This story is complete. I will update a new chapter every Monday (there are 5 chapters total).
Vibes: 1920s Muggle AU, inspired by Killing Eve
This is a dark comedy written from Bellatrix's point of view. Hence, it makes light of topics that can be triggering, such as murder and infidelity. This does not represent my views on these matters, nor is it intended to hurt readers. As such, I do recommend you avoid reading if you find that these topics, especially written in this manner, might be difficult for you.
This story also involves explicit sexual content and 2 depictions of murders.
If none of these things bother you, happy reading!
This story is now available in Russian! You can find it on ficbook dot net slash readfic slash 12785982. Thanks to the wonderful каннибализм души for translating it!
Chapter 1. Killing
The knife made a grotesque sound as it ripped through his skin—it was something between a slash, a slosh, and a whoosh. Bellatrix smiled as the body dropped to the ground with a thud, blood squirting out of his limp form, spilling in waves and spreading around, filtering through the cracks of the hardwood floor.
Clang. The sound of the knife dropping to the floor, skittering across the floorboards for a few inches before finally coming to a halt next to Rodolphus' jet-black hair. She kneeled beside his corpse and straightened his tie, tightening the knot, skin sizzling as her fingers descended the fabric rapidly. And, for the final goodbye, she placed a gentle hand on his cheek and smiled. "Sleep tight, sweetheart."
She rose to her feet and admired her work. Two brothers, laying together in death, taking responsibility for each other's demise and leaving Bellatrix's hands clean—it would almost be poetic if it wasn't so gruesome. Well, truth be told, it was quite Shakespearean in nature.
Now came the time for the theatrics. Twisting her face until her graceful features no longer looked human, Bellatrix echoed a wail so piercing it ripped through the walls of the brownstone, tearing the space into morsels of nothingness. A void of sound and pain.
An illusion of pain.
Nosy neighbours could always be counted on. Not a minute had passed before footsteps rushed to her doorsteps, worried and indignant knuckles rapping and knocking on the door—none quite strong or loud enough to drown her out. Just a bit more persistence and they would barge in like wild animals, either hoping to shut her up or to satisfy their morbid curiosity.
Just a bit more. A quavering sob, a throaty wail, a violent scream—a child throwing a tantrum was the best way Bellatrix could have described it. It helped that she had used that same energy many times before to get her way—until she didn't and resolved to get the obstacle out of the way.
The door finally came tumbling down, hinges popping from the frame, a creak turned into a snap. Time slowed as Bellatrix's eyes focused on the tableau vivant forming before her.
There was old girl McGonagall, who lived on the fourth floor with her seven cats and her suspicious delivery packages every other Monday. Some said she kept poisoning her cats and having them taxidermized somewhere in Brooklyn before ordering them to be delivered. Others speculated she needed exotic medicine from distant and mysterious locations—she was a tropical medicine professor, after all. Bellatrix was the only one to know the truth, having stolen a few of those mystery packages—they were filled to the brim with books from Scotland, her native land. Boring hobby for a boring old lady.
Then there was self-important Horace Slughorn, seedy speakeasy owner and creep extraordinaire, owner of the entire third floor. The man reeked of old tobacco and regularly toured brothels and wharves in search of gullible young women to bring aboard his business. His most prominent client, Abraxas Malfoy, had been Bellatrix's first victim—she still revelled in the scent of his blood as it soaked the carpet of the tacky establishment. She'd hoped Slughorn would be pinned for the murder—alas, he was friendly with local gangster and mafia leader Frankie Yale, who had a few tricks up his sleeve when it came to making corpses and suspicions disappear.
Next to him, adorned in gold jewellery and emerald silk, was Pansy Parkinson, her next-door neighbour—a twenty-something heiress whose family had ties to South African ruby mines and probably played a hand in more than a few civil wars. Pansy was the picture of grace and elegance, engaged to be married to finance prodigy Draco Malfoy, always assertive in her disdain of anything that broke out of the mould she was born in—but Bellatrix knew better. She knew how the brat moaned and rasped and cried when a woman's tongue ravaged her—especially if that tongue was hers.
Of course, that meant Draco Malfoy was fourth in line, a languid arm around his fiancée's waist, his platinum blonde hair slicked back with mousse (did he sleep like that?) and an air of permanent disgust distorting his aristocratic features. She couldn't blame the kid: she was distantly related to his mother, and she, too, always looked like that. (Yes, she was fucking her distant cousin's fiancée. And what about it? Bellatrix never pretended her choices were ethical.)
Closing the line-up of nosy neighbours was—who was that? She'd never seen that woman before. Mousy, wiry chestnut curls popping wildly out of her head, a small button nose and rose-tainted cheeks. Unlike the others, she didn't seem to be wearing night clothes—in fact, she looked like she had just returned from a soirée (albeit a very boring one, likely attended by retired librarians, from the looks of it). Bellatrix's eyes trailed the young woman—consider her curiosity piqued.
The tableau vivant was now in place—each face expressing a different emotion, ranging from sheer horror to shock. Time resumed just as quickly as it had stopped, their bodies barrelling forward, their stares dragging from a wailing Bellatrix to the two blood-soaked corpses on the floor. Old girl McGonagall, ever the pragmatist, was the first to talk.
"Mrs. Lestrange! What happened?" Severe as always, she asked the question with suspicion drawing shapes in her wrinkles.
"They… they killed each other! My… my husband and m… my dear friend! H-his brother!" A convincing portrayal, if Bellatrix could say so herself.
McGonagall tutted and walked briskly past her to reach the kitchen. "Well, you lot, don't just stand there!" she yelled at the four remaining neighbours. "Someone call the police!"
"I'll do it." The new neighbour had spoken—Bellatrix hadn't banked on her voice being this forceful—she half-expected her fragile frame to break into a thousand pieces from the sound her vocal cords made. Instead, she ushered over to the phone by the dining table and dialled.
Bellatrix watched everything unfurl in a state of well-curated frozen shock. McGonagall soon returned from the kitchen, a steaming cup of tea in hand.
"Here, dear, sit down," she motioned, pulling out a chair and placing the cup on the table.
Meanwhile, the new neighbour's voice bounced on the walls. "Operator? I'd like to talk to a police precinct, please. It's quite urgent." A pause. "West 118th street. Number 405." Another pause. "Yes, hello, officer? There's been a… well there's been a couple of murders, actually. Could you please send in detective Harry Potter? Tell him Hermione Granger is calling. I work as a private investigator for the city, he knows me." She hmmed, and Bellatrix tried to keep her growing anxiety in check. She had hoped for another clueless neighbour—it was just her luck that the latest inhabitant of the building worked as a private investigator and collaborated with the police. "Alright, thank you. Yes, we'll wait." She hung up. "They'll be there soon."
Heavy silence settled on the room. Horace Slughorn was kneeled over the bodies with a glint in his eyes—in search of something he could hope to appropriate, surely. Pansy was holding on tight to her fiancé, her pug-face buried in his shoulder, while he kept staring down at the blood, that air of disgust still firmly contorting his features. Hermione Grange stood by the phone, occasionally pacing back and forth.
"In the interest of efficiency," she finally piped up, "may I ask what happened?"
Bellatrix kept her head down in a show of remorse and humility. "My husband, Rodolphus, has always been jealous of his brother, Rabastan." Her voice quivered delicately, mimicking the sound of a gulp. "His latest bout of lunacy was to accuse us of infidelity—I don't for the life of me know what got into him, really. I've always been a faithful wife. Never thought of stepping out, not one." Well, she didn't step out with men, anyway—and Pansy would never dare air their dirty little secret out. She raised her head, wiping a tear from her eyes—she really ought to thank her mother for those theatre lessons she took as a child—and looked straight at Hermione. "He called Rabastan over and tried to force a confrontation. Neither of us… we didn't… we had no clue!" She whimpered for added dramatics and resumed her carefully fabricated lie. "It all happened in a blur, really. Rodolphus, may his soul rest in peace, was the first to strike. Rabastan grabbed the knife I had left on the table after dinner and slashed his brother's throat. They both crumpled to the floor and—and—and—" She fell to her knees and quietly sobbed. The room had gone dead silent—Bellatrix knew all eyes were on her. She basked in the attention, swam through its shimmery waters, feeling it revitalise and strengthen her. Oh, yes, Bellatrix enjoyed nothing more than the glow of the spotlight shining on her skin.
That moment was soon taken from her.
"Well, that certainly is quite a story, ma'am." A pale young man with jet black hair stepped into the foyer. "Detective Harry Potter," he greeted the room.
Bellatrix tried to keep herself from snickering (she was still meant to play the part of the grieving widow, after all). The detective looked like a child. He towered over her, certainly, but the youth in his bright green eyes did not lie, nor did the plumpness of his skin. She imagined it would be easy to slash through that flesh of his—easier than cutting through butter, or a ripe peach. The idea alone made her salivate.
He walked over to the two corpses and began inspecting them—bony hands moving over the scene, alert eyes reconstructing the events, skinny frame shifting with every new detail he seemed to notice. "This seems like an open-and-shut case to me. Two men who let their ego and their jealousy get the best of them—it's not uncommon in these parts." He looked around the room and stared at each neighbour. "Any of you hear or see anything?"
"There were some raised voices, I—" began Pansy, slowly detaching from her fiancé.
"And you are?" Potter asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Pansy Parkinson, detective. I live next door with my fiancé." Her nose was scrunched up and a frown distorted her delicate features—Pansy Parkinson did not like being interrupted, especially by those she deemed below her ilk.
"Well, go on, Miss, I'm all ears." He was unfazed.
Pansy cleared her throat." Mr. Lestrange—that would be the husband—yelled something about not trusting his brother, the other Mr. Lestrange that is. And, minutes later, I heard Mrs. Lestrange scream—and now, well, now, here we are."
Bellatrix tried to quell her excitement. This had been a key piece of her plan—getting her husband to talk about his brother. More precisely, to yell about his brother. Her plan had been two-fold, and first involved egging them both into what she called a "productive discussion". That discussion hadn't been about faithfulness, naturally—Rodolphus had been too dim-witted, bless his heart, to see anything untoward in her friendships with other women. The matter had been monetary, as it always was between men coming from wealth. Rabastan was a gambler at heart—he had dilapidated his share of the inheritance within mere months of getting his grubby little hands on it. As for the second part of her plan—getting her husband to yell, to lose his mind loud enough for the neighbours to hear, well…
"Thank you, Miss Parkinson. I'll consider the matter closed, then." Potter closed the notepad he had brought with him and turned his heel. "Officers, you can come clean up the scene," he called out to the corridor.
"Wait, Harry—" The private investigator, Hermione Granger, piped up. Bellatrix had felt her gaze burn through her the entire time and wondered what she could possibly have to say.
"Don't you—" she shifted her gaze to Bellatrix, who seemed to notice a glint of nervousness in the girl.
"Yes, Hermione?" Potter had stopped dead in his tracks, like he dared his collaborator to contradict him. His gaze rested firmly on Bellatrix, though he didn't address her.
"Nothing. We should really have this scene cleaned up quickly if we want Mrs. Lestrange here to be able to rest after this unfortunate incident."
The words sounded like a threat—no, like a dare.
That pesky little private investigator wasn't buying her story.
"Certainly," acquiesced Potter. He dithered and turned towards his colleague. "Hermione, before I forget, if you wouldn't mind taking Mrs. Lestrange's information and her statement, I'd be grateful."
This little power play did not go unnoticed by Bellatrix. The dualities struck out to her all at once: the man and the woman, the detective and the subcontractor, the tall and the small. A not-so-friendly rivalry between two collaborators—this, she could use to her advantage.
Hermione Granger wanted to prove herself—to chase after the man-killer on her own, to make a public case of her hunt, to prove detective Harry Potter wrong. Oh, how easy it was to decipher the intentions of the meek and powerless.
And how easy it would be for her to eat that frail little thing whole. To let her think she was a voracious cat chasing a scared little mouse, only for her to realise at the very last moment that the mouse had trapped her in a corner and turned into a snake, ready to bite and inject poison.
Yes, Bellatrix would have fun with that chase.
"Of course, Harry." Those three words sealed it for Bellatrix—there was defiance in that tone, and even a little hatred.
And she loved hatred. She basked in it, she draped her victims in it until they suffocated and choked. And died.
Because, of course, death was the ultimate goal.