"Quiet night," Yaxley observed, eyeing the row of brownstones and their curtained windows with distaste.

The neighborhood was unpretentious, the street entirely ordinary. There were a thousand such streets all over England, except for the singular fact that a witch lived in one of these humdrum muggle dwellings.

"A bit too quiet," Bellatrix said thoughtfully.

Her companion, she noticed, looked fidgety and uncomfortable in his transfigured muggle overcoat. Though Bellatrix always insisted on camouflage when venturing Muggle-side, she had to admit that she took particular pleasure in watching Yaxley seethe under her authority.

They had known each other for years, long before they had become unwilling colleagues in mutual service to the Dark Lord. Back then, Yaxley was a small-time thug affiliated with Knockturn Alley's most notorious loan shark. She'd run across him in the course of her work for Borgin and Burkes, where many of his victims had tried to pawn their possessions in desperation.

Although Bellatrix had never given in to the Department's attempts to buy her cooperation, the same could not be said for Yaxley. He turned state's evidence in the case which convicted his boss, served a token probation, and was quietly promoted into a cushy desk job in the Improper Use of Magic Office - where he remained, quite above suspicion, throughout the long years of the war and her subsequent imprisonment.

And they say crime doesn't pay, Bellatrix thought, sardonic and perhaps a touch resentful.

Suddenly, a movement at the end of the street caught her attention. It looked, for all intents and purposes, to be just a muggle taking his dog for an evening stroll. But as she watched the figure more closely, something odd happened.

"See that?" She pointed to where the man had stopped, as though dumbstruck, in the middle of the street. The dog tried its best to pull the man onward, but he refused to budge.

Yaxley's glance made it plain that he considered her paranoid. Or past her prime. "Bloke must have gone daft."

They watched the man turn around and, with an oddly meandering gait, go back the way he had come. Yaxley's rather bovine face still wore a blank look, but Bellatrix's vague suspicions had now solidified into certainty.

She traced a careful arc with her wand, revealing the glittering strands of magical wards crosscutting the night air.

"Repello Muggletum," she explained to Yaxley, who was now on high alert. "It means she's expecting us."

His wary gaze scanned the street, pausing to linger on the dark upstairs windows of the house across. "If that's true, we need backup. There might be Aurors about."

"There won't be," she said with confidence, knowing their target would consider it wrong to draw resources from the Department for her own personal safety - more fool her. "We proceed as planned."

A flicker of unease crossed Yaxley's features. He was weighing up the risks, no doubt, considering all that he had to lose if he were caught and outed as a Death Eater. Bellatrix couldn't sympathize.

"I mean, if you'd rather go back and explain to the Dark Lord-" she begun, but the hint of a threat was enough. With an audible sigh, Yaxley moved right through the wards, walked up to the house they had been surveilling, and rang the bell. Bellatrix hung back, now hidden beneath a hasty disillusionment charm.

Long moments passed as they waited for a response, and it came eventually in the form of a gravelly, "What's the passphrase?"

"Pickled slugs," Yaxley replied without hesitation, pressing his wand up to the door so the wards could authenticate it.

The door opened a crack, revealing the ill-tempered, suspicious face of Amelia Bones. She still wore her Ministry robes, but they were creased and rumpled, as though she'd fallen asleep at her desk.

"Corban?" the witch rasped, barely civil. "What are you doing here?"

Bones had aged since the last time Bellatrix saw her - she'd given evidence at the Lestranges' sentencing hearing - but aged unnaturally, as though worry and bitterness had worn her down more than the passage of years.

"Some strange activity turned up on our radar. Right on your block as a matter of fact. I thought I ought to come check on you myself." Yaxley explained, affecting a suave persuasiveness that was so at odds with his personality that Bellatrix could have laughed.

Bones raised a dubious eyebrow. "If I wanted a nanny, I'd get someone a bit easier on the eyes." Her words were light, jesting, but the way she scanned the street over Yaxley's shoulder was anything but.

Her eyes seemed to settle right on the spot where Bellatrix stood, invisible, and before either of them could react, Yaxley took the initiative with a lightning-quick stunner.

Bones parried with a powerful repelling hex, sending Yaxley diving for cover, and fired a rapid volley of spells at the spot where Bellatrix had stood. Then, she rushed back inside.

Odd, Bellatrix though. A sensible woman would have apparated on the spot. Unless...there must be something in there she doesn't want found.

They followed her into the house, which seemed much bigger than one would guess from its ordinary muggle exterior. It was pitch black inside, but Bellatrix could detect the faint smell of burning parchment, confirming her hunch.

Yaxley gave her a questioning look and she nodded - an unspoken agreement that they should split up and corner their target from both sides. No matter how much she despised him, Bellatrix had to admit he was an accomplished duelist, one who did not waste time on theatrics like Malfoy or on wanton destruction like Dolohov. Nor did he try to undermine her authority at every turn like Snape. Putting personal differences aside, they could occasionally work quite well together.

Tonight, fortunately, was one of those occasions. It took every ounce of their combined skill and ingenuity to overcome the formidable Amelia Bones, and by the time they had her wandless and petrified on the living room floor, both Death Eaters looked rather the worse for wear.

The battle had ravaged the house, stray spells leaving craters in the walls and scorching the hardwood floor. Miraculously spared, or so it seemed to Bellatrix, was the fireplace and the dozen or so photographs which stood on its mantel. With a flash of recognition, Bellatrix realized that they were all of Amelia's youngest brother, Edgar, pictured here and there with his wife and two children, all of whom had been killed by the Dark Lord some fifteen years ago.

She reached for one of the frames, trying to remember if she'd been there the night it happened, but her eyes were suddenly snared by the outraged gaze of Amelia Bones. Don't you dare, it seemed to say.

Bellatrix dropped her hand as though burned. "Summon him," she hissed, watching as Yaxley pressed his wand to his forearm and muttered the incantation.

Black smoke pooled like tar on the floor between them, and out of its depths, the Dark Lord emerged. The air in the room shifted palpably, overwhelmed by his magical presence.

Cold eyes took in the scene, lingering on Bones' prone form and on the long jagged gash across Yaxley's forehead. "Thank you, Bella," he said in his soft, sibilant voice.

It took her a moment to realize she had just been dismissed.

After the weeks she'd spent on this assignment - surveilling the Department, interrogating Bones' underlings, looking for leverage - it would ultimately be Yaxley who profited by her labor. The Dark Lord had already singled him out as Bones' successor, an integral part of the plan to gain control of the Ministry from within.

And she'd thought there could be no worse insult than being passed over for the likes of Malfoy. Oh, how wrong she had been.

An intense pang of anger and hatred struck her, and she fumbled to shove it behind her Occlumency shields before her face could betray her feelings. It was dangerous ground she was treading, and she needed to leave.

"My Lord." With a stiff bow, she began to back out of the room, noting the way Bones' eyes followed her with a renewed apprehension. Amazingly, the woman seemed more nervous at the prospect of Bellatrix searching her house than she had upon the arrival of Voldemort. "I will check the wards."

A long hall lead off to the left, its walls lined with portraits that Bellatrix cursorily examined by the light of her wand. The voices behind her went abruptly quiet.

Adding insult to injury, the Dark Lord had evidently cast a silencing charm to prevent her overhearing the interrogation. Of course, she could use Legilimency on Yaxley at some later date, but the thought that she had been reduced to scheming and plotting to get information was intolerable.

A faint scratching noise was coming from the end of the hall, and turning a corner, Bellatrix found herself in a large old-world kitchen lit by the dying flame of a log fire. A rather bedraggled black cat regarded her from across the room, then pawed again at the door in a wordless demand.

Strewn all over the countertops were sheafs of parchment, open files, empty tea cups, the remnants of a half-eaten midnight snack, and a dozen other odds and ends. In all this Bellatrix recognized the traces of a habitual insomniac - throw in a few empty bottles of Ogden's, and it could easily have been her own room.

On the wall hung a crude child's drawing of a badger, signed "To Aunt Amelia. Love, Susan." Bellatrix felt inexplicably ashamed, like an unwilling voyeur who'd stumbled upon something deeply intimate. As she opened the back door and watched the black cat disappear into the night, she imagined that Bones' presence, her ghost, was already haunting this place, even though the witch was likely still clutching to life in the other room.

Fawley, who'd once been Bones' protégé, had described her as "one of the good ones", untouched by scandal or corruption or even the usual underhand dealings the Department was known for. And yet, there was something here she had risked her life to conceal.

In a flash of inspiration, Bellatrix turned to the fireplace. As she traced the motions of a modified Reparo, burnt fragments rose from the embers and reconstituted themselves into a single sheet of paper.

She plucked it out of the air impatiently, but her excitement turned to confusion as she scanned the page. It was a memo requesting the removal of the protective guard on the house of Edgar Bones. Even after all these years, it seemed that his sister still had unresolved questions about his murder.

Yet there was nothing inherently suspicious in the Department's decision to withdraw protection, especially at the height of the war when resources had been stretched particularly thin. She scanned the page again, then read the signature at the bottom:

Authorized by Rufus Scrimgeour, Lead Auror.

For some reason, it did not surprise her to see his name. In fact, she had almost been expecting it. Something, some nebulous idea, was tickling at the edge of her consciousness - now, if she could only reach out and grasp it...

"Bella."

An icy bolt of fear surged through her, and she spun around to see the Dark Lord regarding her from the doorway, a smug-looking Yaxley at his side. Instinctively, she crushed the note in her fist and shoved it deep into the pocket of her robes.

"M-my Lord…" she stuttered, feeling like a child who had been caught red-handed. Her heartbeat fluttered madly, even as she told herself that she'd been doing nothing wrong.

The Dark Lord's expression remained as inscrutable as ever while he studied her. "I think we're finished here," he said at last. "I'd be obliged if you could tidy up. I'd much prefer it if she wasn't found until tomorrow."

Not bothering to hear her reply, he vanished in a swirl of black smoke, taking Yaxley with him.

Bellatrix breathed a sigh of relief.

With the mindless precision of long experience, she began to remove all evidence of their presence: repairing the broken furniture, removing the lingering traces of their magic, restoring the wards. She ought to have felt slighted at being left to mop up like a common house-elf. Instead, she felt disoriented and shaken in a way she hadn't since the early days of her service.

In front of the fireplace she'd fashioned as a sort of shrine to her brother lay the body of Amelia Bones, its limbs twisted unnaturally by the force of the killing curse. Would there be anyone to mourn this solitary woman - who had achieved so much, yet left so much unfinished?

What were you looking for? Bellatrix wondered, levitating the body onto the couch so that it looked like Bones was merely sleeping. What did you find?

She gave the scene one last appraising look, and apparated to the spot across the street where she and Yaxley had begun their night watch. The only task remaining was to check the area for witnesses, and then she could make her way back to the Manor.

But the thought of spending another long night alone with her thoughts suddenly filled her with dread. Besides, Yaxley would probably be there, bragging about the mission and his sure-to-be-imminent ascent through the Ministry ranks. Not for the first time, Bellatrix wondered how the son of a semi-literate sheep farmer had managed to overshadow her in the eyes of the Dark Lord.

Decades ago, the Yaxleys had been pushed off their ancestral lands by the growing sprawl of a Muggle settlement. The father drank himself into an early grave soon after, leaving his embittered wife to raise four sons in poverty and isolation. Yaxley inherited his mother's rabid anti-Muggle fanaticism, eventually finding his place as one of the few true believers within the Dark Lord's circle.

She could have tolerated his presence as a foot soldier, a necessary evil, an occasional ally - the way she'd once tolerated Snape. But in her absence, everything had changed. After Azkaban, she had expected to return to a hero's welcome, and when that didn't happen, she'd been confused, and anxious to regain lost favor.

It was only now that she saw it all with an impassive clarity.

Among the Dark Lord's early supporters were prominent pureblood families - the Selwyns, the Rosiers, the Lestranges, the Blacks - who had pledged their considerable wealth and influence in service to the cause. Now that their galleons were spent and they'd been outed as Death Eaters, their use to the Dark Lord was limited. He kept them in Azkaban as a distraction, giving the public a false sense of security and allowing his spies to infiltrate the Ministry unsuspected.

There was nothing more useful to the Dark Lord these days than a clean reputation, and that was how the half-bloods, the ruffians, and the cowards who'd once renounced him suddenly found his favor.

It was a clever strategy, the Slytherin in her had to admit. There were Death Eaters who took issue with the Dark Lord's methods, but Bellatrix had always prided herself on being above such trivialities. It was results that mattered.

Or so she had thought, until the "results" had come at her own expense. How much more could she be expected to sacrifice? How much more was she willing to give?

Stop it, Bellatrix told herself firmly. Thinking like that will only get you killed faster.

Her brooding had taken her to the end of the block, and as she turned a corner, Bellatrix spied the first signs of life to appear in this neighborhood since the unfortunate dog walker.

The two figures, dressed in ordinary Muggle jeans and coats, stood waiting at a bus stop. At a cursory glance, they seemed quite unremarkable. But as she watched, one of them lifted a cigarette to his mouth and attempted to light the wrong end.

Bellatrix scoffed. "Amateurs."

Apparating to a convenient vantage - a balcony directly above the bus stop - she decided to try and eavesdrop before confronting the would-be "Muggles".

It wasn't long before the man turned to the woman and whispered, "Is patrol always this boring?"

His voice, strangely familiar, sent an involuntary shudder up her spine. Where had she heard it before?

"Pretty much." The woman shrugged. "Although, I thought you'd be used to it after Azkaban."

Azkaban? Ah, of course... McDowell. The name floated up from the depths of her consciousness, and she recalled that he'd been one of the Junior Wardens in Supermax towards the end of her sentence.

"You'd be surprised," McDowell replied grimly. "A lot went on there. Escape attempts every other week. Hunger strikes. And the suicides…"

"Suicides?" The witch repeated, scandalized.

McDowell nodded. "Mostly unsuccessful, the poor bastards. They didn't pay me enough to deal with all that. That's why I left."

The woman seemed to mull this over, then asked: "Were you there during the break out?"

"Yeah, but I'm not allowed to talk about it. I had to sign a non-disclosure contract and everything," he said, and to preempt more questions, changed subjects abruptly. "There's one thing I'm still not clear on. What the hell is a Blackout Zone?"

"Well, all the different Departments monitor the country for illegal magic," the witch explained. "Improper Use makes sure kids don't cast spells out of school, Magical Creatures tries to prevent anything non-human from going into Muggle areas, et cetera. A Blackout Zone is an order to suspend all oversight of a particular location."

"But why would they do that?" McDowell wondered.

"I'm not sure. I know that Hit Wizards request them sometimes. I guess they don't want anyone to know what they're up to." That seemed to be all she was willing to say, and the two soon lapsed into silence.

Casting a discreet muffliato, Bellatrix leapt down upon them, landing neatly behind the witch.

"I'll take that," she growled, painfully twisting the wand from the woman's hand.

"You!" McDowell gasped, his eyes widening in horrified recognition.

"Me," mocked Bellatrix, sending a stunner his way as he fumbled for his wand. But the satisfaction was short lived as McDowell's partner elbowed her hard in the stomach, knocking Bellatrix to the ground.

She managed to intercept the woman's kick, and after a brief scuffle, had her pinned down at wand-point. The guard was a tall, heavy witch- obviously trained - but she was no match for Bellatrix's reflexes and experience, honed over decades.

"If you're going to kill me," the witch ground out through her bloodied teeth, "Then you'd best get it over with."

"You're no use to me dead," Bellatrix drawled, and then, without preamble, cast: "Imperio."

For long moments, the witch attempted to resist the curse, but her eyes eventually turned opaque as she fell under its power.

That's when Bellatrix began her interrogation: "What's your assignment? How long have you been here?"

"We were pulled from our regular beat and sent here this morning," the woman replied in a slow, far-away voice. "We have to make sure no one goes in or out of the Blackout Zone."

"Why?"

"They didn't tell me anything. It's all classified. All I know is that the orders came from on high. Rumor is that some Ministry bigwig lives here."

Orders from on high? Was it possible that Amelia Bones had arranged this herself, perhaps anticipating an attack? But the only reason Bellatrix could imagine for calling a Blackout Zone on your own neighborhood was if you wanted to kill someone and avoid getting caught. And that seemed entirely out of character.

Looking down at her captive, Bellatrix threw out a guess: "There's something you're not telling me."

The witch seemed to hesitate, but the Imperius forced her to answer. "I...I don't know. It's just odd that they decided to send us. McDowell's new and I've only ever worked patrol. This job is usually reserved for high-level Aurors. It's almost like…" She faltered, unable to finish her though, but Bellatrix understood perfectly. They had been sent here as scapegoats - or worse, sacrificial lambs.

Something suspicious was going on, Bellatrix knew, but there was nothing more to be gleaned from this pair. She revived the unconscious McDowell, healed his partner, and carefully altered their memories before leaving them to resume their vigil.

...

She really should have gone home then.

At least, that's what she told herself again and again as every step brought her closer to a familiar house. But her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and before she knew it, she was raising her hand to the ornate brass knocker which adorned the entry to Heaven's Gate.

The seconds stretched into infinity as she waited, double-guessing herself to the very end - and then the door finally opened.

It was too late to run.

There in the doorway, looking thoroughly nonplussed, stood the girl. Bellatrix vaguely registered the oversize sweater, the mop of disheveled curls, and the overwhelming impression of exhaustion.

So, she had managed to catch the girl off her guard - a nice change from their previous meetings, which helped to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in her belly.

She smirked, giving a rather ceremonious nod. "Granger."

The girl, for her part, was looking her up and down with profound suspicion, as though she expected Bellatrix to pull out an axe from beneath her voluminous robes. "What…" she stammered, "What do you want?"

"To talk," Bellatrix said simply, hoping her tone had not conveyed the innuendo. "You did invite me."

"Right." The girl nodded to herself, coming to some unspoken decision. "Right. Well, why don't you come in."

Bellatrix had passed thought that very door dozens of times, but the aura was so changed that it seemed like an entirely different house. There were lights in every corner and the air practically hummed with the magic of wards, though these felt more comforting than ominous.

Upstairs, however, the big front parlor seemed to have drowned beneath a tidal wave of parchment. Charts, diagrams, and lists of every description covered the walls, piles of notes were scattered across every surface, and the floor was a maze of heaping stacks of old books.

Bellatrix observed this scene, surprised and perhaps a little appalled. "What's all this?"

"My work," the girl said repressively, and with a wave of her wand, all the pages in view shimmered and turned blank. With a look that made it plain that her "work" was a closed subject, the girl turned and led the way into the kitchen.

Well, it had been a kitchen at some point, but had since been converted into a sort of makeshift potions lab. There were no less than six industrial cauldrons on the countertops, each bubbling merrily away with a lilac-colored potion she couldn't identify.

Bellatrix watched the girl rummage fruitlessly through the cabinets, gaze sliding involuntarily down her body and coming to rest on the curve of her arse. Covered in muggle jeans, of course - but it looked as good as she remembered.

"Hmm, let me see," the girl was muttering, "I don't think I have anything to offer you. Besides tea."

"Then we better check if there's anything left of my stash," Bellatrix said, crossing to the cabinet with the hidden side-panel and spelling it open. Groping around its recesses, she eventually pulled out a dusty bottle of Ogdens with a self-satisfied grin. "This'll do nicely."

Yes, she though, perhaps the night can be salvaged after all.

Granger leaned against the counter, her manner deliberately casual. But there was a certain tension in the cast of her shoulders, like a piano wire stretched so tight it might snap at the slightest touch.

Noticing her surreptitiously finger the wand beneath her sleeve, Bellatrix smirked. "Not nervous, are we?"

"No offense," the girl gave a breathy laugh, "But when Bellatrix Lestrange shows up at your house in the middle of the night… 'to talk'... it usually means you're about to be tortured for information."

Well, the girl wasn't totally wrong, Bellatrix had to admit, though it irked her when people made her out to be some sort of barbarian. "When you have as much experience as I do," she said evenly, "You learn that that doesn't work on everyone."

Granger's eyes snapped up from their careful contemplation of the floor. "And what works on you?" she asked softly.

With a dismissive little huff, Bellatrix shot a pointed look at the as-yet-unopened bottle of Ogden's. "Hospitality."

The girl summoned up a couple of mugs, serving them both a conservative measure. "Here you are, Madam," she gestured Bellatrix into an armchair with a small mocking bow.

Then, she busied herself clearing up, giving Bellatrix the chance to observe her closely for the first time. Below the rolled-up sleeves of her sweater, her hands and fingers were stained blue with ink. They were scholarly hands - not dainty, not exactly elegant - but alluded to a personality that was exacting and meticulous above all else.

Everything about this girl ought to have been repellent, Bellatrix knew it. But nevertheless, she found her strangely compelling. There was no use lying to herself -her body's response now that they were standing so close was an embarrassing reminder that lust had neither morals nor sense.

The girl grew still, suddenly aware of the scrutiny, and Bellatrix turned sharply away. This is NOT what you came for, she told herself firmly, polishing off her scotch in one gulp.

"What do you know about Edgar Bones?"she asked.

Granger seemed startled by the non sequitur. "Not much..." she paused, no doubt sorting through her extensive mental rolodex. "Only that he was the brother of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. I think he died."

Bellatrix nodded, gratefully sinking into her armchair. Now that the adrenaline from the night's duels had worn off, she was acutely aware of every bump and bruise. "He was a journalist at the Prophet, and not one of the usual hacks. He was well known - or should I say notorious - for his investigative pieces."

"Wait - that rings a bell," the girl cut in, and Bellatrix caught a momentary glimpse of the over-eager schoolgirl leaping out of her seat to answer a question. "Wasn't he the one who found out that the Director of St Mungos was embezzling money from the hospital? I read about that somewhere."

"That's him. And he didn't just target the big names - he went after everyone. Fancied himself as a sort of amateur sleuth. As you can imagine, he got death threats by the dozen."

"But the one who actually killed him was …" the girl paused, struggling for a neutral description, and eventually settled on, "...your boss."

"That's right. Now, if I were to tell you that the Ministry placed a guard on his house, but that guard was conveniently removed on the night he died, what would you say?"

The girl bit her lip thoughtfully - a regular habit, Bellatrix guessed. A rather distracting habit. "Well the obvious answer is that your people saw an opportunity and took it. But since you're asking me, I take it that's not the case. Unless…"

Bellatrix leaned forward, anxious to hear the girl's conclusions.

As the Dark Lord's right hand, she had a keen appreciation of her own strengths. She was a first-rate tactician, a master duelist, and even - as her Auror record could attest - a good investigator. But it would take a brilliant mind to untangle the threads of this obscure conspiracy, and that was why she had swallowed her pride and come to ask the help of this otherwise unremarkable girl.

"Is it possible that whoever arranged the removal of the guard was an informant for the Death Eaters? Under the Imperius, maybe?" Granger suggested.

Bellatrix hesitated, then shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. I would have known."

She drew out the crumpled note she'd salvaged from Amelia Bones' fireplace and handed it over.

Granger unfolded the parchment, biting her lip again as she read. Definitely distracting, Bellatrix though.

"So...you're thinking that Edgar Bones had dirt on our new Minister," the girl began slowly, pensively, "And Scrimgeour arranged to make him an easy target?"

She hadn't been thinking that, as a matter of fact; but now that she considered it, it did make sense. "Well, I'd believe it of him." Bellatrix shrugged.

An alarm trilled, and Granger leapt up, rushing to check on one of her potions. She chopped ingredients and scraped them into the cauldron with the edge of her knife, handling the blade with a quiet confidence that Bellatrix found oddly hypnotic.

"Do you think he was looking into Mooncalf?" Granger asked suddenly.

And just like that, Bellatrix was yanked out of her pleasant, unthinking haze. "Who?"

The girl gave a little huff of impatience. "Edgar Bones," she explained slowly, as though to a child. "Do you think he was looking into Operation Mooncalf, and Scrimgeour somehow found out about it?"

Draco was right, this girl really was insufferably arrogant, especially for a Mudblood. A familiar spark of rage inflamed her, but died away just as quickly. She didn't have the energy to be angry tonight. She felt drained, hollow in a way even the scotch she was steadily downing couldn't fill.

"Scrimgeour was just a run of the mill Auror when Bones was killed," Bellatrix pointed out, surprised at her own calmness. "He wouldn't have had the clout to orchestrate something like this. Not by himself, anyway."

Granger gave her a contemplative look, and, turning to the shelf, levitated down an ornate stone basin which she placed on the table between them. "There's something I want to show you."

It was a pensieve. White strands of memory swirled in its depths, delicate as gossamer, and, overcome by curiosity, Bellatrix leaned forward and was drawn into that dizzying vortex. The hallway she found herself in was dark, narrow, and apparently deserted.

Then, someone whimpered softly.

Bellatrix spun around, shocked to see that the only other occupant - and indeed the owner of this particular memory - was a diminutive house elf wearing a tea-towel draped like a toga.

The elf tiptoed forward, lighting their way with a single sputtering candle. Bellatrix could just make out the faint sound of voices, which grew louder as they approached a set of massive wooden doors. But instead of reaching for the brass handle, the elf looked around wearily and then snapped her fingers. A tiny, elf-size door appeared within the larger door and opened with a soft creak.

Bellatrix gave an irritated sigh and crouched down, peering over the elf's shoulder into the shadowy room beyond. The scene that greeted her was decidedly strange.

On the floor of what appeared to be a small study, four people sat in a circle, one holding his wand above the clasped hands of two others - the traditional stance of those preparing to make an Unbreakable Vow.

The tip of the wand glowed bright red, throwing the caster's face into sharp relief. With a gasp, Bellatrix realized that she was looking at a much younger Rufus Scrimgeour. Beside him, perched daintily on a magenta cushion which perfectly matched her dress robes, sat Dolores Umbridge.

A thin, reedy voice broke the silence, though Bellatrix could detect within it an undertone of insistence, an absolute inflexibility. "Will you agree to see this mission though to the end, knowing that the cost - in money and in human life - may well be substantial?"

She knew that voice. It was the same one that had condemned her, a dozen of her compatriots, and his very own son to a lifetime of torment in Azkaban. Barty Crouch Sr.

"Will you agree to set aside your personal loyalties and ambitions, and place this mission before all others?" The voice grew louder and more fervent.

Eyeing Crouch's dark mustache and Scrimgeour's unlined face, Bellatrix guessed that this memory was perhaps two decades old, when the former was Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and the latter a rookie Auror.

"And lastly," Crouch went on, triumphant, "Will you agree to never speak of this outside of this room... and, if necessary, to take this secret with you to very grave?"

For long moments, the third wizard was silent, his face lost in the shadows. Then, he gave a deep sigh.

"Minister?" Scrimgeour prompted, lifting his wand to illuminate the resigned face of Harold Minchum, 30th Minister for Magic and absolutely the last person Bellatrix expected to see on the other end of this incomprehensible exchange.

Ignoring Scrimgeour, the Minister turned to Crouch and squeezed their joined hands painfully, almost resentfully.

"I will," he whispered.

As the fiery magic of the Bond lit up the room, the scene around her shimmered and faded from view. She once again found herself in the dilapidated kitchen of Heaven's Gate.

Granger hardly gave her a second to recover. "Well?" She leaned over Bellatrix expectantly. "What do you think?"

Her mind swirling with a hundred different thoughts, Bellatrix pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to will away the headache she had been nursing all night. "Where did you get this?" she asked sharply.

"From Winky the house elf." Granger gave an airy wave. "She's a friend of a friend."

"A friend of a - what am I saying, of course she is." Bellatrix sneered. Leave it to a Mudblood to befriend a bloody house elf.

Pre-empting the girl's indignant reply, she went on: "Let me give you a little history lesson, Granger. I hear you love those." She smirked, seeing the faint beginnings of a blush stain the girl's cheeks. "Crouch and Minchum both ran for Minister in '75 on a 'law and order' platform. Everyone seemed to be striking, rioting, generally making a nuisance of themselves: the suibs, the werewolves, the centaurs - even your kind."

Granger frowned at that, but wisely said nothing.

"The Dark Lord had finally come out in the open that year," Bellatrix went on. "It was complete chaos. Anyways, Minchum and Crouch really hated each other, and the respective campaigns were as ugly as you might expect. That's why it was such a shock when Crouch decided to concede at the eleventh hour. All the papers speculated that he had been bought off, but of course nothing was ever proved."

The girl steepled her fingers, eyes losing focus as she stared into the distance. "Yes... I see…" she whispered cryptically, leaving Bellatrix with the impression that she saw far more than she would willingly divulge.

"So you think Crouch conceded in exchange for this Vow?" the girl said at last. "But what kind of 'mission' could possibly be worth that kind of sacrifice?"

Leaning into the plush of her armchair, Bellatrix gave her scotch a contemplative swill. She'd had no clear intentions when she came here tonight, but at some point within the past hour, the choice had been made.

Looking Granger straight in the eye, she said, "That's what we have to find out."

Predictably, the girl blanched. "We?" she echoed in disbelief.

Bellatrix gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I think we should...coordinate our efforts."

"You know, you tried to kill me two weeks ago," the girl pointed out with a mirthless laugh.

Bellatrix shrugged, neglecting to mention that it was actually the girl who had come closer to killing her. "What can I say, Granger - I've changed my mind."

"Oh I see," the girl narrowed her eyes, her demeanor growing perceptibly colder. "I get to live as long I remain useful."

Bellatrix's mouth quirked up in an ironic, bitter little smile. "You're not the only one, sweetheart."

Granger seemed taken aback at this, her lips almost quivering with the hundreds of questions Bellatrix was sure she was dying to ask.

Was I ever that young and naive? she wondered, wistful, before getting ahold of herself. No, like every Black, she had been raised to be calculating and distrustful: and rightly so, as the world had eventually shown.

Granger, on the other hand - though she pretended at cynicism well enough to fool the casual observer - had at her core an almost painful sincerity. Recognizing her own youthful posturing, it struck her then how badly this girl must have wanted to impress her.

Tapping her foot restlessly, Bellatrix wondered if she ought to leave. But the specter of her empty, cave-like rooms at the Manor (and her still-half-full glass) made her hesitate. All the pubs were long closed, and she couldn't be out in public with a warrant out for her arrest. Guess we're staying, then.

"How's your ankle?" Granger seemed genuinely concerned as she eyed the spot where she'd scorched Bellatrix with her muggle contraption.

"Oh, that. My sister fixed it up for me," Bellatrix shrugged. With everything else that had been going on, one little burn was really the least of her problems.

"But I thought -" the girl furrowed her brow. "Oh, you mean Narcissa Malfoy."

Bellatrix nodded, realizing she shouldn't be surprised that the girl knew all about her middle sister's estrangement. Maybe Andy had finally gone and joined the bloody Order of the Phoenix like she'd always threatened to do.

"Andromeda and I..." Bellatrix sighed. "Well, it's been a while. Her kid can't be much older than you."

"Tonks? A couple of years, I think." As soon as she'd said it, Granger seemed to realize her mistake. "Ummm…" she gestured helplessly, but it was too late to take it back.

Now, Bellatrix was pretty sure she could still do simple maths while drunk, and if so, that meant that the girl had spent literal years time-traveling. "How is that possible?"

Granger gave an uneasy little chuckle. "I, uh...seem to spend a lot of time in the past."

"So do I, but not in the way you mean." Bellatrix shook her head in disbelief. "How'd you even get mixed up in all this?"

"Oh you know," she made a flippant gesture, "Broke into the Ministry, borrowed some time turners, fiddled around with the timeline..." she sighed, seeming to deflate, "Got caught…"

When they'd first met at the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix recalled, the girl had had a strange 'out of place' quality, as though she were a spirit merely passing through this time and place. Studying her closely now, Bellatrix thought that she seemed worn down from effort - perhaps the effort of clinging to the material world - her red-rimmed eyes staring into the distance out of a feverish, skeletal face. If it hadn't been for her youth and beauty, she might have been terrifying.

What was that book the girl had wanted? Something about time travel and the human soul? Is that what had brought on this transformation?

Bellatrix studied her wearily: "Well, you seem perfectly sane, I'll give you that."

"That may the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Bellatrix." The girl smiled, and there was genuine warmth there. She seemed almost normal again, and Bellatrix wondered if it was her own mind that had been playing tricks on her.

"Forgive me," the girl rushed to add, misreading the other's silence. "But I can't think of you as 'Madam Lestrange'. It doesn't suit you."

"That's what - "

That's what Alice used to say. She'd stopped herself before the words came out, but it was too late to stop the rush of memory. It must have been the damned house: so changed and bright and lively, but still so full of ghosts.

As if to echo their agreement, the walls seemed to give a faint creak. Bellatrix shivered.

"It's getting light," the girl said softly, and Bellatrix followed her gaze out the window, where a bleak sun was indeed beginning to peek over the city skyline.

How had the time passed so quickly? The bottle of Ogden's on the table was nearly empty; she'd gone through it practically single-handed.

Great, now the girl's going to think you're a drunk, Bellatrix thought, vaguely embarrassed. Well, I guess that counts as fair warning.

"You have somewhere to be?" she asked.

"I…" the girl wrung her hands, giving the distinct impression that she was scrambling for an excuse, "I don't want to miss the train. And...I haven't packed."

After a moment's confusion, she realized that the girl was talking about the Hogwarts Express. Was it really already September? Half a year had somehow gone by since she'd gotten out of prison, though it felt like it was only yesterday. Not liking to overstay her welcome, and suddenly feeling the pent-up exhaustion of the night hit her at once, Bellatrix stood.

"Thanks," she said, putting her glass next to Granger's on the table.

The abrupt goodbye seemed to catch the girl off guard, and she watched Bellatrix put on her cloak with something like regret on her face. "It was your whiskey."

Bellatrix raised a sardonic eyebrow. "For the company."

She turned and left the kitchen, and a moment later, the slam of the front door reverberated through the house.

Once she was alone, Hermione buried her head in her hands.

She wasn't blind; she'd seen the slick, inky patches on the Death Eater's cloak - the unmistakable traces of fresh blood. There was no telling what mayhem Bellatrix had been involved in tonight, at least not until it made the evening papers.

Should I follow her again? Call in the Aurors? Report her?

Paralyzed with indecision, Hermione gave a deep sigh, breathing in the dark, burnt scent of her still lingering in the air.

Before this was all over, that woman was going to drive her insane.