Dear readers, I'm very sorry for the wait. I've been swamped with work and moving, so haven't had time to work on this story much lately. I also had to outline the plot for Yr 6, and it took me a while to get a better grasp on where it's all going.
Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews. I was especially happy to read that the way I've imagined Bellatrix seems to be going over well, since that is something I worry about.
So, here is an extra long chapter, though perhaps not the chapter people may want. Still, good things come to those who wait (Pun, umm...intended?) ;)
Warnings for - surprise, surprise - death and sex.
Though the calendar insisted that summer had long since arrived, Sunday turned out to be one more in a string of impossibly gloomy days. A grey mist had conquered countryside and town alike, settling about each house and spreading despair to all. Muggle meteorologists were completely puzzled, while many wizards nervously recalled a similar spate of miserable weather right on the cusp of the first war.
Bellatrix was one of the few who knew the true cause of all this mist. Passing her favorite window-seat on the second floor, she paused to look out at the grounds. The fog lay thick and oppressive about the manor, but in that sea of grey she could just make out the serpentine movements of shadows swimming through the air. The mating ritual of the Dementors was a haunting dance, one she'd watched with a horrified sort of fascination many times in Azkaban.
Each courtship began with two creatures twirling together gracefully, circling each other in the air, allowing their cloaks to brush. Their movements were slow at first - languid, almost sensual - as they appraised each other carefully. But they were inevitably overcome by hunger, and would begin to tear madly at each other with their skeletal fingers, slashing until there was nothing left but shreds of black smoke.
Downstairs in the atrium, she found another sort of mating ritual underway - one that was eminently more repulsive. Her very own sister, self-proclaimed paragon of nobility, was cavorting in the corner with none other than Severus Snape, greasy half-blood whipping-boy for the Light.
They were standing a wand's-breadth apart, whispering, and Snape had his hand on Narcissa's shoulder in what he no doubt thought was a gesture of reassurance. Hearing the click-clack of her soles on marble, they jumped apart guiltily.
"Snape," she sneered, observing the pair in disgust as she slowly descended the stair . "Don't you have cauldrons to scrub and boots to lick somewhere?"
The Potions Master greeted her with a sardonic little bow. "And a good afternoon to you too, Bellatrix," he offered in a passable imitation of courtesy. "Feeling a bit under the weather, are we?"
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, but managed to restrain the impulse to smooth down her robes and fix her hair. The days when she could drink all night and still look chipper in the morning were apparently long gone.
"Yes, actually," she said. "I was up all night listening to the Dementors screwing. I don't want to see it from you two."
"Bellatrix!" Narcissa gasped, looking thoroughly scandalized. "Don't be vulgar! And you have entirely the wrong idea - "
"Oh it's quite alright, Narcissa," Snape cut in, tone dripping with condescension. "I doubt your sister is at all familiar with matters of the heart."
"More like matters of the knob…" Bellatrix snorted under her breath.
"I'd best be going," Snape went on, grasping her sister by the hand and kissing it lightly. "Take care, Narcissa. I'll write as soon as I have news." He gave Bellatrix a nod goodbye, an icy smirk playing about his lips, and she returned it with a cheeky little wave.
"Give my love to Albus," she mocked, just as the green flames of the Floo consumed him.
The second he was gone, Narcissa turned upon her furiously. "What exactly is your problem?" she demanded.
"My problem?" Bellatrix scoffed. "My problem is that your husband hasn't been in prison a week and you're already falling all over yourself to be Snape's next bedwarmer!"
Narcissa crossed her arms and glared. "Oh and I suppose you care about the sanctity of marriage all of a sudden? Besides, Severus is nothing more than an old, dear friend. Who, I might add, is doing more for me and Draco right now than anyone else - including my own sister!"
Bellatrix sighed, hating to be dragged once more into that pointless conversation. Narcissa had been frantic ever since the Dark Lord gave Draco his assignment, pleading with Bellatrix to 'fix it' like the whole situation was no more complicated than a broken Sneakoscope. And she'd already promised to spend all summer training the brat, and to devise his plan for him, but that was not enough for Lady Malfoy. No, Narcissa had to go running to Dumbledore's lapdog, begging him on bended knee, flattering him to the heavens, practically whoring herself out for his aid…
It was nauseating to think of the way her sister had behaved at Spinner's End. Even that wretch Eileen Prince had more dignity when she offered to trade all her earthly goods for a pittance, just to send her son off to school. And what a poor investment that turned out to be. Twenty five years later, the son had purged all traces of the mother from his little house, and nothing remained of her but a cracked gravestone in an overgrown yard, bearing the inscription, 'Here lies Mrs. Tobias Snape'.
"The both of you are idiots," Bellatrix said, looking at her sister with something like contempt. "Betraying the Dark Lord's confidence, conspiring behind his back… do you really think he won't find out eventually? Who do you suppose will be cleaning up that mess? Darling Snivellus?"
"You're not a mother, Bellatrix, so you will never understand how I feel," Narcissa declared imperiously, straightening her robes and walking to the door. "You have no one to care for but yourself. You certainly don't seem to care for me."
Again, she left before Bellatrix had the chance to respond, a passive-aggressive habit that probably dove Lucius crazy these past decades. And, like Lucius, she could have easily followed her down the hall, shouting insults, but it was hardly worth it. Poor Narcissa, it seemed, couldn't do without a wizard to hitch her wagon to - and it was only a matter of time before this particular wizard pulled her off a cliff.
Besides, Bellatrix had a prior engagement. The Dark Lord had asked for a personal audience, which of itself was quite an honor, but even more sublime was his promise of a 'special task' specifically for her. She knocked twice at the door of the now-fully-restored drawing room, and entered when she heard his sibilant reply. If Bellatrix had dared to think such things, she may have noticed how absurd he looked holding court surrounded by Narcissa's frilly Victorian decor.
"My Lord," she greeted with a deep bow, briefly eyeing the two others seated by his side. They were stubby and whey-faced, and seemed vaguely familiar, but as usual she couldn't remember how she knew them.
"Ah Bellatrix!" he called, motioning her over jovially - and in that moment it was impossible to think that this was the same wizard who'd nearly killed her just days before. "I'd like to introduce you to some young friends of mine." The two gave identical nervous giggles, glancing between her and the Dark Lord. "This is Alecto and Amycus Carrow. They are very eager to support our cause."
For a long moment, she could only stare at the pair with dawning horror, but the awkward silence was broken when the woman leapt up and rushed to shake her hand.
"Madame Lestrange," she twittered, with the air of a groupie meeting her idol. "I am a great admirer of your work. It's such an honor!"
The woman's hand was clammy and trembling, and Bellatrix let it go immediately, as though burned. "Likewise, I'm sure," she managed to grind out, thanking the heavens that her wand was deep in her robes where it wouldn't tempt her.
The wizard named Amycus approached as well, but perhaps sensing that to attempt a handshake might be hazardous to his health, he gave her a small bow. "Father sends his regards."
A muscle in Bellatrix's jaw twitched uncontrollably. "Does he now?" she growled.
You can't curse them in front of the Dark Lord, she reminded herself sternly.
That thought was followed closely by, These could have easily been your children. It was a truly nightmarish realization.
A slight cough from the Dark Lord interrupted their silent stand-off. "I trained Bellatrix in the Dark Arts personally, and if I may say so, she was an exceptional pupil," he praised, distracting Bellatrix and making her flush. "I expect she will prove a…satisfactory teacher."
"What am I to teach, my Lord?" she asked, surprised. Surely he couldn't mean that he intended her to tutor these two? Surely the fates were not that cruel?
But his chilling laugh confirmed her worst suspicions. "Duelling, of course. Reconnaissance. Occlumency. Interrogation," he listed. "You will begin immediately. There are big things on the horizon and I need my soldiers well-prepared."
So it transpired that the remainder of her day was spent instructing the Carrows, who, between the both of them, had less magical talent than a single wart on Minerva McGonagall's nose. Theirs was a case where eagerness did not make up for stupidity, not blood-status for character. She barely managed to push them out the door at nine o'clock, amidst effusive gratitude, still undecided about Hermione Granger's invitation.
Odds were strongly in favor of it being a trap. It was madness to even consider it, she told herself again as she leafed through Narcissa's closet, looking for a proper robe. Yes, she would probably be captured the moment she set foot in that old ruin, dragged off kicking and screaming back to Azkaban...or worse, they might just send her back here to the Dementors, an angry Narcissa and those twin idiots, the Carrows. For some reason, it amused her that she honestly couldn't say which option she preferred.
Still. The girl may have danced on the finer side of sanity, but she was no master duelist; if she expected to take Bellatrix Lestrange by force, she was in for a nasty surprise. No, what compelled the Death Eater most was the sliver of a possibility that the girl had... ulterior motives. Granger had every chance to Obliviate her, even stun her and turn her in while she was slipping that note in her pocket, but she evidently chose not to. And Bellatrix was absolutely desperate to know why.
Why did the girl choose to help her in Azkaban, why was she mixed up with the likes of the Mintumble sisters, why did she pick Heaven's Gate of all places, and why had she stared like she wanted to devour her whole?
Pulling out the few pairs of black robes that Narcissa owned, Bellatrix laid them against herself and examined her reflection. Turning this way and that, she tossed away one after the other in irritation.
"Didn't I say that nothing suits you?" a snide voice remarked from a darkened corner. In a heartbeat, Bellatrix had spun around to face it, her wand aloft, a curse already on her lips.
She was just about to command the intruder to reveal himself, when a translucent form drifted from the shadows, greeting her with mock salute.
"Sirius!" she gasped in bewilderment.
"In the flesh!" The ghost's hollow chuckle froze her to the very core. He was just a pale imitation of the wizard he'd been in life, though one could easily claim that Azkaban stole his soul long before the veil claimed his body. "Or what's left of it, I suppose."
"You're - you're supposed to be dead," she stammered, fighting a losing battle to regain her composure.
Brushing invisible lint from his sleeve, Sirius floated over to the window, peering out into the fog. "Yes, imagine my disappointment when I woke up here, instead of the glorious afterlife."
"You're not real," Bellatrix insisted, backing away with wand still raised."You can't be real!" Her back hit the door and she fumbled for the handle, eyes glued fearfully on the apparition before her.
Sirius gave an all-too-familiar shrug. "Well, then you're probably just crazy," he teased. "It was just a matter of time, really."
"Stupefy!" she cried, sending a jet of red light right at his chest, where it shimmered for a second before passing right through.
Sirius clutched the spot where the spell had pierced him, and laughed. "You know something - that actually tickles!" He sounded sincerely delighted to be able to feel something. "Go on, give it another go!" he challenged her, drifting closer.
But this was too much for Bellatrix. She practically ripped the door off its hinges in her haste to leave, slamming it closed with a sigh, as though removing him from sight would banish the ghost back to whatever dingy corner of the Underworld he'd crawled out of.
"Not real...not real...get a grip, Bella…" she muttered to herself, walking down the hall and deliberately ignoring the sound of echoing laughter coming from her room. It was only when she stepped out of the Floo at Borgin and Burkes that she realized that she never managed to find a proper robe.
The dusty shop was not her favorite old haunt - in fact she could happily go a lifetime without seeing her erstwhile employer again - but it was one of the very few secure places one could travel from Malfoy Manor. Hearing the telltale rustle behind the counter, she Apparated on the spot, eager to avoid uncomfortable hellos, and rematerialized in a familiar darkened street.
Heaven's Gate was long past its prime even during the war, and the intervening years had done it no favors. There were a few more boarded windows and a few more headless gargoyles, but other than that, it looked much the same as it had done in 1981. The blown-out streetlight gazed upon her mournfully as she approached the house, carefully probing the air for a trace of wards. Discovering none, Bellatrix tried the door, and was surprised to find it opened with a push. When the brigade of do-gooders she'd been expecting failed to materialize, she even dared to venture inside.
A part of her, the one still preoccupied with the unexpected appearance of her cousin's ghost, was certain that the house would be empty, that she'd hallucinated the entire thing - the Ministry, the girl, the letter. But as she stepped into the cobwebbed parlor, the sound of music drifted down from somewhere on the first-floor landing, and she knew that she was not alone.
The tune was melancholy, wistful - a perfect accompaniment to the pang of nostalgia that pierced her as she took in the familiar peeling wallpaper, the grimy whining floorboards, the ancient Georgian table in the hall, now piled high with paperwork, where she'd once made love...
It might have been just yesterday that she last saw these things, unchanged as though they had been conjured from her memory, but it had really been a lifetime. That bright-eyed girl she'd been was dead and gone, though her shadow remained - compelled, it seemed, to haunt the places she had loved in life.
A cat-like stealth came easily to Bellatrix as she crept along the wall in search of the girl, spotting her at last in a room that may have once been a formal parlor, but now held little more than a couple of stray chairs and a battered Steinway Grand. The girl sat at the piano, her fingers dancing gracefully across the keys, miraculously coaxing something beautiful out of that tired device. She had her hair pinned up, and just above her collar, a single curl had fallen out to brush against her nape.
Although her fingers spasmed with the urge to sweep that lonesome curl away, Bellatrix clenched her fist against the ghost sensation. Instead, she wondered at the careless cruelty of a rendezvous arranged in this particular house - was it a stroke of fate, or had the girl intentionally asked her here, guessing how it would affect her? She hardly seemed the type to take her pleasure rubbing salt into the wounds of others, but then again, they barely knew each other.
Perhaps she had it wrong from the beginning. Perhaps the girl had no agenda but the war, and she was merely here to make some tedious political offer. It was, Bellatrix thought, a far likelier scenario than being summoned by a stranger for an illicit tryst.
And was she really that hard up? That desperate to feel alive, if only for a single, fleeting moment? It had, she realized, been nearly fifteen years. And all that a time, whenever she recalled her lover, it was with hatred only - though there were many nights when, huddled alone on her prisoner's cot, Bellatrix could clearly feel the imprint of that familiar body burning at her side.
The memory caught her then, the memory of a thousand sensations: the breath against her neck, the moans she caught with eager lips, the fingers clawing at her back. It was too vivid, too painful; she let her head fall back against the shelf to chase these thoughts away, but the sound was louder than she could have guessed. Abruptly, the music stopped.
The sound of the bench scraping the floor as the girl rose soon followed.
"Hello?" she called, as Bellatrix hid from her behind the wall, breathing hard.
"Anyone there?" she tried again, but it was no use. Her guest was paralyzed with indecision. And Bellatrix knew the girl's next words would be 'homenum revelio', and then things would be forced to a head. The feeling she'd once had when dueling the girl returned - the feeling of dawdling on the edge of an abyss.
And she was not ready to fall. Not again, perhaps not ever. In a split-second's decision, she grabbed her wand and apparated away.
Tea at the Burrow was an unusually stilted affair. A dense fog had overtaken the cheery slopes of Ottery St. Catchpole, bringing with it a sense of all-consuming dread. Voldemort's emergence into the open weighed heavily on all those assembled in the Weasleys' kitchen, though no one dared to mention it, as though admitting that the war was coming would hasten its arrival. Not even the news of Bill and Fleur's engagement could lift the mood entirely, though they had talked of little else but wedding plans for days.
"Een France eet is customary to 'ave golden doves at ze wedding," Fleur announced into the silence, drawing humms of interest from the men and a particularly grim eye-roll from Ginny.
"Oh, is that so?" Mr. Weasley clucked with his typical enthusiasm. "How novel!"
Fleur nodded self-importantly, flipping back her sheet of silver hair. "Yes, zhey carry ze veil of ze bride. All the proper weddings have zhem. I will have my dress dezigned with feathers to match. I will look so beautiful, no, Bill?"
Her fiancé gave her an indulgent smile as a plate clattered in the sink, loudly announcing Mrs. Weasley's manifest irritation.
"Well this, thank gods, is England," the matriarch said curtly, as if that sentiment alone explained everything. "And in England, we don't have golden doves."
Fleur gave a little disdainful sniff, glancing through the window at the walled-off garden. "Yes, you just 'ave cheekens apparently. 'Ordes and 'ordes of cheekens!"
"And now we have a cow," Ginny muttered with a sidelong glance at Hermione, who couldn't help but smile.
Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Hermione were unanimous in their disdain for 'Phlegm', though the former two were active in their efforts to break up the engagement, while Hermione merely found herself repulsed by the couple's gratuitously saccharine displays. They were just two people in love, but the sight of them grated on Hermione's nerves for reasons she couldn't fully articulate.
"I'm sure we can come up with something mum," Bill placated, looking to his father for support.
But it was poor, infatuated Ron who came to Fleur's defense as usual. "Yeah, we could just charm some pigeons!"
Throwing her kitchen towel on the counter, Mrs. Weasley turned, hands on her hips, and glared at him. "And I suppose your father and I will be paying for that?" Her voice rose to a ringing pitch, and Hermione had the clear impression that Ron was just the first convenient target for anger that was really directed at her future daughter-in-law.
"W-well, Hermione c-can probably do it," Ron stuttered, suddenly finding his his soup extremely interesting. "Can't you 'Mione?"
"Don't drag her into this!" Ginny whispered, stressing the point with a painful jab to the ribs. Ron squealed, and gave her a reproachful look. Meanwhile, Hermione nodded distractedly to no one in particular and quickly excused herself; the list of jobs she'd been strong-armed into doing for the wedding had already grown impossibly long. So, she hid on the back-porch for hours as usual, reading and taking advantage of the Burrow's scarcest resource - privacy.
Dusk had just fallen when the screen door creaked open and Bill strolled out to join her, an old-fashioned pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. He brought his finger to his lips conspiratorially, and Hermione nodded; she knew that he was hiding from Fleur, who had forbidden him to smoke.
Bill took out a pouch and filled his pipe, and Hermione watched him nervously, as though deciding whether or not she could involve him in a matter of great importance.
Finally, deciding that her need for advice was too urgent to ignore, she spoke. "Hey, Bill. Can I...ask you something?"
He lit a match and took several slow drags, breathing out a strange-smelling purple smoke. "Sure Hermione, what's up?"
Studying her fingernails minutely, Hermione tried to gather her courage. "Well, you know Ron says you're very good with…." she faltered for a moment, blushing faintly, and finished in a whisper "...with, umm, women."
"I do alright," Bill chuckled. A small nostalgic grin flittered across his face, but he chased it away, adjusting his robes and trying very hard to look serious. "But that's all in the past, now that I'm about to be a married man."
"Yeah, right. Of course," Hermione reassured tensely. Taking a deep breath, she launched into her rather jumbled explanation. "But you see, the thing is, I have this friend, who umm...likes this witch. They met, and the witch seemed...interested, you know, so my friend sent her a note... asked her to meet up."
Worried that her tale was too transparent, Hermione looked up from the hands clasped in her lap, but Bill seemed unsuspicious, so she went on. "Well, the witch never showed. So now my, er, friend wants to know why she didn't come, and how to ask again…you, know, what to say to her…" she trailed off rather pathetically.
"Huh." Bill rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Where did this bloke ask her to then?"
"Uhhh…" Hermione stammered, casting about for something plausible, "To h-his house?"
"Well, see, that's your problem right there!" Bill exclaimed, his tone leaving no doubt that he thought Hermione's 'friend' was an idiot. "A proper lady will never come to your house on the first date. It's a bit rude to ask, implies you think she'll give it up before you've hardly said hello."
"Oh," Hermione breathed, then again with dawning comprehension, "Ohhhhh…."
"Most girls like to be wooed...courted, so to speak -"
"Like flowers, and opening the door, and all that rubbish?" Hermione cut in with a snort of disbelief.
Bill shrugged, taking another great puff from his pipe. "Say what you will, but it works every time. I agree, all that stuff's a little old fashioned, but that's not the point. It's about proving that you're willing to make the effort."
Hermione drank in his words with an eagerness she typically reserved for the dustiest, most ancient tomes in the library, feeling as though some previously-incomprehensible aspect of human interaction was finally making sense. "You know, I never thought of that," she said, looking out into the fog distractedly.
"Hermione…" Bill recalled her attention, "This friend of yours...it's not Harry is it?"
"Harry?" she repeated, confused. "What makes you say that?"
The eldest Weasley ran his hand through his hair uncomfortably. "Well, the thing is...we'we got a running bet going as to how long it'll take Ginny to win him over. Fred and George say a year, I say longer. Any, uh, inside information... would be much appreciated…"
'Arry will marry Gabrielle. Eet 'as been dezided," came the airy response as Fleur appeared beside them. Her sudden arrival startled Bill, who fumbled his pipe and tossed it to the side before she caught sight of it. He jammed his hands in his pockets, trying desperately to look nonchalant, while the pipe landed on a pile of old rags.
Hermione stifled her snicker, and turned to the still-oblivious Fleur. "Decided by whom?"
"By moi, of courze," the blonde witch declared imperiously, sending Hermione one of her half-pitying, half-disapproving looks.
Meanwhile, Bill casually maneuvered himself to the pile of rags, which had just begun to smoke, and surreptitiously tried to stamp out the fire.
"Zhey are perfect togezer!," Fleur went on, a dreamy cast to her voice as if she was reliving a fond memory. "He 'as saved 'er life! And Gabrielle iz much more beautiful! Eet will be so romantique, no?"
"Of course it will, darling," Bill placated - though his smile was noticeably stiff - and a satisfied Fleur left them as abruptly as she had appeared. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the retreating form, offended on her friend's behalf. "I'll put my money on Ginny anyday," she challenged, turning to Bill. "Ten Galleons says it'll be six months or less."
Retrieving his pipe from the charred pile, the redhead gave her the same mischievous grin she was so used to seeing on the twins. "You're on, Granger."
Hermione smiled, thinking that of the contenders, she was the only one with the influence to hedge the odds in her favor. Nor were her motives entirely selfish; anyone could see that Harry and Ginny were meant for eachother, though both refused to acknowledge it at the moment. Typical stubborn Gryffindors, she thought fondly.
The evening had grown colder by degrees, and Hermione was just about to go inside when the charmed Galleon in her pocket began to burn, demanding her attention. It was a new-and-improved version of her D.A. device, one of a pair she used to communicate with her Ministry handler. She took it out and read the miniscule lettering which had appeared on its golden face. It was usually a demand for information - that, or a suggestive invitation - but what she saw this time made her heart skip a beat.
Something awful's happened. Meet me at the office, it read.
Without pausing to think, Hermione leaped from her seat. In a few minutes, she was at the apparition barrier, and in a few more, she had rematerialized in a drab little room in the bowels of the Muggle Ministry of Defense, where her handler worked shuffling paperwork for some army bureaucrat.
"E-Evelyn?" she stuttered, staring at the scene before her in growing horror. "What the hell is this?"
Hermione's gaze travelled from the woman before her, to the unmoving form on the floor, then back to Evelyn... where it lingered on the letter opener in her hand and the dark stain marring the front of her crisp linen shirt.
"Oh! You came!" Evelyn cried, dropping the knife and rushing forward, as if she meant to embrace her, but Hermione drew back, shaking her head mutely.
Realizing how she must look, Evelyn stopped short, pressing her hands to her front in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the smear of blood. "She - she just came at me! I didn't know what to do!" she explained hysterically, her delicate features contorted in desperation. "I just wanted to get her off me, I didn't mean to hurt her!"
Hermione brushed past the distraught woman without acknowledging a word of this, and knelt over the body, feeling for a pulse the Muggle way on instinct.
"She's dead," Hermione concluded quietly, struggling to shift the body to face the ceiling, surprised by her own detachment.
Evelyn let out a strangled gasp, bringing one shaking hand to her lips. "Oh gods, oh no…"
In other circumstances, Hermione might have marveled at how neatly their typical positions had been reversed; it was usually she who was the nervous wreck and Evelyn who kept a level head. Perhaps it was just residual shock from the battle, or the emotional aftermath of watching Agatha, Rockwood, and Sirius die. Was it possible to get used to death?
But something else had caught her attention - something unexpected and terrible. "But ...this…" she whispered in disbelief, "This is Emmeline Vance."
Evelyn's head snapped towards her suddenly. "How do you know her?" she asked, and Hermione noticed that her voice was carefully neutral.
"Through the Weasleys," she lied. "She's been at the Burrow a couple of times."
After all these months, Hermione was still unsure if Evelyn and Scrimgeour were aware of the extent of her involvement with the Order. She'd put them off with excuses about her being too young, and Scrimgeour, who thought precious little of Hermione's talents, was easy to convince that the Light too considered her beneath their notice.
Truly, Hermione hardly knew Emmeline Vance, aside from the fact that she'd been a member of the first original Order, and had once served as part of Harry's guard. Still, this situation seemed wildly improbable. "I can't imagine her trying to attack you," she said.
"Neither can I," Evelyn agreed. "She seemed completely crazed, completely out of control. I think...I think she may have been Imperiused."
Hermione knew her well enough to pick up on the slight tremor in her voice, the one that meant that she was desperate to be believed. Remembering what Bode had once attempted under Malfoy's thrall, Hermione thought it was quite possible that Vance would be cursed to attack someone. But even if she could easily picture the whole awful string of events, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Evelyn was hiding something.
Trust was an uncertain proposition in their relationship, professional and personal alike. From the very beginning, Evelyn had lied to her, used her, forced her into the untenable situation of choosing between Azkaban and betraying her friends. The morning Scrimgeour forced her to sign the contract that sealed her serfhood to the Ministry, Hermione had loathed Evelyn more than she had ever loathed anyone. And shortly after, when Scrimgeour spitefully assigned the the squib as her minder, Hermione had fully intended to make her regret what she'd done.
But things hadn't gone quite to plan. She couldn't anticipate Evelyn's genuine regret, nor her own desperate loneliness in the months she spent adrift from the timeline, watching the other-Hermione monopolize her entire life. One thing led to another, and before she knew it, they'd fallen into bed again. And again, and again.
Picking up Vance's wand, Hermione cast 'Prior Incantato', and was almost surprised when the ghostly echo of the Imperius curse shot forth from the tip, arcing across the room where it bounced harmlessly off a filing cabinet.
Someone used her own wand to curse her? Hermione wondered. That's actually quite clever. No one could ever prove you did it.
But as soon as she thought it, she felt vaguely guilty for admiring such diabolical behavior.
"We can't leave her here," Evelyn cut in, watching Hermione expectantly.
"No, I suppose not," she replied. "Still, it's a handy way to get yourself fired, I guess. I know you hate this job."
"This is not a joke," Evelyn cried, shocked by her flippant attitude. And yes, it was horrifying, tragic, ghastly. Abstractly, Hermione knew it.
But the only emotion she could muster in the moment was a biting resentment. "Oh I see," she smiled bitterly. "You want me to take care of this for you, is that it? That's why you called me?"
The silence that followed was all the answer Hermione needed. On her many sojourns into Hermione's subconscious, Evelyn had uncovered all of her secrets, and she held that knowledge over Hermione's head like an anvil, without ever needing to utter a single threat. There was no question of refusing.
Hermione took out her wand. Evelyn may have been an expert on mind magic, but all other spells - even the simplest - were quite beyond her.
"What-what are you doing?" Evelyn whispered.
"Vanishing her."
"No! No, if you do that, we'll never know what happened to her, who cursed her, or what she was doing here. No...there needs to be a full investigation. If Death Eaters had anything to do with this - and I'm sure they did - we need to know about it."
This was a very good point, Hermione had to admit. But she wanted to make sure it was the Order, and not some clueless Ministry lackey, that found Vance. So, they settled on the idea of leaving the witch by the Muggle Minister's house, where Hermione knew Kingsley Shacklebolt was currently working undercover as a P.A.
"Perhaps you should make an anonymous tip," Hermione suggested as they scoured the alley for a suitable spot. "She must have family. She needs to be found soon."
"That's too dangerous! But I do have another idea - " Evelyn began, thoughtfully studying the windows which looked down upon them, and the foggy sky beyond. "Do you know the incantation for the Dark Mark?"
Hermione nodded, catching on quickly. Given the current climate, it was perhaps the fastest way to draw attention, and would serve the added purpose of pointing the authorities in the right direction.
Thinking back to the World Cup, when they'd witnessed Barty Crouch Jr. perform the spell, Hermione made a complicated swirl in the air and mouthed "Morsmordre". A green mist shot forth from her wand, swirling above them slowly as if it was deciding what shape it ought to take.
"Did it work?" Evelyn asked, looking up uncertainly.
"Um...sort of?" Hermione muttered, fighting the wholly inappropriate desire to laugh as the mist settled into its final form. While the general outlines were accurate, the Mark looked like a cartoon rendition of itself, with the skull resembling a smiley-face and the snake looking more like a long, squiggly tongue.
I wonder if Madame Lestrange would appreciate this, she thought suddenly, perversely.
And the universe must have been eager to answer her question, for the next thing Hermione heard was a very familiar voice shouting from around the corner.
"I'm must have come from there! Cover the alley! Quickly!" Hermione could have known that arrogant rasp anywhere, issuing orders like she was born to do it.
The sound of approaching footsteps followed this command, and Hermione turned, noticing Evelyn reach for her weapon - and stupidly, some part of her wanted to linger to catch even a single fleeting glimpse - but her body insisted on self-preservation. Her hand reached out to grasp Evelyn's, and they apparated away.
She took them to Evelyn's flat - a nondescript, Ministry-issued affair the squib used to keep up appearances. Shrugging off her coat, Hermione walked to the window, staring out at the fog-drenched skyline and trying to convince herself she wasn't disappointed.
Evelyn, meanwhile, was glaring daggers at her back, trying to draw a confession with the force of her silent anger alone. Eventually, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "So, did you Obliviate her?" she snapped.
"Who?" Hermione couldn't help but taunt.
"You know who," came the icy response.
Turning around, Hermione smirked at her, amused at this thinly veiled display of jealousy. Evelyn had, after all, seen the memories of their meeting in Azkaban and a few of the rather lascivious dreams Hermione had had about the Death Eater since. Just then, she felt the flutter of a searching hand at the edge of her thoughts.
"Don't even try it," Hermione warned, brushing aside the intrusion with ease. "You should know better - you're the one who taught me Occlumency, after all."
But not before you got all the leverage you could ever need, was the unspoken reproach.
"This is serious," Evelyn insisted, ignoring Hermione's sigh. "I can't even begin to imagine what you were thinking. Bellatrix Lestrange is the last person you want involved in your business. Any dirt she has on you, she will use to destroy you, Potter, the Order, and any chance we have of winning this war - "
"She never showed up, alright?" Hermione cut in mid-tirade, turning away lest her expression betray her feelings. The problem with living a double life was that the only person she could really talk to was also the one person who was sure to take advantage. So, she'd made the desperate mistake of spilling the whole twisted tale of what had happened at the Ministry to Evelyn, and had yet to hear the end of it.
"I thought you said she wouldn't be able to resist seeing that house again?" the blonde accused.
"I suppose I was wrong," Hermione admitted after a long silence, still surprised at how badly she had miscalculated the Death Eater. The thought that Lestrange had seen her note, and simply decided not to come upset her, and not only for the reasons her handler thought it should.
"Oh Merlin, this is such a mess," Evelyn groaned, sinking onto the sofa and toeing off her heels. "She could jeopardize this entire operation. We need to fix this as soon as possible."
"There shouldn't be an 'operation' in the first place," Hermione said, her temper flaring up again. "Did you talk to Scrimgeour? I demand another meeting."
"The thing is...he's very busy at the moment. You know he's in line to replace Fudge," Evelyn carefully evaded.
"Well, that's convenient, isn't it? Too bad he wasn't too busy to ruin my life!" she burst out furiously. "Did you tell him? Did you tell him I never killed anyone? Did you tell him about Agatha?"
Evelyn ran her fingertips along the edge of the cushion, refusing to meet her gaze. "I told him everything, but...the thing is, Hermione, with Agatha Mintumble umm, missing, there's no way to confirm what happened. And, well...you already signed a confession, so technically - from a legal standpoint, that is - the contract you agreed to is binding even if you're innocent."
"If I'm innocent? If?" she repeated, absolutely indignant. "So Scrimgeour doesn't care to find out, because it really doesn't matter, does it? As long as I'm spying on Harry for him, pouring propaganda in his ear. Right now I'm supposed to be convincing him to sign on as the Ministry's poster boy for the war! As if that's ever gonna happen!"
Evelyn sighed, giving her a look so cloyingly pitying it only made Hermione angrier. "I didn't say I agreed with it, I'm just -"
"Telling me how the world works?" Hermione interrupted, viciously mimicking the words the woman had said to her the first night they met.
Evelyn opened her mouth to respond, but shut it abruptly when she saw Hermione take out her wand and aim it straight at her. The delicate balance of power in their relationship was maintained not only by Evelyn's vast store of blackmail material, but also by her awareness of Hermione's belief that it was unethical to use magic against a person who couldn't defend herself.
But somewhere between discovering that Mr Engle's death wasn't her fault and finding Evelyn with the knife that killed Emmeline Vance in her hand, all of those moral certainties had blurred. Maybe it was Agatha's crushing betrayal, or Scrimgeour's ruthless opportunism, or maybe it was Lestrange's indifference in the face of her feverish, utterly hopeless longing - or maybe it was the incontestable fact that she'd brought all this on herself - but Hermione's simmering resentment at being life's perpetual doormat had finally boiled over, and would surely consume all those unlucky enough to be caught in its path.
"What are you going to do?" Evelyn asked, her face carefully neutral. Hermione didn't know whether it was an act or not, but as usual it irritated her immensely that she failed to inspire a single ounce of fear.
The question of why she'd want to inspire fear was brushed aside - or rather, deliberately shoved into the depths - as she sent a scorching hex at Evelyn, causing her to jump up with a squeal.
"Hermione!" the older woman scolded, rubbing at her reddened thigh.
But watching that slow, rhythmic motion only inflamed her more. "Turn around," she commanded, her voice low and urgent.
"What - " Evelyn began, confused by the sudden change of pace.
"I said. Turn. Around," Hermione growled, sending another hex at the poor woman, who gave her a dark, burning look, but silently obeyed.
"Bend over the couch," Hermione said, surprised at the fierce jolt of satisfaction she felt when Evelyn did so without hesitation.
"Don't move. Don't look at me. Don't speak," the demands all tumbled out at once, breathless and desperate, as she crossed the room towards her prey, her vague desire slowly coming into focus.
First of all, the clothes were all wrong. That dreadfully posh Muggle skirt-suit Evelyn always wore - it all had to go. She tugged at the zippers, but quickly lost patience, tearing into the fabric ruthlessly til it was just a pile of rags on the floor. There was the hair too - stubbornly, blindingly blonde - but that couldn't be helped.
Still, it disappointed her. She pulled at it roughly, forcing a cry from Evelyn as her head was jerked painfully backward. Hermione held her in that awkward position, maneuvering her along so that she faced the window, her naked breasts easily visible to any potential spectator.
"Do you think the neighbors are watching you right now?" Hermione whispered harshly in her ear.
"Merlin, I hope not," Evelyn replied, breathless.
"I thought I told you not to speak."
Hermione made her point with another stinging hex, fascinated by the way the skin beneath her hands turned red so quickly. She gathered all that pale hair in her fist and shoved her lover's face into the cushion, so that she wouldn't have to look at either. Then, without preamble, Hermione drove three fingers into her.
Evelyn cried out, in pleasure and pain, but Hermione wasn't paying attention. In her mind's eye, it was someone else's heat pulsing around her fingers, it was someone else moaning her name over and over. It may have been twisted, yes, but in that moment she would have given anything to make the fantasy real.
But, if she couldn't fuck Bellatrix Lestrange, well - at least for now she could pretend.
