Breaking the Window
Chapter 9: Uncomfortable Truths
With a yelp, Hermione sat up in bed panting and bathing in sweat. She closed her eyes and needed a moment to catch her breath and slowly realized where she was: in the safety of her room at her childhood home. Bathed in darkness, Hermione had only a sliver of light from the moon outside while the autumn wind howled past her window.
Hermione rubbed her face and used the duvet to wipe the moisture away. The nightmare was the same as always. Flashes of the war, the terror, the pain and... Bellatrix. The older Bellatrix. The torture.
She checked her arm: at least the cursed would hadn't reopened this time. Small mercy, that.
Hermione checked the time and found it to be quarter past four on her alarm clock. Knowing quite well how this went by now, she knew wouldn't get an ounce of sleep for the rest of the night. She settled for simply turning on her night light and picking up one of her books to spend a few hours distracting herself while she let the anxiety simmer down a bit. So, she fluffed up her pillow, leaned back and got comfortable while reading a simple muggle book. The book in question was Treasure Island. Fitting, as pirates seemed more palatable than wizards at the moment.
It was getting lighter outside and Hermione was just enjoying a witty exchange between Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver when she heard some ticking outside her window. Curious, Hermione looked up and saw an owl sitting at the window: an owl she immediately recognized as Pigwidgeon. Owls usually waited to deliver mail until the receiving party was up… and since she was, Pigwidgeon felt it was time to deliver his message.
Hermione put the book to her side and slipped out of bed, shivering slightly from the cold rush of air after opening the window. "Hello there, Pig," Hermione greeted. "What are you doing here?"
The answer was a letter which was swiftly lain in Hermione's hands, from Ron of course. Hermione broke the wax seal and tried to make sense of Ron's almost indecipherable handwriting.
"Hey, Hermione,
I stopped by to visit at Hogwarts but was surprised to find you had left. McGonagall told me you're spending autumn break with your parents. I'm glad you did, considering everything that's been happening. Still, I'm hoping you can spare at least one day, the last day of autumn break, at the Burrow. Just grab a floo at any point in the day since we'll keep our fireplace open for visitors. Everyone's coming, Harry too, for a lovely Sunday roast. We'd love it if you'd drop by for a bite and a chat. And if you're worried about mum, don't be. She's not angry with you at all.
Hope to see you Sunday!
R."
Hermione smiled a bit. She motioned for Pigwidgeon to wait a bit and quickly wrote a reply that she'd be coming next Sunday. It would be on the way back anyway and she'd be able to catch the Hogwarts Express in the station at Leeds. Hermione gave the letter to Pig and the plucky little owl was off. Afterwards, Hermione curled up in bed with Treasure Island for a bit more until she started to hear movement in the house. She put the book away for later and slipped out of bed to go through the morning routine of shower and dressing.
Hermione greeted her parents as cheerfully as she could muster and joined them at the table for a hearty English breakfast. It didn't take long at all for the whole situation to turn decidedly awkward. As a family they often chatted at the table about everything and anything: stories from school, happenings at the practice, old stories from the past of family, making plans for holidays they would never go on and general philosophy. As an only child, Hermione had a tight bond with her parents.
But today? Nothing. It wasn't as if Hermione didn't want to talk to her parents, it was just that she couldn't think of anything to say to them. And her father was looking at her as if he had something on his mind, but didn't seem to want to be the first person to talk. Her mother looked back and forth between the two of them, looking rather demure.
"More tea, dear?" asked her mother. The first word spoken in ten minutes. Hermione gave only the slightest hint of a nod.
More silence.
The situation was becoming unbearable until her father finally put down his fork and looked at her intently. "So... are we just going keep pretending we haven't heard the crying or the screams last night, Emma?"
"Jack," her mother hissed.
There. It was out. It almost felt like a relief to Hermione. "Dad..." she started to say. Of course after the while incident with the memory charms a few months back, getting their family home back had been only one part of Hermione's worries: she had definitely had some explaining to do. So, she had told her parents everything without holding back this time. All the details.
Her dad had not taken it well.
"What happened to my curious and active little girl?!" her father pleaded. "I remember you vividly regaling us with the most minute details of the wizarding world. All the things you've learned, the wonders you've seen. And now? You've been silent as the grave. And not just today. Yesterday, you've been so withdrawn. I've never seen you like this."
"Jack," her mother gently took hold of his time. "Give Hermione some time."
Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. "No, mum," said Hermione. "Dad... dad's right. I haven't been myself for a while now. I've been trying to deny it myself, throwing myself on my school work to hide from it, but... I know I'm not well. I have nightmares and flashbacks. I... I feel... I..." Hermione took a few deep breaths. "I'm not myself. I don't think I'll ever be myself again..."
Her father closed his eyes and shook his head. "Good lord," he whispered. "What have they done to you?"
"Who?"
"Those wizards and witches, of course!" her father exclaimed.
"Oh, Jack," spoke her mother. "I'm certain that Hogwarts is giving Hermione the help she needs. Right, dear?"
Her mother was trying to be the voice of reason. Obviously her parents had been talking. Unfortunately, the true was a bit more uncomfortable than she would like. "Mum, dad, I'll deal with it. Really. Hogswarts... the wizarding world... psychiatric care isn't really a thing there and it's not as if I can go to a muggle therapist."
"So they just left you to deal with it yourself?!" her father sighed. "How could they do that?! They owe you! The Ministry of Magic owes you! Hogwarts owes you!"
Emma reached over to wrap an arm around her shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, they're not doing anything for you at all?"
Hermione smiled briefly. "I have McGonagall to talk to..."
"Not good enough, dammit! Not good enough!" her father slammed the flat of his hands on the table as he rose from his chair, causing Hermione to start briefly. Her father wasn't someone who would get angry. In all her twenty years of life, she had only seen him angry a handful of times. This was one of them. His anger wasn't directed at her, though. In fact, it broke her heart to see her father so close to tears. "Hermione, they made you fight a war! A bloody war! What kind of sick society makes children fight a war for them?!"
"Dad!" Hermione snapped back. "I chose to fight! I chose to make a stand! I fought in the war because I thought it was just and right. And if I hadn't, I'd have been a victim! There were people around me who were far worse off that I've ever been!"
"Puppet," her father sniffed. "You were tortured."
The word slammed a weight on her of a thousand tons, as if someone had dropped an anvil on her back. Hermione tried to respond, but couldn't. "I..." she muttered, her voice cracking and tears coming. For a moment there, she was no longer in her parents' house, not longer at the breakfast table. She was in that dark manor, on the cold floor, with Bellatrix Lestrange hovering over her, biting, cutting, clawing and punching. Carving her skin, mocking her, belittling her. Screaming and cackling in her ear.
Hermione felt her hands start to tremble, her body starting to shake. She doubled forward and started bawling uncontrollably, until both sets of parents' arms wrapped around her. Hermione calmed down somewhat and looked her father in the eye with quivering lip. "Yes. I was," she replied. "What do you want me to say? That I'm broken? That I feel that my friends are abandoning me? That I feel frightened and alone? That I feel I might never be myself again? And that the one person who does make me feel like myself is someone I can never speak of? Oh, irony upon irony."
Her father still held her while he shook his head. "I never should have let you go," he whispered.
"Jack," spoke her mother. "It was never your fault. We decided together. Hermione had a voice in it too."
And finally, Hermione understood: her father had his own demons and guilt to deal with.
"If only we hadn't allowed you to go, you would have stayed with us in the muggle world," said Jack. "You would have done great things with your life, puppet. You could have been a doctor, an engineer. Hell, even a hairdresser. Better than the alternative."
"The traumatized mess I am now?" Hermione raised both eyebrows.
"Yes! No! I mean..."
"I'm still Hermione Granger, dad," said Hermione. "I'm still your daughter. I'll always be."
"Hermione, I'm your father! I was supposed to protect you!" her father squeezed his eyes shut. "I... I failed you just as much as Hogwarts and the Ministry failed you."
"Don't say that," Hermione shook her head. "I've been a bad daughter. I've neglected you and mum for stupid things I now regret! It was my choice to go to the wizarding world, it was my choice to fight in the war. I now have to deal with the consequences of those choices. And you both are here for me now."
Her father let out a deep sigh while her mother embraced her once more. "I swear," spoke her father. "If that vile woman who tortured you wasn't dead already, I'd be scouring the countryside for her. And once I'd caught her, I'd be making a pyre for a good old-fashioned witch-burning!"
That caused Hermione to chuckle in spite of herself. "That's a bit culturally insensitive, dad. Besides, she… she's not all bad. She was a victim of this war too. The more I learn about her, the more I sympathize. And the more certain I become that she could be saved."
Jack Granger smiled, then laughed. "Trust my Hermione to sympathize with her tormentor."
"Enough," said her mother. "Enough guilt-tripping from either of you. Jack, you are not at fault for what happened to Hermione. None of us are. And Hermione, you need to realize that there are more people who care about you than you might know. You don't have to be lonely."
"How about," Hermione nodded. "We try to get past this? Remember when I used to be home from school during holidays and got incredibly bored and dad wouldn't let me read books all day? Let's just do... dumb stuff, silly things, like in the old days. How about we order a pizza? And then watch some of dad's old crap horror films?"
"Hey, those are vintage!"
"Sure they are, Jack," her mother rolled her eyes.
"And then we go to theatre, or London Zoo, or Camden market, or maybe even a trip to Stonehenge!" said Hermione. "Just spend time together as a family, like we used to do... like I... skipped out on so often."
Apparently, her parents picked up on the hint and part of the cause of Hermione's guilt. Her father put his fingers to his chin. "Spending some time together cozied up in the safety of home and family. I think we can arrange that."
"It's decided then," her mother smiled. "But, Hermione, no more secrets, alright? You can tell us anything and everything."
"It's a promise," said Hermione, feeling a bit bad about already having broken her promise. But to explain that she was talking to a younger version of her tormentor through a magical pool which allowed her to speak to people in another time-line sounded so ludicrous even for the wizarding world that she wisely decided not to mention this to her parents for now.
They probably wouldn't understand. Still, she hoped Bellatrix was faring well with her family visit.
The downside of living in a house as big as hers was that you could wander the halls of Catterborough Woodhouse for ages until you actually ran into a person. This early in the morning, this was actually a good thing: her sisters wouldn't be up at this ungodly hour and as soon as they were up, they'd want to do things. Things like chatting, broom riding and general family stuff. All nice things, certainly, but Bellatrix still had a bit of a mission and she didn't want to return to Hermione empty-handed.
Before she headed to the library, the turned to the ground floor of the house near the back of the central building where the family chapel was. She could probably use a little luck right around now.
This was no mere muggle chapel. This was a family gathering place to honour the ancient magics. It was a small room, but mostly open space. A few stain-glass windows depicted the Crann Bethadh, the Celtic Tree of Life. Aside from that, there was a lot of maintained greenery in the chapel, staged around a small holly tree at the back. Before the holly tree was stood her family's most ancient possession: a regular, non-magical, run of the mill statue of a bearded man with a deer's antlers, sat cross-legged with a torc in one hand and a staff in the other. The offering bowl in front of the man had been emptied, it seemed, but Sebastian had placed fresh incense in the pot next to the bowl.
Bellatrix took a moment to savour the smell before she moved to a cloth bag near the statue, containing a stack of pennies. As was customary, Bellatrix used her wand to light a candle and the incense, before giving the statue a small offering of copper or tin by placing it in the offering bowl. She stood there for a moment, enjoying the smell of the incense. All members of her family… well, except her oncle… regularly made an offering of copper or tin.
Honestly, Bellatrix didn't quite know why she did it, but asking for a little luck never seemed like too much to ask for. And it was not as if this ritual took very long. Right, off to the library, then.
She walked the marble halls of the west wing which contained most of the house's rooms devoted to magical study and headed to the massive double doors leading into the library. Catterborough Woodhouse's library was sizable, and a centrepiece to the household. A massive bottom floor filled with bookcases and two story mezzanine running along the sides of the room with even more bookcases, connected to the bottom floor by twin spiral staircases. Several reading desks were placed near the entrance, along with a model globe which was almost the same size she was. Stain-glass windows let in a pleasant reading light. The floor was the finest of marble, and whatever bits of the wall weren't covered by bookcases were lined with the finest of wood panelling. The most precious of books were located behind glass. The most dangerous of books behind magical forcefields.
The only part of the library which wasn't meticulously organized was the family archive, located in the turret tower near the back of the library, but she didn't have to go there at the moment.
This library was the result of combining the collection of generations of Blacks and was painstakingly maintained by her mother. Grand-père's entire collection had practically doubled the amount of books stored here. Bellatrix thought of Hermione and how she would probably never want to leave after setting one foot in it.
"Right, Bella," she told herself. "Let's get started."
Now, Bellatrix was a studious girl and knew this library by the back of her hand, having spent many hours here in her younger days. Unfortunately, the number of books to choose from was slightly overwhelming. With the index in hand, she moved to the section of the library on ancient magical legends and found three stacks filled with hundreds of books. She bit her lip and moved on to the topic of magical forests and was confronted with four stacks filled to the brim with even more books.
Bellatrix had discovered a bit of a flaw in her plan: she only had a vague idea what to look for and trying to find it would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack: it could take her months to stumble upon something relevant among these sheer amounts of books. She needed something more specific, some clues of where to look.
"Think, Bella, think," she paced back and forth, putting her fingers to her lips. She could feel her anger mounting... what to do? What to do? Then, it hit her and she snapped her fingers with a smile: uncle Achille! He and grand-père had been rather close and grand-père would often share legends he'd been researching with him. If she was lucky, oncle might know. It was certainly worth a try first.
Oncle Achille's atelier was located in part of the attic of the central building of the manor house. It was the place where he worked, slept, often ate and spent most of his time. When Bellatrix entered, she could already smell the pleasant odours of fresh paint. This part of the attic stretched on for hundreds of feet, cavernous and large and walls and roof covered with so many paintings practically no part of the original wall plaster or wood panelling could be seen. Near the door stood some paintings which were all packed up for shipping to those who commissioned them, waiting to be picked up.
Her father had always called Achille a lazy bounder and a useless layabout, but Bellatrix had always thought that to be very unfair: Achille Rosier was a celebrated artist and no matter which time of day Bellatrix would enter his atelier, from the earliest of the morn to the dead of night, she would find him busy at work to a point that she wondered if the man ever even slept at all.
She surmised that her father's disdain for oncle Achille was more related to the fact that he was a pure-blood who was unmarried and childless, nor someone who was dedicated to further developing magical power. Oncle Achille was a man whom lived only for his works of creation.
Right now, her oncle was hard at work creating, as usual. The thin man, about forty years of age and with a head of wild black hair, stood with his back turned to her on the other side of the attic, slapping paint on a massive canvas with broad strokes and humming to himself. "Ah," he greeted with a thick French accent without turning around. "Ah! Salut, Bellatrix! Is it autumn break already? It seems like it was only summer a week past."
Bellatrix blinked. How did oncle do that?!
As if sensing her thoughts, oncle chuckled briefly. "It is no mystery, cherie. I saw those wedding rehearsal tents being put up. And aside from ma soeur, you are the only one who visits me up 'ere."
"Yeah," Bellatrix sighed. "Father is really pushing the importance of this wedding on me."
"Pfah! Not a creative bone in 'is body, that one," oncle Achille kept painting as Bellatrix stood next to him. She could already see the painting take shape. It was about two meters high and almost as broad. On the canvas was depicted her mother Druella along with herself and her two sisters dressed in their finery. The four of them stood smiling and looked full of zest and life. It was amazing that oncle had painted this completely from memory.
"A present for your mother's birthday," said oncle Achille. "A très magnifique family portrait."
"Father isn't in it."
"Noticed that, hm?" oncle chuckled. There was definitely no love lost between them. Bellatrix smiled for a moment. "Cherie, 'ave you been keeping up with your writing?"
"I have!" said Bellatrix. "I've been working on some new stories."
"Bon, bon," oncle nodded in approval. It was he who had encouraged her to seek a creative outlet. He'd been right when he'd told her that it would give her a way to deal with the issues in her life, and that it could turn negativity into the positivity of creation. Bellatrix's talent had not lain within the realm of painting and drawing, but rather in writing and storytelling. He'd been a willing audience for many of her early writing attempts.
"I feel like I'm getting better with every story I write," Bellatrix replied.
"It is a good feeling, no?" oncle turned his head to wink at her. "Don't let your father know, though. 'e'd likely give you a lecture. Did you know 'e warned me not to fill your 'ead with distractions before the wedding? I told 'im to go eat a baguette."
Bellatrix cocked her head sideways. "A baguette?"
"A big black fleshy vein-y baguette," oncle smirked.
Yikes. That was mental image Bellatrix could had lived without. Still, she appreciated the sentiment.
"Of course, the man 'e found for you is just as uncreative as 'e is," said oncle. "What was 'is name again? Rudolph something? Like the reindeer with the red nose, non?"
"Rodolphus. Rodolphus Lestrange," Bellatrix crossed her arms while she replied, the name still leaving a dirty taste in her mouth. "And if he thinks I'll be the meek little wife who dances to his every whim, he's got another thing coming! He's going to be faced with the fight of his life for the rest of his life! Which will be really short if I can help it!"
"Good girl," oncle smiled, but his smile quickly fell. He put down his paints and turned to her while cleaning his hands with a rag. "But, cherie, I would rather see you 'appy, non?"
Bellatrix closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "That's not going to happen any time soon, I think."
"Ah, don't say that, cherie," oncle shook his head and reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. "There's always options. There's always 'ope. There's always... a way out."
Bellatrix pursed her lips, letting her oncle's words rolled through her mind. "Are you suggesting... I run away?"
"Oh, 'eavens no," oncle gave her an obviously faked look of shock. "I'm not saying that at all, Cherie! Just, 'ypothetically speaking, you'd do more than fine on your own if you were to. You are a talented and strong young woman, after all."
Run away? Leave her family behind? Could she do that? Should she do that? Where would she even go? The implications were just staggering.
"Cherie," said oncle, apparently sensing her distress "I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't," Bellatrix replied. "I... I sometimes wish you were my father instead..."
"... and my sister still your mother?" oncle hissed through his teeth. "I may be pure-blood, but I'm not that pure-blood."
"Hah, you know what I mean," Bellatrix laughed.
"I do," smiled oncle. "And I appreciate it, Cherie. 'ave you come to read me another story?"
Bellatrix shook her head. "Actually, I wanted to ask you about something, oncle."
"Oh?"
"You see, there's this girl I've met..."
"Oh, oh, oh," laughed oncle Achille. "L'amour has struck!"
Bellatrix blinked and snapped her mouth shut for a moment. "No, no, it's nothing like that. She's... she's my friend."
"Uh-huh," oncle winked.
"Oncle, please, this is serious!" Bellatrix pouted slightly.
Oncle Achille's smirk faded somewhat, but still maintained his jovial appearance. "Of course, Cherie. What may I 'elp you with?"
"My friend and I were working on a... research project," said Bellatrix. "I was hoping to find something in grand-père's library, but there's so many esoteric books on so many different topics. It's hard to know where to start. I could search for months in grand-père's library and I couldn't find a thing. Oncle, you know a lot of about tales of old. You and grand-père were very close and I know you've painted some of the tales and subjects grand-père researched. Perhaps you have some across what I seek."
"Well, you certainly 'ave my curiosity piqued, cherie," chuckled oncle. "Describe what you are looking for."
"A magical pool. About the size of a small pond and just as shallow. Located in a clearing in the forest and nestled among the roots of a long dead petrified tree. The pool becomes active and magical, but only during the witching hour, when it will emit a blue magical glow which looks like..." Bellatrix searched the many painting and finally pointed out the blue dress of an unknown lady in a nearby portrait. "... that colour! But that's not all. When you look into the pool when it's active, you do not see your own reflection. You will see the same place around you, but in the same passage of time."
Oncle Achille, rubbed his chin slightly, seemingly in deep thought trying to recall a memory of long past. "'Old on, cherie," he said and rushed to a small side-room in the attic. He moved a sliding door aside and stepped into a storage room where many older paintings were stored on racks: these were the works he wanted to keep but had no room to display for. Bellatrix watched oncle move from rack to rack until he found what he was looking for with a loud 'ahah!'. What he produced was a small 50 by 50 centimetre canvas in a frame which he handed to Bellatrix.
Curious, Bellatrix took a look at the painting and found it to be of eerie familiarity: on the canvas was depicted a dark clearing in a deep forest of evergreens. A pool nestled in the roots of a dead tree illuminated the clearing while a unicorn was taking a drink from the water, its reflection not being white of skin but rather black as coal with glowing blue eyes. No. Not one set of eyes. A cluster of three eyes on each side of the head, close together. How strange…
A label on the frame read 'Réflexions sur la forêt noire'.
"Reflections upon the Black Forest," Bellatrix muttered.
Oncle nodded. "The Schwartzwald, to be more precise. Germany's biggest and deepest forest. I don't quite remember the tale itself, it's been so long ago after all. What I do remember is that, while rare, these pools sometimes show up in forests of a deeply magical nature. This painting was based on a folk tale papa was studying which resonated with me enough to paint this."
"Folk tales surrounding magical forests. Schwartzwald," Bellatrix muttered while being unable to rip her eyes away from the painting. "I think those some good angles for me to get started."
"Keep the painting," said oncle. "It's only gathering dust 'ere and, who knows, it might 'elp you impress your girlfriend."
"My friend," Bellatrix pressed, narrowing her eyes a little.
"Pardon," chuckled oncle with a wink. Still, Bellatrix was most grateful. She'd been given the lead she needed and couldn't wait to get started. The plucky young curly-haired witch took another look at the painting. There was something rather unsettling about the reflection of the unicorn in the pool. Perhaps she'd find out more later.
Furthermore, this might keep her focused on something else than those damnable wedding rehearsals. She couldn't wait to get started. "Thanks, oncle!" she said while putting the painting under her arm and turning towards the door.
"Bonsoir, cherie!" oncle called after her. "And think of all the kisses your 'ard work will earn you!"
"ONCLE!"
"I kid, cherie, I kid!" oncle chuckled. "Or am I? Describe 'er for me."
Bellatrix crossed her arms and gave her oncle a pouty expression. Eventually, she just let out a sigh, picturing Hermione in her head. "Long brown hair, cascading down her back," she spoke softly. "Deep brown eyes, expressive eyebrows. Creamy white skin, somewhat less pale than myself. Fiercely intelligent, but somewhat unsure of herself. Slender, a bit taller than I. Likes to wear a school uniform even when she doesn't have to. Has this oddly bossy quality to her voice."
Her oncle laughed now. "And when she speaks, you want to listen to 'er all night, don't you, cherie?"
"Oncle," Bellatrix started again, feeling a little dejected.
"Right, I'll stop," Achille replied softly. "Still, you 'ave a great eye for detail. Maybe I should paint this mysterious friend of yours sometimes, non?"
Her oncle was merely teasing her, of course. He probably didn't realize how rare it was for her to have an actual friend. She said her goodbyes to her uncle and made her way back to the library. With the index at hand, she crossed referenced books about the German Black Forest and ancient legends and had a bit of an epiphany when she regarded the painting uncle had given her. The painting had been made in 1931, some twenty years before she'd been born. Now, she knew her uncle to be a capricious artist, someone who quickly lost interest in ideas if not executed quickly enough, so she was certain that if grand-père had shared the tale with him, it would have to have been that same year.
So, Bellatrix dug up her grandfather's diaries and research notes from the private section of the library for 1931 in the turret tower. In itself, that was a task as well, considering grand-père had been a very prolific researcher. Thankfully, Bellatrix was fluent in French and poured through the notebooks until she found it.
Elated, she came across references to an ancient legend with scant few actual evidence to back it up, but what was in the notes described the phenomenon to a tee. A broad smile was still on her face as she dug up the book referenced by the notes and turned to the correct chapter. And there it was: the story of their pool, lain out in a book from 1878... ninety years ago. Another multiple of three. Coincidence was becoming less likely.
So, she had her grandfather's research, a book describing the legend and her oncle's painting. Quite a bounty to share with Hermione. Her friend was bound to be impressed.
Her thoughts drifted for a moment... was she trying to impress Hermione? Why?
She pushed the odd thought to the back of her mind and let her hand slide over the illustration of the book, reading the name underneath the picture. "Fae Mirror," she whispered.
"BBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" sounded just as a heavy weight fell on her back and two hands covered her eyes.
"AAAAAAH!" Bellatrix exclaimed, rose from her seat and started struggling to throw the unseen assailant off her back, twirling around while the figure held on for dear life. Finally, she did manage and the person whom had glomped her fell to the floor. Bellatrix snarled and twisted around, drawling and aiming her wand.
"What?!" Bellatrix shouted when she saw who it was. "CISSY?! WHAT THE FU... WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT JUMPING ON MY BACK?!"
Bellatrix caught herself as swearing was frowned upon in this household. Meanwhile, Andie was doubled over and leaned against the door-frame, looking ready to piss herself from laughter. "Oh, Bella," Andie laughed. "You should see the look on your face."
Cissy was giggling too now, pointing at her.
"Seriously," Bellatrix replied, letting out a chuckle of her own now. "What's with this current trend of jumping on your older sister's back?"
"It's just funny," Cissy said. "And stop being so boring, Bella! Why are you in the library anyway? It's holiday! No more school!"
Bellatrix felt a twinge of panic and rushed back to the table, quickly scooping up the books and stuffing them into her book bag. "Just a project for school, nothing special. Anyway, it's done now."
Cissy accepted this answer, but Andie gave her a somewhat suspicious look. Bellatrix turned her gaze away and refused to met her eyes: her younger sister had a strange knack for figuring out when she was up to something. She slung the bag over her back and decided to act casual. "Come, let me drop this off in my room and we'll go have some fun. How about we set up an obstacle course in the backyard? Let's see which one of us can get the best times without touching any of the rings!"
"Oh, you're on!" Cissy raised her chin.
"Cissy," Andie smirked. "Bella is the Slytherin team star chaser!"
"Yeah, but I'm fast and nimble!" said Cissy. "And Quidditch doesn't have you flying through rings."
"Oh, you're on," Bellatrix grinned: she had done what she had come to do. Now she'd have the rest of the week to spend with her family for a fun holiday with her sisters... likely her last.
Hermione groaned as she lay on the sofa in the living room of her childhood home, content and uncomfortable at the same time. Content from having a belly full of junk food and uncomfortable for having eaten an entire pizza which had clearly exceeded the capacity of her stomach.
Today had been a very good day: walking around the Heath, past the greens of Parliament Hill and the magnificent interiors of Kenwood House. Though Kenwood was a museum, Hermione realized that Bellatrix actually lived in much a stately manor. Today had been a trip down memory lane, a reminder of simpler and perhaps even better times.
Then it time to head right back home for pizza and Predator with her parents. Granted, she barely paid any attention to the movie itself, but the pizza was absolutely delicious. During the film, she found her thoughts often drifting to the magic pool. What was it? How did it work? What was its purpose? Did it even have a purpose?
Though Hermione knew she shouldn't dwell on it too much… Bellatrix was in a far better position to find clearer answers on her end, after all… it was simply hard to let go. Instead, Hermione simply stretched on the sofa, doing her best to get comfortable.
"Hermione dear," sounded the voice of her mother, accompanied by a pat on the leg. "If you're feeling tired or not well, you should probably lie down in bed. I've never seen you eat so much before!"
"Comfort food. I really needed some," Hermione chuckled at first, before regretting her words. Her mum was never a particular fan of gallows humour. Her dad was, though… probably not when it pertained to his own daughter. "Sorry, mum, I didn't mean…"
"It's fine, dear," said her mum. "Today was good."
"It was," smiled Hermione. And she meant it. She had felt a little like her old self today. Just a tad. "Where did dad go?"
"Oh," her mother chuckled to herself. "Alf from next door came by. There was a package delivery while we were out. From Forbidden Planet."
"Ah," smiled Hermione, her curiosity piqued. Shifted slightly, her stomach protesting as she moved to get up from the sofa. It took her a moment to steady herself until the pizza settled in her obstinate stomach before she could make her way up the stairs to her dad's hobby room. It was there where she found him, surrounded by a healthy mix of Stormtroopers, Enterprises, Batman paraphernalia and other assorted figures: the result of a lifetime of collecting. In fact, Hermione was surprised that her father hadn't claimed her room yet to store part of his massive collection. Perhaps her mum had put a stop to that.
"Oh, hello there, puppet," her father said as he had just put the remains of a box on the room and had just removed some items from its packaging. Considering her father was moving figures about on his dedicated Dalek shelf, she had an inkling what it could be. Indeed, it was a three-pack of different coloured ones and he was finding a good home for them.
"New Daleks?" Hermione asked.
By now, her mum had settled herself in the doorframe and was shaking her head. "Honestly, Jack, I don't get it. They're all the same."
"Obviously not," Jack shook his head. "Look, they're all different colours and sizes!"
"But they're still all the same!" said her mum. "Except that one, I guess. The little man there."
Hermione chuckled. "That's Davros, mum. Even I know that."
It was then that she and her father shared a look. Her father's expression saying 'your mum just doesn't get it' and Hermione's expression saying 'quit trying to explain it to mum, its pointless'.
"You two are absolutely terrible," said her mum, a wry grin tugging at the corners of her lips before withdrawing. Still, this was good. This was a familiar place, something she shared with her father. Even when she was a little girl, she understood that these weren't toys to be played with, but she marvelled at some of the things regardless. It something she shared with her father, and remembered sitting on his lap as a little girl while he piddled with his home computer. Of course, the ZX Spectrum of old was now displayed on one of the top shelves as a fond relic of all and a Compaq PC had taken its place, but the feelings were still the same.
This room make her feel comfortable. Safe.
"Any new pieces since I last was here?" asked Hermione.
"Oh, yes, many!" said her father with his usual enthusiasm. "Wait, let me show you this Captain Kirk figure I picked up from…"
Hermione only listened partially while her father told her of his fierce and relentless eBay bidding war. Instead, she focused entirely on being surrounded with good memories.