tw this chapter for minor character death and mention of suicide.

Chapter 6: The Bell Jar

Tom's house was not far from where the Black sisters lived. Funnily enough, Harry hadn't realized that until today. Both houses were part of the same wealthy neighbourhood, but the dilapidated vibes of the Gaunt house set it far apart from the rest. At some point in the past, the house must have been considered grand and wealthy, but Harry had only ever known it as derelict and abandoned.

As he walked, Harry thought about what he wanted to say to Bellatrix. She was cruel and apathetic, but she was not unreasonable. Harry was still valuable. He could forge doctor's notes and hall passes and report cards. If he was clever enough, he could play to her sense of self-importance and hopefully emerge from this ordeal with a reprieve.

"Nervous?" Tom asked quietly.

Harry jumped without meaning to, then relaxed again. Tom was genuinely concerned about him, and wasn't that the most wonderful feeling in the world? Harry exhaled softly and tried to smile. "A little. But I'm sure it'll work out. If I can convince her…"

Tom hummed in response. His half-smile was blindingly handsome. "Whatever happens, I'll be with you."

Harry had never felt smitten before, but he thought that this moment had gotten him pretty damn close. With Tom by his side, he felt he could do anything at all. "Thank you," Harry said. "That really means a lot to me."

Tom glanced around the empty street, then reached across to squeeze Harry's hand. It was not a verbal response, but it was just as meaningful as one. No matter how today went, they would have each other. This moment was what Harry had dreamed of when he'd made the impulsive decision to climb through Tom's window last night. Tom liked him. Tom wanted to be with him. Harry could hardly believe his good luck; he would have to do his best not to mess this up.

When they arrived at the Black sisters' house, there was no answer when Harry rang the doorbell. Maybe everyone was asleep. When Tom shoved at the door, however, it gave way and swung open.

"We can't just go inside," Harry hissed. He grabbed Tom's arm and tried to drag him back to no avail.

"No one will be home," Tom said, raising a brow. "Church today."

"You don't know that! What about Andromeda and Narcissa?"

"The cars are missing from the driveway."

Harry knew that Bellatrix tended to skive off on Sunday sermons whenever possible. It was entirely likely she had played her hangover off as a sickness of some kind to avoid the obligation.

"We'll see if she's home," Harry said reluctantly.

Tom nodded and looked to the front hall. "Do you know where her room is?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

They went upstairs. As Harry had predicted, Bellatrix was in her room, fast asleep. He could recognize the sound of her nasally snores even through the closed door.

After taking a moment to gather his courage, Harry called out, "Bellatrix?"

There was a muffled thump from the other side of the door, followed by a truly colourful stream of curses. The second stretched on before Bellatrix said sharply, "Who is it?"

"It's me, Harry. I've come here to apologize."

A longer pause lingered in the air, like the stench of rotten eggs. Tom rocked back on his heels and shot Harry a grim look.

"Then I hope you brought knee pads, freak!" Bellatrix called through the door. "Fix me a hangover cure and I'll think about it."

"Alright." He could do that. Harry dragged Tom back down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"She's cheerful in the morning," Tom commented idly, once they were out of earshot.

"A right ray of sunshine," Harry agreed.

Hangover cure, what was in that? Harry started to rifle through the cupboards, opening and shutting them to find what he needed. "Eggs… vinegar…" He snatched up an empty mug and set it on the counter. Dudley had made—or tried to make—hangover cures a few times before, to varying degrees of success. Of course, Aunt Petunia had always blamed the resulting mess on Harry.

"Hot sauce, Worcester sauce, salt and pepper," Tom finished, taking the vinegar bottle from Harry and mixing everything into the mug.

"You've done this before?"

Tom stirred twice and pushed the cup in Harry's direction without looking up. "My father."

Harry took the mug in both hands and stared down at its disgusting contents. It smelled awful and would taste no better, which made it the perfect drink for Bellatrix. Toxic insides to match toxic outsides.

"I'm going to spit in it," Harry said flatly.

Tom snorted. "Go ahead."

Harry could hear Tom shuffling around and poking through the cupboards under the sink. Cupboard open, cupboard shut. Items being moved back and forth as he rifled through—but what was he searching for?

"You know what would be a truly excellent addition?" Tom asked, straightening up. He was holding something behind his back.

Harry couldn't speak because he was trying to gather up enough saliva in his mouth, so he made a curious noise instead.

"This ought to clear her hangover right up." Tom smiled and set a bottle of drain cleaner on the counter.

Harry spat into the mug he was holding, then said, "That's not funny. That could kill her."

Tom slid the drain cleaner across the white marble countertop. "As I said: clearing her hangover." He stepped over and gently pried the mug from Harry's hands, then dumped half of its contents into a new mug and gave the contents a swirl. "It's a mug. She won't notice the difference." He unscrewed the drain cleaner and poured a small amount into the second mug.

Harry snatched the first mug back. "Not funny, Tom."

Tom stared long and hard, as if to gauge Harry's seriousness, then said, "You're right. I'm sorry."

Upon hearing an apology, Harry relented. He was being overly-defensive, high-strung from nerves. Tom was only trying to help fix the mess that Harry had caused. "It's alright. I get it."

"You do," Tom agreed quietly. He set the second mug down on the counter and took Harry by the elbow. Tom's expression was so soft, so fond, that Harry felt his heart melt.

Without thinking or hesitating, Harry leant in and kissed him. Tom kissed back, sweet as honey, his hand cupping the back of Harry's neck, holding steady. Harry didn't want it to end, but—

"Harry! I don't like to be kept waiting!"

Startled, Harry fumbled for the mug and pulled out of Tom's embrace. He was going to have to do a lot of grovelling to get back into Bellatrix's good graces. Thankfully, he had a lifetime of practice from living with the Dursleys.

Tom cleared his throat. "Harry, you—"

Harry paused, already halfway out of the kitchen, to turn around. "What?"

"I…" Tom's eyes flickered with some strange emotion before his expression smoothed over, the temporary disquiet replaced with concern. "Wait for me?"

The bubble of anxiety that had been building in Harry's chest popped. "Yeah. Of course." Harry smiled and held out his hand. "Let's go."

The two of them returned upstairs. The door to Bellatrix's bedroom was open from before, and the lady of the hour was seated at the end of her bed, wearing a pink silk robe and matching pink slippers.

"Good morning," Harry said.

"Harry and… Riddle. What a surprise!" Bellatrix offered them a slow clap and a mocking smile. "Romance must be dead after all." She clicked her tongue. "Let's get to it, then. Beg."

Harry could swallow his pride long enough to get this over with. "I'm sorry," he said, "about last night. I shouldn't have—"

"Actually," Bellatrix said sweetly, "I'd prefer if you did this on your knees, Harrikins. In front of your boy toy."

Harry's face flamed. "Bellatrix—"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Bellatrix said scathingly. "Fucking get down." She stabbed a finger at the ground. "Beg. I won't ask a second time."

Slowly, Harry sank to his knees. This was terrible, but it was bearable. He had to remember that he wasn't doing this for himself. He was doing it for Tom, too. So Tom would not have to share the horrible treatment Harry would get if Bellatrix failed to forgive him.

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated dully, dropping his eyes to the ground. This was how he apologized to his aunt and uncle. This was how he apologized to Dudley even when the bullying went too far.

"Not bad."

When Harry chanced an upward glance, he saw that although Bellatrix was smiling, there was not a shred of kindness visible in her eyes.

"You're still dead to me," Bellatrix said bluntly. With that, she snatched the mug out of his hands and took a drink from it.

Harry could only stare. Was that it? Was there no hope?

Then Bellatrix began to cough. The sound was thick and painful, as if she'd swallowed mouthwash by mistake. Her mouth gaped wetly as she tried to inhale, to dislodge the clog in her throat. The mug fell to the ground, smashing against the hardwood floor as her pale hands flew to claw at her neck. Coughing turned to gagging, Bellatrix's face contorting in pain and her eyes bulging wide as her body shook.

Her legs, slender and often compared to that of runway models, buckled underneath her, and with an awful, garbled noise, Bellatrix Black convulsed and collapsed like an abandoned marionette doll.

Harry watched in frozen, muted horror as her head slammed against the edge of the table with a sick crack.

Then there was silence.

On the floor, Bellatrix looked peaceful. Harry had never seen her asleep before, but she looked kinder this way: dark eyes wide and vacant, pink lips shiny with spit, blood trickling from her head and onto the pristine white rug below her motionless body.

Harry did not realize how close he had drifted until Tom's hand came to rest on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality.

"Oh my god," Harry whispered. Then, louder, "Holy shit. Holy shit."

The situation was sinking in. The danger was sinking in.

"We have to... Tom, oh my god, we have to call 911, she just—she just—" Harry couldn't say it.

The mug of hangover cure slash drain cleaner was all over the ground, soaking into Bellatrix's curly hair and expensive silk robe. He had grabbed the wrong mug. He had grabbed the wrong mug.

"It's a little late for that," Tom said quietly. His hand did not leave Harry's shoulder, though, and for that Harry was grateful.

"Bellatrix?" Harry sank to his knees for the second time, disbelief clouding his voice as he tentatively shook her shoulder. "Bellatrix? Wake up. Wake up."

She did not respond. She did not respond because she was—

Harry scrambled backward, knocking into Tom's legs. "I killed her. I killed her." Bellatrix was dead and it was his fault.

His aunt and uncle had been right about him all along. He was a criminal, a good-for-nothing, a leech on society just like he'd been told his parents were.

Tom sucked in a deep breath and dropped to a crouch at Harry's side. He pressed his fingers to the side of Bellatrix's neck and held them there.

Harry did not need to wait for confirmation. The sick feeling in his stomach was all he needed to know. "They're going to think I did this on purpose," Harry whispered.

"They will not."

"They will. Everyone heard me last night. The police are going to think I killed her on purpose."

"Harry—"

"My relatives will be so happy," Harry added hysterically. "They'll throw a block party!"

"Harry, listen to me." Tom took him by the shoulders and forced himself into Harry's field of view. "Listen to me! No one has to know."

"Tell that to her dead body!" Harry cried. The room around him was swimming and swirling; he could barely focus on Tom's face without wanting to sob.

"You can fake her handwriting," Tom continued, still in that same calm, level tone. "Look—" Tom rose to his feet and snatched a book from Bellatrix's side table. "Look at this! She was reading 'The Bell Jar'."

"No," Harry said. He shook his head. "No, Tom, I couldn't—"

"Yes! Yes, you can!" Tom gave the book a shake. "This is serious. You said so yourself: you could go to jail! You can fix this. We can fix this. All you have to do is write some long, flowery paragraphs from her perspective. Give her the depth she lacked in real life."

Tom was making some sense to Harry's befuddled brain, but Harry couldn't move. Bellatrix was dead and nothing made sense.

"Come on, Harry." Tom pulled him to his feet. Tom sat him on Bellatrix's bed. Tom retrieved a pen and notepad. Tom set both items down on his lap and said, "Work with me on this. Forget everything you knew about her and conjure up an image of someone else. A teenage girl with such crippling self-hatred that she had to end it all. What would she say? What would she write?"

Harry stretched his hand out and picked up the pen. It was a normal silver pen save for the stylized letter 'B' engraved near the top. Each of the Black sisters had a pen like this. Bellatrix had once loaned hers to him so he could forge incriminating notes for her.

"I believe in you," Tom said softly. He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders and held tight. "Write about her failures at school. Her constant need for physical perfection. The pressure of being popular."

Harry took a deep breath. The worst part was, he could hear Bellatrix in his mind, reciting lines that matched Tom's description. Harry could picture, very clearly, the sad, desperate girl who was a caricature of Bellatrix's true self.

He could do this. He had to do this.

Harry pressed the pen tip to the notepad on his lap. As he started to write, his hand was alarmingly steady, and soon the words began to flow, spilling across the page just surely as Bellatrix's death drink was seeping into the rug.

Dear world,

This is goodbye. I know no one will believe me or truly understand, but my life was far from perfect…

After it was done, Harry walked home and locked himself in his room. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He tried and failed to scrub the visual of Bellatrix's crumpled body from his mind. He tried to think of Tom, but without Tom by his side, it felt wrong. It felt like he was ruining the sanctity of what they had by using it to distract himself from the crime he'd committed.

Tom had tried to kiss him farewell before they parted ways, but Harry couldn't bring himself to let it happen. Instead, he had turned his head aside and muttered an apology. Tom seemed to understand, at least. He had run his hand over Harry's shoulder and promised that they would see each other on Monday.

"It was an accident, Harry. You did nothing wrong. If anything, the fault is mine."

It was not Tom's fault. Tom had only been trying to help, to cheer him up. Harry should have checked the mug before taking it upstairs. He had carelessly grabbed the wrong one and now he was responsible for Bellatrix's death.

When Aunt Petunia came barging into his room and demanding where he had been all day, Harry did not have the energy to respond. Her words could hardly reach him in his current state. Once she was finished scolding him, he got up and went downstairs to start making dinner.

While he worked, he worried. The police had to be at the house already. They had to have examined the body. They had to have seen the suicide note. Was the note believable? What if he had failed already, without even knowing it?

Harry recited the note's contents in his head, agonizing over each detail. He was so distracted it took him five tries to open up a can of soup, and even then he nearly sliced his hand on the lid. He wished for the day to be over so he could see Tom again. The rest of the evening would only bring more anxiety.

Harry was in the middle of washing dishes when the phone rang. He nearly dropped Aunt Petunia's serving plate as the phone rang and rang. Someone picked up; Harry assumed it was his aunt, since rarely did others in the house receive phone calls at this hour.

There was the titter of conversation from the living room. Harry turned the tap up to drown the sounds out. He knew what the news would be and he had no desire to hear it.

When the dishes were done and returned to their proper places, Harry folded the dish cloth and hung it up to dry. He left the kitchen and made a beeline for the stairs. He had nearly made it to his bedroom when the door to Dudley's bedroom swung open.

Harry couldn't help it—years of instinct required him to freeze, to stop and take stock of the situation before he moved forward.

"Did you hear the news?" Dudley asked as he came to loom in the doorway of his bedroom.

Harry forced himself to speak. "No."

"Bellatrix killed herself."

Harry had nothing to say to that. There was nothing for him to say. Bellatrix was dead. Had he not been responsible for her death, would he have cared? Would he have mourned her untimely demise? Bellatrix had spent her high school career fostering the toxicity of Hogwarts High. Plenty of people would be glad to see her gone, as awful as it sounded.

"Sorry to hear that," Harry said awkwardly.

Dudley stared at him for a moment. "You're such a freak," he spat. Then he slammed the door in Harry's face.

Was Dudley upset? The mere concept of Dudley caring about someone to the point of potential tears was baffling. Harry had not seen Dudley cry since they were children, and even then, Harry was certain Dudley had only shed tears to gain sympathy and attention from his parents.

Whatever. It was none of his business. It was not his problem.

Harry went to his room and shut the door. His math homework lay unfinished on his desk, but there was no way he would be able to focus on it, let alone find the correct answers.

Monday would be better, he told himself. Monday meant Tom.

Harry collapsed on his bed and shut his eyes. He couldn't imagine high school without Bellatrix. Cruelty aside, she was—had been—larger than life. A force of nature, a staple of the Hogwarts microcosm. Where she led, people followed, and now that she was gone, they would all feel her absence whether they liked it or not.

Come Monday morning, an entirely different era of high school would begin. An era without Bellatrix Black.

A/N:

this chapter is a bit on the shorter side but i think we're moving along nicely! hopefully everything is coherent given the gap since last posting. hope everyone is doing well!