she wanted to believe that she could draw out the sane one. She had to try.

"When I drew energy from your spells, it almost overwhelmed me." A little flattery should do nicely.

"Of course it did. I'm very powerful. You should have been hurt." Was there a note of caring there, or was it accusation?

"I could have been. But I wasn't."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Sure. I mean, you taught me."

"So I'm supposed to be impressed with myself?" Huh. That made logical sense, actually. Hermione could actually see the exact angle of the eyebrow she'd see with the sardonic look Bellatrix was surely giving her at this moment.

"Yes. You are an excellent teacher. I really mean that." Hermione wrote, sincerely.

The words remained unanswered for a moment, then the page blackened. This startled the young witch so much that she jerked her hand back, as if the spell could reach through the book and burn her, too. She didn't think that Bellatrix would have been so upset by a compliment. Hermione wondered if there were any positive things in the older woman's world.

While she mused over the surely unhappy state of her teacher's life, the page cleared.

"The same cannot be said of you, as a student."

Hermione frowned, perplexed.

Not the same of me? Wasn't I a fast learner? Didn't I do everything she wanted me to do?

Oh.

Wait.

Hermione HAD done everything Bellatrix had wanted of her, except one very important thing – be on the dark witch's side. The one thing Hermione just could not do, could never do.

The young woman tried to respond multiple times to the last statement, and each time she started, the page became blackened. Finally, she gave up. Bellatrix had let Hermione know her betrayal was unacceptable, and at least for now, she was done talking with her.

Hermione sighed, put down her quill, and then closed the book gently. She was not going to give up, but nothing could be gained right now from pushing. She moved about her room, blowing out candles and lecturing herself on the virtues of patience.

Hermione was restless. She had been home for two weeks now, and could get very little news of the wizarding world. Yes, she still had the daily delivery of the Daily Prophet, but that was more tabloid-y than ever. Luna's father's publication, The Quibbler, was also delivered whenever he printed a new edition. However, between the sensationalist pablum of the Prophet, and the warnings in the Quibbler about Death Eaters training Heliopaths to burn down the ministry, Hermione just wanted to bury her head in the sand and forever give up critical thinking.

Checking on her plant book each moment she was within 3 metres of it didn't help. The page stayed charred, and Hermione stayed disappointed. But, she vowed that she would not write anything again until the page was repaired. She would wait for Bellatrix to reach out to her again.

That, of course, did not stop her from writing multiple POSSIBLE conversation starters, just on another piece of parchment. So far, Hermione had everything from full-blown confessions of her muggle background to cocky "ain't I great" statements of grandeur. She was driving herself crazy trying to figure out what the best possible opener would be, but so far hadn't managed to come up with anything.

She was driving her mother crazy, too. Hermione's mother had long since learned to be patient where her daughter was concerned. First, Hermione had always been incredibly inquisitive. Second, she was never much good at making friends, but had her feelings hurt easily. Her mother spent much of the first eleven years of Hermione's life answering questions or soothing her injured pride.

When her daughter went off to Hogwarts, Mrs. Granger could finally breathe a little more easily. Hermione was at last making friends and being challenged intellectually in all new ways. But this just led to new reasons to be patient, as each summer holiday Hermione came home with stranger and stranger habits. And the stories! Mrs. Granger practically had a notch in her tongue from all the biting back of her words she had to do. (Though she did let loose to that irresponsible Professor Bumble-dore on more than one occasion. A mother has her limits.)

But this summer might be the worst. Clearly her daughter had many things she was not telling her, and clearly she was still hurting from these things. Hermione was testy, impatient, and a bit like living with a caged animal. That volatile Crookshanks was positively pleasant in comparison, and he never did anything but hiss at Mrs. Granger. At least he was predictable.

When Hermione had slipped off to her room in the middle of a task then returned sullen and snappy for the millionth time that week, Mrs. Granger had finally had enough.

"Hermione, love. You are driving yourself batty being cooped up at home. Why don't you go out and get some sunshine?"

Hermione just glared at her mother. Since when did she ever go out to get sunshine?

"I'm fine, Mum. Just want to get this done."

Mrs. Granger waited a reasonable amount of time to make it seem that she'd dropped it.

"If you wouldn't mind, when you are done, I have an errand I'd love for you to run. I could do it myself, but I thought you'd enjoy it."

"What, Mum." Hermione's tone clearly indicated that Mrs. Granger hadn't waited long enough.

"I have a new book in at Persephone shop. I thought you'd like to go and pick it up, see what else they have in print since you were there last?"

At this, Hermione perked up. Her mother had her figured out, all right. She absolutely adored the little bookseller, with its grey-bound printings of the overlooked classics of women authors. This was an errand she could easily get lost in, and throw in a quick stop at a bakery on the same quaint street, and there was a perfect afternoon.

Hermione's mother held in her sigh of relief until after her daughter had cleared the threshold.

The shop that housed Persephone Books was small, but brightly lit. Hermione couldn't help but compare it to the last bookstore she'd been in, on her trip to Hogsmeade many months ago. Even while Hermione perused the offerings of these muggle shelves, her mind wandered through the memories of seeing Bellatrix, the dark witch handing her the book, the terror and thrill that ran through her body, that even ran through it again just upon thinking about it.

Hermione sighed and set the novel in her hand back on the shelf. She couldn't concentrate, and she really needed to let go of those memories. They weren't helpful at the present moment, as absolutely nothing was the same as it had been then.

The young woman paid for her mother's order at the till, but then decided to have another go at enjoying what would normally be a favorite spot. She picked up another few books at random, then sat at one of the few tables to look through them. One of the books on cooking caught her attention for a long while, until she decided that she just ought to go ahead and buy the book.

The shopkeeper rang her up, and placed her book in the same bag with her mother's. Hermione and the woman chatted for awhile about the selection in the shop, and Hermione assured her that she'd be back again to look around for longer. The young witch left carrying more literal weight, but feeling lighter than she'd had in weeks.

That night saw Hermione back at her desk, but she was exerting willpower and leaving the plant book closed. She continued her reading in her new book, only glancing every so often at the well-worn object on the corner of her table. When she'd finally read enough pages to feel self-congratulatory, she reached over and flipped open the cover of the sacred volume. The title page was clean and blank.

At the sight of the white expanse, the bushy-haired witch's mind seemed to go clean and blank as well.

What do I write? Should I write anything? Should I wait for her? No… she made the next move by reparo-ing the page. I should be the one to write.

She picked up her quill.

"I know you want me to apologize for misleading you. I lied about my name. Everything else was true."

Nothing happened. Hermione had been expecting a blackened page, most likely, or less likely some words in return. Nothing was disconcerting. Perhaps Bellatrix simply wasn't there. The thought made Hermione feel a bit empty, even as her nerves rang with anticipation for her eventual response.

A/N: I know I take forever to update. I'm sorry. Forgive me. And thank you to the reviewers who have been encouraging me to continue - you all help, though the latest from bellatrix996 was the one that dislodged me from my little hole. Thank you. Hopefully I'll have the next one up before 6 months is up! We can't keep these two apart forever!

Also, Persephone Books is a real publisher (and shop) - they provide a fantastic service to the world of literature. And I chose a real place, but it's not meant to be a random promo. Just you wait.