Ooooooh, a chapter drop? And it's a two-parter? Whaaaa

Are my midterms starting tomorrow? Yes. Should I be studying? Yes. Did I finish this chapter instead? Also yes.

The next chapter is actually halfway done (it was supposed to be a part of this one, but that made it too long so I decided to cut it and just add it in the next one, that's also part of why it's a 2-parter), so updates will (hopefully) come quicker.

Last chapter actually did really, really well (which I am very grateful for), I'm very glad you're liking my story! Hope you enjoy this one!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

As wonderfully liberating as leaving Azkaban behind was, Hermione soon found herself faced with the realization that it wouldn't mark the last of her problems as she'd once thought it would. And not for the reasons she'd imagined. Bellatrix had been herself, despite the changes to her physical appearance. Proud, demented, hateful, and fiercely devoted. She and Kingsley had prepared a plethora of ideas to force the truth out of her uncooperating mouth. From spells, to potions, to outright violence (that, on a moral level, Hermione wanted to say she disagreed with. But considering who their victim would have been, and the fact that it was really for a good cause…. she hadn't been entirely opposed to the method). No matter how good of a fight the dark witch put up, Hermione knew she could do better.

What she hadn't prepared for, however, was the ridiculous notion that Bellatrix Lestrange, out of all people, would have been fully cooperative. Almost pleasant, even. At least for her standards.

The day following the interrogation she'd thrown herself right back into her work as if nothing had happened. They had to reason to trust anything that came out of Bellatrix's mouth. Not with the mountains upon mountains of evidence that kept piling up against her. The fact that out of all inmates exhibiting odd behavior she had been the only one to not only heal but go back in time, the Death Eater marks, the fact that her sister's son now had a mark with her skull necklace on it. All they were missing was a sign with her name up in lights that read "Bellatrix was here!". It was perfect. It was easy.

Perhaps too easy.

"I'm being framed."

Another alternative was possible, of course. That which every fiber in Hermione's body pushed to ignore and regard as nothing more as Bellatrix's mad ramblings, or failed attempts at manipulation. The dark mark sightings, while ominous, had not caused much havoc save for a few confused and angry muggles. Whereas in the past, while Voldemort was taking hold of the Ministry and Bellatrix was leading raids in muggle cities and villages, it had always been done with a clearer and more destructive purpose. Whether it was to retrieve someone they'd been looking for, or because they wanted to take the territory for themselves, or simply because they wanted to train new recruits and scare the muggles while they were at it. Their destruction had always had a deeper meaning, an objective beyond sign-waving to grab people's attention. Any similarities to Bellatrix's previous work, or any other Death Eater's, for that matter, was purely superficial.

There was also the issue of the mark itself. Hermione had yet to understand why it had changed seemingly out of thin air - at the beginning of the investigation, there had been sightings of the original mark. The one Tom Riddle himself had designed all those years ago. Then after Draco's changed right in front of Hermione, so did the marks in the following sightings. A design is emblematic of Bellatrix, a person so loyal to him that the slightest demonstration of disrespect towards him was enough to send her into a murderous rage. The person who'd braved fourteen years of Azkaban, who'd dedicated her entire life's purpose to him since she was a young woman (or perhaps since she was a child, that aspect of her relationship wasn't entirely clear to Hermione just yet, though she wasn't sure she even wanted to know). Surely said devotion remained with her lord's mark - no doubt Bellatrix would have hunted anyone who dared interfere with his work. Hell, even Fred and George had gotten threats for their edible dark mark products. It was unlikely that she would ever change the design, no matter the circumstance.

And then there were her scars. She'd had the displeasure of seeing them before the visit to Azkaban through the pictures that had been taken during her physical exams. It made sense, that a warrior of her caliber and with her decades of experience would have battle wounds. Hell, even she did, and her worst ones came even before she'd had her first kiss. But that knowledge hadn't been enough to deter her utter shock and revulsion at seeing the full extent of the carnage that marred Bellatrix's body. The healer's notes on the matter had revealed a wide array of sources behind the wounds - spell damage, stab wounds, animal bites, and even engravings resembling the one the witch had written on Hermione's arm (the only difference being that hers read "mudblood" and Bellatrix's "always pure"). The damage was ghastly, and it was puzzling why a witch as vain and proud as Bellatrix would willingly keep the scars rather than simply healing them with magic. They certainly all couldn't be under the same spell that made Hermione's scar unhealable. Was she truly that demented that what she'd said about wanting to keep the scars true? The Dark Lord was, after all, known for his cruelty. It wouldn't strike her as odd if his sadism extended to the point that he wouldn't even allow his supporters to heal from whatever ailed them.

Kingsley had been firmly against the idea from the first time Hermione briefly mentioned it, just four days after the interrogation. Just as she'd expected.

"We've better things to do than risk the entire investigation on that woman's lies, Miss Granger," he'd said. Then he'd given her a new pile of paperwork to rifle through, and that had marked the end of that.

She'd approached him with the same concerns the next day, and the day after that. Every attempt met with the same dismissive reactions. He was grasping at straws, she knew. No matter how patient and supportive he was trying to be, the leads he was providing her with weren't enough to quell her inquiries. It was starting to bother her, she had to admit. Though it wasn't something she would share with the Minister. He was trying his best, and he had legitimate reasons to doubt what Bellatrix said.

"If I could only have one more chance, maybe interrogate her with the wardens around-"

"You already know my thoughts on the matter," he'd answered. It was a sunny day, almost unheard of in the days approaching October - especially in London. Where the two of them had been called following an anonymous report of a squib claiming he'd seen the Dark Mark (the new one that they'd started to call the "Bellatrix mark") burned into the fields and a house had burned down. By the time they'd gotten there, the fire - greatly exaggerated - had been extinguished, and the muggles in the area were more confused than scared about the entire ordeal. It reminded her of what the dark witch had said about the raids she'd participated in, and how those that were happening now were likely only meant to grab her attention, rather than cause actual harm. Frankly, she was starting to tire from it.

"You said you would help me no matter what, remember?" said Hermione accusatorily. "Something's off about this, Minister. There are too many things that she said that just make sense, and they shouldn't make sense. But if I could just get some time to-"

"You've had your time," he reminded her. It was true, technically speaking. Despite his discomfort, he'd given her a brief chance to investigate her claims. Though said time had barely been enough to grace the surface of her words, certainly not enough for a complete investigation. "To give you more time and resources to chase these… ridiculous theories would mean taking said time away from the leads you should be dedicating your attention to. What happened to that informant I told you about? In Romania?"

"I've already spoken to him, sir," Kingsley seemed genuinely surprised at this revelation, as if he hadn't expected her to be so effective with a lead she'd been given less than a day ago. "He had nothing that we didn't know already. The only person who's given us the slightest bit of new information has been-"

"Hermione-" he interrupted, warningly, though this fell upon deaf ears.

"-even if she is mad, or lying, there are too many ties to her. We've got her talking, willingly, and yet we're still chasing every little useless-"

"No."

"-whilst who-knows-who is out there doing who-knows-what and bringing back you-know-know right underneath our noses!"

Kingsley let out a deep breath and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hermione," he started. By the tone of his voice, Hermione could already tell she was not going to be pleased with his answer, and she prepared for the worst. "Go home."

She blinked. That certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind.

"What?"

"Go home, Miss Granger. You're dismissed for the rest of the week."

"The rest of the… no! Minister, you cannot just throw me out when you see fit whenever we have a disagreement!" She cried out, feeling her face grow hotter with her ire and humiliation. While not a stranger to being disrespected, what with the constant bullying during her formative years, her treatment in the hands of Death Eaters, and her negative encounters with certain members of the ministry and the press. If anything, it was something she'd grown accustomed to - to the point that, though she didn't condone it and knew how to defend herself, it didn't surprise her either, and it seldom hurt her. To be thrown to the side so casually though, and by someone she respected so much, it hurt more than anything Bellatrix could tell her.

"It's not about us disagreeing with each other, Miss Granger," responded Kingsley solemnly.

"Then what is it? Do you think I'm no longer useful to the case? You're the one that asked for me in the first place, mind you."

Kingsley's expression softened. "This case has taken its toll on you," he stated in full confidence.

She knew there was some truth to his words, but it did little to persuade her to back down. "We knew that was a possibility, remember? And the very same could have happened with Harry."

"I didn't expect it would affect you like this," his worry shone through his words, though it didn't quell Hermione's outrage.

"Like what, exactly?"

"You're obsessed with her - with Bellatrix," Hermione opened her mouth to counter his claims, but Kingsley continued before she could interrupt him. "It's the only thing you talk about! Every time I bring out a new lead, or a clue, or anything that could be related to the case, you bring it back to her. To what she told us. If I didn't know you are brilliant, I would assume you actually believe her."

"Of course I'm focusing on Bellatrix! All of our clues go back to her! This entire case is built around her, we cannot just ignore-"

"I'm not asking you to ignore her, Hermione. Nor am I expecting you to completely disregard her words. But you cannot keep looking at the evidence through this Bellatrix-lens."

"I'm not-"

"Hermione," Kingsley's warning tone reminded her of McGonagall and the many times she scolded her whenever she and her friends were up to mischief. "Please, listen to me. You're doing exactly what she wants you to do. Do not let her get to your head."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Hermione mulled over his words, wondering whether defending herself further was even worth it. Kingsley's mind was made up. And there was a nagging little voice in her mind that couldn't help but agree with him.

"Go home, Miss Granger. Take some time to rest. I'll see you next week," was all Kingsley said before he turned his back on her to talk to a nearby Auror.

"Home?" Hermione murmured. Where was home, exactly? She had her flat, technically. A small, two-bedroom space in muggle London where she lived while working in the Ministry (whenever she wasn't passing out on her desk, of course). But the place was sparsely decorated, there more out of convenience than anything else. She had no real connection to the place, except for the belongings she'd stewed there before she, inevitably, moved somewhere else once the case was closed.

Her parent's house was also an option. She'd managed to restore their memories shortly after the war, and she doubted they would have any reservations about letting their only daughter return to her old home for some time. There was only the small matter that her relationship with her parents simply wasn't as how it once had been. They hadn't reacted well to the knowledge of what Hermione had done to them; both because she'd altered their memories without their consent, and because she'd neglected to tell them about the war itself. Fearing that it would scare them into not allowing her to return to Hogwarts ever again. She knew her parents loved her, and she loved them back. But she doubted being around such a fractured environment would do much for her current situation. Not to mention, well, she'd promised to never lie to them again. And she wouldn't even dare to imagine their reaction were she to tell them about her current case.

The cottage she was prone to escaping to every now and then (especially in those moments of insurmountable doubt and fear for her future that she didn't want to remember) was another option. A secluded, more familiar place she'd always seen as her private sanctuary. Somewhere to collect her thoughts with no distractions or problems plaguing her mind. All alone. Perhaps too alone.

It wasn't long before she found herself knocking on the rich wooden door of number 12 Grimmauld Place. A box of muffins in one hand and a stuffed lion in the other. Hoping that, despite how rude she felt arriving completely unannounced at someone else's house, its inhabitants would not have a problem with her staying for a couple of hours. She didn't particularly fancy wasting away with only her thoughts to keep her company at a time like this.

"JUST A SECOND!" Shouted a feminine voice from within the house, "NEED TO BRING DOWN THE WARDS! BLOODY HELL, HARRY? HAVE YOU SEEN MY WAND?"

Hermione shook her head with a smile as, finally, the door was slowly opened and Ginny launched to wrap Hermione in a tight hug that almost knocked her down.

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed. "It's been so long! How've you been? We haven't heard a word from you since James was born! You look so well! Have you lost weight?" The woman rambled on, squeezing Hermione so tight that the bushy-haired woman was struggling to let air into her lungs. Before she had a chance to answer or beg Ginny to let her go before she passed out, the ginger grabbed her hand and lead her inside the house.

The last time Hermione had set foot in Grimmauld Place had been during their seventh year when they'd used the home to hide from Death Eaters. She remembered the cold, dilapidated walls marred with claw marks and decades of damage. The dark furniture was engulfed in dust and in dire need of repair - though that description could be used for every corner in what she assumed once was a grand and elegant family home. The decorations were nothing short of horrifying; gloomy family pictures (many of which contained a collection of known murderers, torturers, thieves, corrupt politicians), house-elf heads, paintings depicting dead muggles, and the screeching portrait of Walburga Black. She knew Sirius had arranged for Harry to inherit the house before his death, but she was never able to understand why her friends would even consider making the place their home. A sentiment that most of their family and friends shared, especially those who'd had the misfortune of ever stepping into the home.

Now, however, she was starting to see its appeal.

The wallpaper had been replaced, the windows fixed, the pictures switched, the cobwebs cleaned, the decapitated heads removed, and the fireplace cleared. The curtains had been drawn back to allow sunlight to fill the large living room, revealing the true extent of the renovations to Hermione's curious and astonished eyes. Two large burgundy couches faced each other, one accompanied by a smaller chair and the other by a brown rocking chair. Between the two was a wooden coffee table decorated with a full flower vase, pictures that Hermione recognized from her years in Hogwarts, and a wizard's chessboard (in which two of the pieces were still engaged in fierce battle). The shelves had been filled with Quidditch trophies, Auror medals, and all sorts of memorabilia from their respective careers. The walls held countless newspaper articles, with the inclusion of a section dedicated to every lie the tabloids had published about Harry and Ginny's relationship - the two had always found those hilarious. Along with the many pictures with people that smiled and waved at Hermione as she entered the room.

Hermione's favorite modification to the house, though, had to be what they'd done to the Black family tapestry. It was still there, likely because it was enchanted to be unmovable and indestructible, but they'd still managed to make the most out of it. Large, child-like drawings rested on the faces of every member who'd wronged someone dear to them in the past. Sirius's mother had devil horns, his father had a double-chin, and Bellatrix had a bright red clown's nose and multi-colored afro. There were others, whom Hermione could only assume were Bellatrix's parents, that also had their fair share of modifications (the woman, Druella, had a chicken's beak and the man next to her, Cygnus, had a pig's nose), but she didn't know what they'd done to deserve them.

"Some of these were Andromeda's idea" commented Ginny, unknowingly answering Hermione's internal question. She'd clearly noticed how entranced Hermione was by how they'd vandalized the tapestry. "It's a funny story, actually. Harry and I were drunk during our anniversary and drew on Lestrange's portrait. Then Andromeda popped by the next day because we'd promised to look after Teddy, but we forgot we'd done anything to the tapestry in the first place. She thought it was hilarious, and asked if she could join in. We never asked why she was targeting the people she did because, well, that seemed like an awkward conversation waiting to happen. But at least she didn't chastise us for being too 'childish' like Percy did."

It was childish, Hermione had to admit. It's what made it such an effective insult against what had once been one of the most powerful pureblood families in the world.

"Ginny this is...wow! I didn't know you'd done so much to the house!"

"Eh, it wasn't hard. I needed something to do after the healer said I couldn't play Quidditch during my pregnancy," Ginny shrugged. "We wanted to throw a housewarming party at some point, now that we're done with the renovations, but haggling a one-month-old hasn't exactly been-"

A crashing sound stopped the woman's speech, followed by Harry's frustrated grunts and grumbles as he marched down the stairs and into the living room. Much like his wife, the Boy Who Lived was dressed in mismatched joggers and a shirt that looked two sizes too big for him. His hair was messy (at least, more than usual, which was saying a lot), and his glasses didn't do much when it came to covering the dark bags under his eyes. Still, despite his apparent exhaustion, he beamed at Hermione and wrapped his free arm around her in an awkward hug whilst his other was busy carrying baby James.

"Glad to see you, too, Potter," giggled Hermione.

Their baby, as Hermione quickly found out, was already causing more than his fair share of troubles even at his young age. Apart from the normal crying that babies were known for, James was already proving himself to be quite the powerful wizard. With bubbles coming out of his mouth whenever he yawned, glasses cracking when he sneezed, and even an instant of all the lights turning off when his diaper was filled. It was no mystery why the couple was so exhausted, even with the help they claimed to get from Ginny's side of the family. And yet, Hermione had never seen two people look so content in her entire life.

"The healers in St. Mungos said it was perfectly normal," Harry commented sometime later as he poured some tea for her. Ginny had long since headed to bed. Or rather, forced to sleep by the other two adults in the house. She hadn't slept well since the birth, and her fatigue was palpable, but she hadn't wanted to miss Hermione's visit. "It happens with many magical children, especially those born to pureblood or powerful families. I didn't think they could show so much accidental magic, though. I know I certainly didn't. And Molly said none of Ginny's siblings showed any signs of being wizards until they were at least six months old." The faint trembling in his hand gave away how nervous he was, and she wracked her brain thinking of ways to comfort him.

"With a name like James Sirius Potter, anything other than this would've been an anomaly." She observed, glad to hear Harry's laugh as a result. James, who'd been resting in a nearby bassinet, laughed along with his father. Which made the teacups levitate a couple of inches off the table. Still smiling, Harry picked the baby up and gently rocked him as Hermione made sure the floating teacups didn't fall and shatter.

"It's not that bad," he remarked, "I can't remember the last night I slept, my mood changes randomly, I'm constantly covered in fluids and there hasn't been a second of quiet ever since the birth. But… I like it," Harry didn't have to say this; it was obvious to anyone watching how much he loved his new life as a father. "Dealing with babies is far easier than dealing with adults, in any case. At least James tells me when something is wrong - everyone in the Ministry would rather talk in coded messages and hope that I understand that 'I don't want to talk' is another way of saying 'I'm mad that you forgot my birthday!'"

His words reminded her of her argument with Kingsley. Damn. Just the thing she'd wanted to forget about. "I can't argue with that," she mused. "So, you're not coming back to the Ministry?"

Harry sighed. "Well, Ginny's going back to the Hollyhead Harpies first. I can tell not being on a broom is killing her, and the team hasn't exactly been doing great without her. So I told her I could stay with the baby, at least while we find a good babysitter. I'll probably go back at some point, I'm just not rushing it."

"You know," she started, "you don't have to come back."

"I know."

"The world knows you've done more than your fair share for the Wizarding World."

He snickered, "trust me, I know."

"So if you'd truly just rather quit being an Auror and spend more time with your family, I doubt anyone would doubt you. If anyone's earned it, it's you."

"I've thought about it," he said, looking down at the baby in his arms. "I think it would suit me. And I wish I could spend every moment with my family rather than off chasing Death Eaters. Yet, at the same time, I don't know if I could watch everyone else risking their lives while I'm home reading bedtime stories. It wouldn't be right."

Hermione could feel her stomach turning. She knew Harry was noble enough to run into battle if it meant his friends and family would be safe. Always ready to do the right thing, no matter how many hated him for it. With her out of the case (for a week, yes, but a lot could happen then), there wasn't much stopping Kingsley from recruiting Harry into the team. "Harry, it would be more than right. No matter what the papers say. You don't need to please anyone by endangering yourself."

"It's not about that, 'Mione." there was a pause after that, and Hermione assumed he didn't want to press the issue further. "Too many people died trying to keep me safe for me to retire in my twenties," he added solemnly.

"I think some could argue that they fought so we could retire in our twenties," she suggested.

"Would you do it?" He asked, catching her off-guard.

"Do… what? Retire?"

"I know you don't have children, and I don't even know if you want kids, but if you did. Would you leave the Ministry behind if it meant being safer for them?"

Even without children, leaving the Ministry was something she'd been considering for a long time. Though this was mostly because of her overwhelming need to prove herself and excel at whatever she did - something that came slightly harder when there were so many ranks one could rise up. She wanted her work to help the world, that was for certain, but she knew that being in the Ministry wasn't necessary for that goal.

It suddenly struck Hermione that ever since they'd visited Azkaban, her doubts about the Ministry and her unwillingness to work in the case had disappeared. Despite the maddening lack of progress in the case and the frustrating arguments with the Minister, she'd been engrossed by the mystery. Completely mystified by the puzzles that only became more challenging as every day passed by. It was a problem the likes of which she'd never seen before, and the mere prospect of solving such an enigma invigorated her. In a twisted, slightly depressive way, it gave her purpose.

"No," Hermione answered in full confidence. "I don't think I would."

"Maybe we should be asking Ron for help, he's saner than the two of us combined," he joked and she laughed in return, there was a certain appeal to leaving everything behind for a more relaxed lifestyle in George's shop. "Oh, that reminds me. Have you seen the rest of the house? Ginny wanted to show you and Ron at the same time, but since you're already here…"

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved that Harry was changing the subject and probably wouldn't ask her why exactly she didn't want to leave the Ministry. "I would love to!"

Every inch of the house was more impressive than the last. It was unrecognizable from the old, grim house that had haunted Sirius for so long. Every trace of the Black family that couldn't be erased or destroyed, they'd simply painted over or vandalized in such a juvenile manner Hermione sometimes forgot that the renovations had been planned by an adult woman, rather than a thirteen-year-old. Her favorite had been Walburga's portrait; the one that once screeched whenever she saw a muggle-born or blood traitor in her home. She was still there, and still screamed out when she noticed Hermione walking by, but now whenever she opened her mouth the only thing that came out was dog barks.

"Brilliant!" Hermione said between giggles as she and Harry watched Walburga bark. "Is there anything you couldn't fix?"

"The names," replied Harry as he fixed the curtains that covered the portrait - the barking was fun, but bothersome if left unchecked for long

"What names?" She asked in return. The names in question, as she was soon shown, were the ones in the elegant gold plaques adorning the doors in every bedroom. She could see they'd attempted to paint over the letters - much as how they'd done with the tapestry - but it didn't translate to every name. Names like Walburga's and Orion's were left alone, while Druella's name now read "Drool-ella" and Cygnus's read "Dingus".

"We couldn't think of jokes for every one," Harry explained, as they moved to stand in front of what had once been Bellatrix's room. The plaque, while still elegant, was starting to show its age and decay. "We thought about changing it to 'Bitch-atrix THEstrange', but Molly said she didn't want her grandson growing up with profanity on the walls."

"What did you do to this room?" Hermione pried.

"Nothing. We made sure there was nothing dangerous or dead inside, but we left it as-is. Neither of us wanted to touch anything in there."

A baby's wail diverted Harry's attention from the door, and he excused himself to tend to James. An altercation that Hermione had been too distracted to even notice.

There was certain energy emanating from the door; with a weight that Hermione recognized as dangerous and forbidden. Interacting with a space that she knew had once belonged to Bellatrix would do nothing to fix what Kingsley called her "obsession" with the witch's words. It certainly wouldn't do wonders to her mental health to enter and be bombarded with reminders that the evil woman had once been there. That she had once lived and breathed and contaminated the room with her presence and hatred. They were better off lighting the room on fire and forgetting it ever existed. Hermione was well aware of this.

And yet, her hand delicately danced over the doorknob before she slowly opened the door and let herself inside.

Hermione had expected many, many horrifying sights to greet her on the other side of the door. Bellatrix's bedroom, unsurprisingly, managed to outdo her wildest speculations - though this was mostly due to its complete normalcy, rather than terror. It was unnaturally small, at least when it come to ancient pureblood houses. With a twin bed (which was still impeccably made, if only a bit dusty), a vanity, a mahogany desk, a trunk no bigger than the ones Hogwarts provided for students, and a large shelf with an impressive book collection. There were a handful of toys and stuffed animals around, along with an empty ashtray and a mountain of empty dreamless sleep potions with a couple of firewhisky bottles peeking out from under the bed. Other than that, and a picture glued to the vanity's mirror, there weren't many of her personal items in the room. At least, nothing stood out to her as a clue of Bellatrix's connection to Voldemort or the case as a whole. Which, she supposed, made sense. As this had been her Aunt's home, not her parent's, meaning this wasn't where she'd actually lived.

"Well, at least there are no more decapitated heads around," she mused, turning to leave before the vanity picture captured her attention. It was a simple class photograph, showing the Slytherin house. A younger Bellatrix stood front and center, looking disinterested. For the first time, Bellatrix was not the most unsettling thing about the image. But rather, the large burn marks marring the faces of the other children. Making them so unrecognizable that Hermione was only able to discern who they were by reading the names engraved in the bottom. Amongst which was Rita Skeeter, Rodolphus Lestrange, Amycus Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, and Lucius Malfoy. In the back of the photograph, written in messy handwriting, laid a note that read "no mercy for traitors."

"Traitors?" She thought to herself. Of course, she knew what Bellatrix was likely referring to. But many of the Death Eaters pictured didn't denounce or abandon Voldemort until the second wizarding war - hell, Rodolphus was still as loyal as Bellatrix was, according to all the Azkaban guards that had the displeasure of ever interacting with him. It was unlikely that she would have branded him, along with the many others that remained loyal until the final battle, as traitors. And her capture in the aftermath of the battle made it impossible for her to return to her old bedroom to mark the picture in the first place. It was clearly something she'd done in the past - perhaps even before Voldemort's first downfall. The only question that remained was "Why?"

"I'm being framed."

Of course.

Could it be? That the treachery that Bellatrix was speaking of was not directed towards the Dark Lord, but rather, herself? Enough to plant clues to frame her while they worked on their nefarious cause without having to worry about the law looking after them. She knew Bellatrix would never act in ways that could be seen as disrespectful by her master - especially when it came to the mark and the scars he'd given her. But other Death Eaters didn't share the same blind fanaticism, and it was likely they wouldn't carry the same reservations.

It was a lead, to be sure. But it wasn't enough. She wanted - needed - a second opinion. And with Kingsley not willing to listen to her, and no one else to share her findings with (they were still trying to be as secretive as possible about the whole ordeal), there was only one person she knew could help her.

She could only hope Azkaban wouldn't prove impossible to enter without permission from the Minister.

With the picture in hand, she rushed downstairs back to Harry's side. Panting with fatigue and enthusiasm. "Harry," she said, "could I borrow your invisibility cloak?"