Again, thanks for the wonderful reviews. They really motivate me to keep working on this story :)
The end of this chapter deals with events directly out of OOtP (Ch.23) *insert usual disclaimer*
At 6 am on the dot, the wake-up call went out over the loudspeaker.
"Prisoner 93 is requested in Interrogation. Again, Prisoner 93 is requested in Interrogation immediately," the mechanical voice droned.
Bellatrix rolled off her cot, landing on the floor with a grunt; she had barely a moment to lace up her trainers before her door was unceremoniously shoved open. In stalked her favorite guards, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.
"Miss us, 93?" the blonde one mocked as Bellatrix assumed the required position so they could search and shackle her.
Before she could respond, the hood was over her head, the latch too tight around her neck again so it was hard to breathe.
"Fuck you," she rasped, the words muffled through a mouthful of thick wool. It still smelled like vomit from the last time she'd been sick while wearing it.
"Did you hear something?" one guard joked with the other. "No? Must have been the rats."
The walk down to Interrogation was the worst, no matter how many times she made it. It was the waiting and the anticipation that got her. Although last time, she'd been allowed a bath afterwards - well, a bucket and a rag, but who could afford those fine distinctions here?
Stairs, corridors, more stairs, a courtyard… her feet tread the familiar route again, and she knew they'd arrived before she even caught a whiff of the antiseptic of which Interrogation always reeked.
"Over here," an unfamiliar voice directed, and to her surprise, she found herself sitting in a chair, cuffed only by a single wrist to the armrest.
Somebody took off her hood and, looking around, she realized she wasn't in the usual room. Across the table from her, a black-haired wizard sat, examining her like she was some grotesque (but fascinating) medical specimen. Delicately, he reached into his robes, pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his face for just a moment.
Bellatrix looked away, scowling. She knew she smelled like shit. He didn't need to throw it in her face.
"Madame Lestrange," the wizard began tentatively, "Do you know who I am?"
The words "another Ministry halfwit" were already on the tip of her tongue when she realized he'd used her official title. Well then. It seemed there were politics afoot.
She gave him a considering look. "No."
"My name is Pius Thicknesse. We were in the same year at Hogwarts. You were my lab partner in Potions once or twice."
Appraising him carefully, Bellatrix tried hard to summon up some shred of memory from the void her mind had become. But nothing came.
"That was a long time ago."
"Indeed. You've been here - what? Fourteen years?"
"Yes. Now make your point," she snapped.
"I'm here in my capacity as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It has been brought to my attention that our conversations with you over the past several weeks have been…less than fruitful."
"I agree. Your brainless lackeys have failed to kill me, and not for lack of trying."
"Please, Mrs. Lestrange - "
"I have no information for you," Bellatrix cut across him, exhaustion creeping into her voice.
"She's lying," a voice from the corner interrupted.
Her blood ran cold. That voice… it still haunted her nightmares; had it really been more than a decade since she'd heard it last? He still sounded as though he was perpetually nursing a terrible hangover.
"What the hell is he doing here?" she spat, glaring at Thicknesse.
"Mr. Moody is here as my consultant," the wizard replied evenly. "He's helping me interview your former colleagues."
"And this one," the Auror said, limping slowly into her field of vision, "is the worst of the lot. Real piece of work."
Moody studied her with disgust. "You look worse than a monkey's arse, Bella. Seems like prison hasn't been kind."
"No, it hasn't. And what's your excuse, then?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Thicknesse quirk his lips at the exchange. He cleared his throat, breaking the silent standoff between the Auror and the Death Eater.
"As I was saying, the Ministry is prepared to reconsider certain elements of your sentence - namely, accommodations - if you demonstrate a willingness to cooperate."
"I know he's planning something," Moody burst out impatiently. "Stop wasting time and tell me what it is!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bellatrix sneered.
The Auror clasped her forearm painfully and, tearing her right sleeve, triumphantly revealed the Dark Mark. "Then what is this?"
"You know exactly what it is, you bastard," she spat.
"It's growing darker!"
"Really? I hadn't noticed." She studied her fingernails nonchalantly, but the effect was rather ruined by the fact that there was dried blood underneath them - her own.
Moody huffed in disgust and turned to the other wizard. "Why don't you give me a few minutes alone with her, Pius? I know how to deal with these people."
"That won't be necessary," Thicknesse replied crisply. "Now, Madam, is there something I can do for you - as a show of good faith? Perhaps you'd like another bath?"
She took a moment to think. "I want a newspaper. Today's Prophet."
"You're wasting your time," Moody muttered darkly as Thicknesse motioned to one of his escorts. The boy left, returning several minutes later with a rolled-up paper and another official who Bellatrix vaguely recognized.
"Sir?" The second guard called. "Your Portkey is ready to go."
When no one was looking, he threw Bellatrix a surreptitious grin and a wink. So she did know him. But from where?
"Thank you, Rowle," Thicknesse said, standing. "Please consider what I've said, Madame Lestrange."
He gave her a polite nod and followed his entourage from the room, leaving Bellatrix alone with Moody for the first time. The Auror had both eyes - the good one and the magical one - trained on her, giving the impression that he was peering directly into her mind.
"I know you, Black. You're still the arrogant, evil little cunt you were at nineteen. So don't think you can try anything."
Bellatrix raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Charming as ever, I see."
"If you're waiting for your precious Lord to waltz in here and rescue you, Black, you'll be waiting a very long time. What do you think he'll do when he realizes his little pet can hardly hold a wand anymore? See how much he values you then."
He left without another word, and Bellatrix let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She could scarcely believe it when they took her back to her cell, not only unharmed, but with such an unexpected prize.
For a long while, she just sat there, staring at it, strangely nervous. A thought kept going round and round in her head, taunting her: What if I've forgotten how to read?
She certainly had a hard time remembering the incantations of even the most basic spells, not to mention names, dates, and events. Her mind was filled with shadows - the ones she chased, but could never quite get ahold of - and screaming.
It wasn't more than a fortnight ago that the fog had finally begun to clear. For years her tortured mind had conjured only demons and monsters, but that night she'd dreamt up a beautiful apparition. And, inexplicably, she'd woken to find herself still clutching the gift the spirit had given her. It was the happiest day in recent memory, and best of all, no Dementors showed up to feed off of her elation. Though the gloom they spread was omnipresent, it no longer seemed to burrow into her very soul. Memories of life outside of Azkaban, troubled though it may have been, returned to her and, for the first time in years, she remembered that she was a human being.
It took her the better part of a day to read the Prophet cover-to-cover. It may have been slow going at first, but to her immense relief, Bellatrix found that basic literacy was still within her grasp. All in all, not much seemed to have changed: the Ministry was still run by incompetents, European politics still resembled a sandbox tantrum, and the Chudley Cannons were still in the bottom of the league.
Interestingly, there was a lot of talk about Harry Potter, who had apparently grown up to be an unstable, attention-hungry loon ( which, if true, didn't surprise Bellatrix at all). Dumbledore, too, seemed to be quickly succumbing to dementia. If the Dark Lord had indeed returned - and she didn't dare hope - he wasn't going to find much credible opposition.
Leaving the crossword for later, Bellatrix decided that if she survived until Thicknesse's next visit, she'd barter for a pencil. She folded the paper and carefully propped it up next to her only other possession. Prisoners were allowed a single personal item, and hers was a photo.
Deciding, she wanted to look at the Prophet from her position on the bed, she moved it to opposite wall. It was only then that she noticed the date. Picking up the photo, she studied it for the ten thousandth time. In it, three girls stood in front of Honeydukes, bundled up in their winter robes, holding armfuls of sweets and smiling.
"Merry Christmas," she whispered. "Wherever you are."
"Merry Christmas!" Ginny chirped, depositing a steaming mug of tea on Hermione's night table, knocking over a few rolls of parchment and one of Crookshanks' grubby-looking toy mice.
"Do you have to be so loud?" Hermione croaked, peeking at the redhead resentfully over the edge of her blanket.
"Of course! It's Christmas! And you've got presents!" She stood there, looking at Hermione as though expecting her to spring out of bed a-caroling.
"OK. Fine. I'm awake," Hermione groaned. "Happy?"
"Why, yes, as a matter of fact! Open this one first," she commanded, thrusting a poorly-wrapped box into Hermione's hands, "it's from my brother."
Groggily, Hermione tore off the red and gold paper and took out the little bottle inside. She stared at it for a moment with confusion before raising it to her nose.
"What is it? A cleaning solution of some kind?"
Ginny snorted. "I think it's supposed to be perfume."
"Oh." That confused her even more.
"Well, you know what that means…" the redhead trailed off suggestively.
Hermione gave her a blank look.
"Well, Mum says boys only buy perfume for girls they like."
"But that's nonsense!" Hermione declared, a hint of panic in her voice.
"Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that," Ginny chuckled. "At least it's better than the stuffed Hippogriff he gave me. Honestly, it's like they all think I'm still five years old."
"I'm sure they don't. What did you get from Harry?"
"A biography of Gwenog Jones!"
"Is that...the one from the Holyhead Harpies?"
"Ah, so when you sit there looking all bored and superior when we talk Quidditch, you're actually listening after all! "
"I admit to nothing!" Hermione proclaimed, throwing one of her pillows at Ginny, who dodged it expertly.
Laughing, the redhead bounced out of bed, put on her bathrobe and headed to the door.
"I'll go see if Mum needs help. And I better see you downstairs today. There's no sulking alone in the library allowed on Christmas!"
Hermione set to opening the rest of her presents. Aside from Ron's perfume and Mrs. Weasley's traditional sweater, the rest were books; she was especially happy with Harry's New Theory of Numerology and Victor's Magical Beings and Beasts of Transylvania.
Soon, there was nothing left but a single envelope, addressed in very familiar script. She sat there staring at it for a long time, but couldn't bring herself to open it. Snatching it up at last, she walked over to her dresser, and shoved it in the bottom drawer.
She didn't want to know what he was going to say. She'd turned down his offer to come home for the holidays with a scribbled "I can't". There would be no Christmas lights in the window this year, no snowman with the funny hat, no eggnog by the fireplace - the one her dad had always spiked with rum - there would be nothing, and Hermione could bear the thought.
There was still so much to do, piles of research to sort through, plans to make, and she wouldn't dare step foot in that house until she'd made things right.
Grabbing the quilt she'd spelled together for Kreatcher, Hermione headed downstairs, running into Ron and Harry on the way. They followed her to deliver the house elf's gift, surprised to learn that Kreacher had made the boiler room his home. Inside the dank, cave-like little closet, the elf had managed to gather together a motley assortment of trinkets, old family heirlooms, and photographs.
"Who's that?" Ron asked, pointing to a the silver-framed picture which took pride of place in Kreather's collection.
"It's Sirius's cousin," Harry informed him tersely. "Bellatrix Lestrange."
Hermione had noticed it too, silently marveling at the woman's lovely features, which time and imprisonment had turned so harsh and worn. This Bellatrix seemed even younger than in the portrait upstairs, perhaps Hermione's age.
"Bit of a looker, ain't she?" Ron blurted out, drawing a glare from both of his friends.
"She was a Death Eater, Ron," Harry snapped.
"Well, that's too bad, then," he said, looking genuinely disappointed.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ronald," Hermione cried, "Don't you have any decency at all?"
"A bloke can look, can't he?"
Not at her, Hermione thought furiously, and then felt immediately ashamed. It hadn't been hard to deduce why the woman was in Azkaban, but Hermione had avoided asking Sirius or looking up her records, perhaps preferring denial. Her one recurring nightmare had given way to another: she would find herself in a long corridor, watching the Azkaban guards drag a body. When she caught up with them, she would snatch the hood off, sometimes finding Harry or Ron, sometimes Bellatrix, and sometimes her parents. Whoever it was, they would always be already dead.
Sleep was a rather dubious proposition these days, and consequently, she'd taken to hanging out in the kitchen at all hours of the night. Harry, who had become convinced that Voldemort was possessing him in his sleep, would often join her there for a game of cards or Gobstones. So many times, she'd been on the verge of telling him everything that had happened since June, but could never bring herself to do it. He'd changed a lot since the summer as well, had become brooding and scornful, and was too preoccupied with his own inner demons to pay anyone else's much mind.
Despite their protestations, the others still harbored some lingering doubts about the night he witnessed the snake bite Mr. Weasley, and tried a little too hard to treat him normally. Only Molly Weasley continued to dote on Harry as always, too grateful to have her husband alive to wonder about the curious circumstances of his attack.
Thus, on Christmas afternoon, they made their way to the Dai Llwellyn Ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a circumstance Hermione found not altogether inconvenient. According to her research, the hospital kept extensive patient records going back as far as the 18th century, detailing all manner of obscure and unlikely diseases. All she had to do was figure out where they kept the paperwork, sneak in there, and steal Eloise Mintumble's file. With two impressive break-ins already under her belt, Hermione was feeling rather confident about it.
After a brief visit with , Harry,Hermione, and Ginny and Ron made their way to the Visitor's Tea Room, escaping Molly's tirade about Muggle medicine just in time. Hermione did feel rather offended by her blanket assumption that doctors were basically butchers, a viewpoint that Ron and Ginny seemed to share.
Lingering behind, Harry shot her an exasperated look, and she felt a surge of gratitude.
"It's like they think all Muggles are barbarians or something," she told him.
"No, I think it's just unfamiliar to them," he reasoned. "And, you have to admit, the idea of cutting and drilling and injecting people to fix them is pretty strange."
"Well, my parents are dentists, so I suppose it always seemed normal to me," Hermione replied, a touch defensive.
Were dentists, her treacherous mind supplied.
It occurred to her then that she hadn't set foot in hospital since that horrible day. Suddenly the acrid smell of antiseptic was burning in the back of her throat and the brightness reflecting off the linoleum had become unbearable.
"Hermione? You OK?" a concerned voice pierced the fog of her senses.
They were all standing there, staring at her.
"I'm fine. Sorry," she muttered, embarrassed.
Ron was shaking his head gravely. "That's what happens when you skip breakfast, Hermione. They don't call it the most important meal of the day for nothing! Don't worry, I hear the mince pies here are top notch."
Unfortunately (for Ron) they were delayed in their pursuit of said pies by the unlikely appearance of Gilderoy Lockhart. Sorry as Hermione was that the man had permanently lost his memory, she definitely wasn't sorry that he couldn't remember the cringeworthy love-letters she'd sent to him when she was fourteen. They'd even been rose-scented, she recalled with shame. He'd probably kept them too, the self-obsessed prat. Thankfully, she'd now moved on to much more attainable candidates.
Like Tonks and Cho Chang, she thought with a self-deprecating smirk.
The Permanent Spell Damage Ward where Lockhart lived was certainly much nicer than the one Mr. Weasley was in, Hermione thought, noticing the cheerful multi-color decorations and the cozy little sitting area next to the window.
"Ahem," someone cleared their throat faintly, drawing her gaze. The others looked too, but noticing nothing of interest, they soon turned away.
Hermione, however, was surprised to see two familiar faces; there, across the aisle from Lockhart, lay none other than Broderick Bode, and by his bedside, clad in a particularly bizarre Christmas sweater, sat Agatha.
The elderly which acknowledged Hermione with a subtle nod and returned to her newspaper, looking every bit the ordinary holiday visitor. But it was clear that she had an alternate purpose: was she guarding her incapacitated colleague, or, perhaps, making he sure he stayed that way?
Suddenly feeling uneasy, Hermione looked about for an excuse to leave, but before she could say anything, Ron spotted Neville, trailing miserably after his grandmother on the other end of the ward. Hermione recognized Augusta Longbottom immediately, remembering Neville's boggart with its unmistakable stuffed-vulture hat.
She was an impressive woman, with an iron handshake and the kind of old-fashioned manners that would have been less out of place in Victorian England. Hermione knew that the Longbottoms were one of the last great pureblood families, and while Augusta carried herself accordingly, Hermione was glad that Neville had not inherited that air of besieged arrogance. Instead, Neville always seemed to be on the verge of apologizing for existing at all, and today they all learned why.
Tortured into insanity by You Know Who's followers… the words bounced around her brain, nearly incomprehensible, as Ginny nudged her and gestured to a woman making her way down the aisle towards them with aching slowness. Neville's mother. Alice Longbottom. Auror extraordinaire, according to Tonks.
Now, she was just an empty shell of a human being, hollow-eyed and mute, piteously slipping a bubblegum wrapper into her son's outstretched hand. Before she withdrew, Hermione caught a glimpse of her arm, where a word had been carelessly scratched - now faded to a faint white line.
"TRAITOR", it read.
The woman returned to her bed as Neville and his grandmother made their exit, leaving a leaden silence in their wake. Ghosting over Ron and Ginny's horrified faces, Hermione's eyes finally settled on Agatha, but the witch's answering gaze was empty. Bottomless.
Harry said something about having known all along, something about Bellatrix Lestrange…
"What?" Hermione snapped, disoriented.
Bellatrix Lestrange. Tortured the Longbottoms into insanity.
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" Harry demanded, confused.
The dizzying blindness had returned with a vengeance, and the silence was ringing in her ears, again.
Everything had shifted, slightly off…
"Please, I can't go on like this. If you won't take me, then kill me..."
The woman was screaming. Screaming her lungs hoarse. Tell the truth, tell the truth, her mouth formed the words. But no sound came out...
"Have some pudding, Hermione." Ginny's worried face swam into focus. She was holding a plate in her outstretched hand.
Looking around, bewildered, Hermione saw that they were in a large dining hall, surrounded by Christmas visitors. All of a sudden, she became aware of the deafening roar of conversation.
She took the plate. Picked up her fork and took a bite. It was actually quite good - tasted like brandy and raisins.
"Don't tell mum, but this is much better than the stuff we have at the house," Ron muttered around a mouthful.
"You only say that because it's drowning in booze, Ron," Harry joked, though an undertone of tension remained in his voice.
A harassed-looking house elf arrived at their table. From Hermione's vantage, all that was visible of the little creature was the very tips of her ears.
"Your pies," the elf declared irritably, dropping a tray in front of Ron and disappearing with a loud pop.
Ron picked up one of the pastries and took an enormous bite, his eyes alighting in pleasure. "I'd say this day is turning out much better than expected," he crowed. "Sure beats skiing, eh Hermione?"
It took her a minute to realize what he was talking about. "What? Oh- oh, yes."
Months ago she'd told the boys she intended to go skiing with her parents over the holiday. She'd been confident about finding a solution back then, had really believed that success was within her grasp. But here she was, on Christmas day, no closer to untangling this whole convoluted mess.
She stood up suddenly. "I have to go. I'll see you later."
Three confused faces turned upon her.
"Where are you going, Hermione?" Harry asked. "Should we come with you?"
"Well, if you like. I just want to get a better look at some of those old portraits. I read about them in St. Mungo's: A History, quite fascinating," she said, watching their faces glaze over, as they so often did when she mentioned books. When had it become so easy to lie to her friends?
"How about we meet you back in Dad's ward?" Ginny suggested helpfully, to the visible relief of the boys.
Hermione agreed, left the Visitor's Tea Lounge, made her way down the fifth floor corridor, passed the gift shop and some nondescript offices, and arrived at last at a door marked "Records". Fingers fished in the pocket of her robes and withdrew a pass - marked Augustus Pye, Trainee Healer - and she stared at in for a moment in confusion before remembering that she'd nicked it from Mr. Weasley's room earlier. She inserted the pass into a little slot, and was glad to hear the answering click of the door unlocking itself.
This time, it was almost too easy.
