Chapter 2. Chatting

Once the neighbours were shooed out and the bodies disposed of, the real fun began. Hermione sat in front of Bellatrix, a notepad laid out in front of her, a fountain pen lying to the side. Her fingers drummed on the table as she surveyed the surroundings. Her stare lingered on the blood-soaked floors, on the crimson splatters dragging across the furniture, on the knives sitting idly between the dried puddles of liquid burgundy. There was an odd glint in her eyes—like she was amused.

"So, Mrs. Lestrange. What is your full name? Including your maiden name?" she finally asked, averting Bellatrix's gaze.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black."

"Date of birth?"

"December 6th, 1887."

"That would make you thirty-four years of age, correct?" Bellatrix could have sworn she saw the girl blush as she asked this.

"Correct."

"How long were you and Mr. Lestrange married?"

"Our second anniversary would have been in just a few days." That was originally when she had planned to murder the man. But, alas, incidents happened, plans changed—these were the simple facts of life.

"You remained unmarried until thirty-two years of age?"

"I never said that."

Hermione paused and frowned. "Are you saying you were married before?"

"I'm not saying anything. If you have a question for me, ask it directly."

"Were you married before, Mrs. Lestrange?"

"I was."

"Who was your first husband?"

"Tom Riddle Jr."

"What caused the end of your marriage?"

"He died." There was a distinct shift in the air as Bellatrix uttered those words—one she was anticipating and had gladly brought forth of her own volition.

Hermione relaxed in her chair—her shoulders released tension, her back lowered by just a few inches. "How did he die?"

The cat was staring down at the mouse, certain it was just a few moves away from trapping it—but the mouse had more than a few tricks up its sleeve. Namely a compulsive desire to ensure it never left crumbs anywhere.

So, quite naturally, Bellatrix reported the facts. "Shot by mobster Frankie Yale." Silly Frankie Yale, always getting up in her business! He was looking for her—the whole thing could have been avoided if he hadn't tripped up her plans twice. Of course she had to frame him! She would have been happy to keep the money and let the man live, truly—it wasn't her fault that he prided himself in keeping up with the shark portion of loan shark.

"Why?"

"I wasn't privy to his affairs. I was told by the detectives investigating the case that he owed him money." Well, she owed him money—but it had all been part of her plan, hadn't it? Bellatrix was nothing if not devilishly clever.

"Were you left destitute, Mrs. Lestrange?" Hermione seemed to be trailing a thought—the wrong one, Bellatrix was pleased to note.

"I was not. My family is wealthy—I never lacked anything. Still don't."

"Was Mr. Lestrange wealthy?"

"He was not. He made an honest living, but nothing of consequence. He did receive an inheritance early in his youth, as did his brother, but it was never any match to my own wealth. I provided most of the funds to sustain our lifestyle." More like that little thief took them from her—a mighty good thing he paid for it, in the end. And what was his life worth? Certainly not more than her extensive emerald collection. She had to protect her things! It was a good old American tradition, after all—John Locke had said some things about it, she was sure.

"What did he do?"

"He was a dentist." A helpful profession, truth be told—she learned much in the manner of torture techniques from him. Not that she would ever use them, mind you—she was simply happy to learn more about the ways of the world. And, well, if she really did have to resort to such measures, she at least knew how.

"Where did he work?"

"A small practice in Brooklyn. I forget the name."

"And what did the late Mr. Riddle do?"

"He dabbled."

"In what?"

"Silly things. Spiritual musings about the afterlife, dark magic, that sort of thing." The man thought himself so powerful that he could turn immortal. He hadn't been clever enough to see his own murder coming—maybe he should have used his pitiful attempts at using dark magic for that instead.

"Do you believe in dark magic, Mrs. Lestrange?"

She laughed—it came out like an odd series of rattles, clicketing manically. "Of course not. He was a silly man with silly hobbies. I just wish he would have come to me if he needed money—I was happy to fund his passions. Lord knows he had many."

"When were you married to Mr. Riddle?"

"From 1910 to 1914."

"And you remained a widow until 1920?"

"I remain a widow despite marrying again, Miss Granger. I was and still am a widow—and would have been one even if my dear Rodolphus had stayed alive."

"Did you remarry between the years 1914 and 1920?" She sounded annoyed—Bellatrix had to cover a smile. She loved frustrating that woman.

"I did."

"To whom?"

"John Avery the first."

"The first?"

"He had a son. John Avery the second."

"Had? Where is the son now?"

"Gallivanting in Europe, last I heard."

"And where is John Avery the first, now?"

Bellatrix pretended to dig through her memories. "Buried at Trinity Church Cemetery, if my memory serves me right."

"So he's dead?"

"Acute observation, Miss Granger. Burying him alive would have been a crime, after all—but you must know that, as a subcontractor for the police."

"I'm not a subcontractor."

"Sure seems like it to me. Though I guess secretary is more accurate, given our current situation."

She had hit a nerve. She could see Hermione's face slowly decompose and the bite of bitterness edge into her eyes. She opened her mouth to respond and closed it just as suddenly.

"How did Mr. Avery die?" she asked instead.

"He was old, very old. He died of cardiac arrest." The carbolic acid-laced tomato soup had done that for her. It did look like a cardiac arrest to the coroner, after all—so it couldn't really count as murder, could it?

"Unprompted?" Sly little minx.

"Well, of course. What are you implying?" They both knew what she was implying.

"Two of your husbands have been murdered. Is it such a stretch to assume it would be the case for the third?" Clever sly little minx.

"Certainly not, but it does seem like you're hinting at something." She wanted the words to come out of her mouth. She wanted to hear her say it. I suspect your murdered all your husbands, Mrs. Lestrange.

"I'm simply pointing to the statistics. All your husbands drop like flies, don't you find that the littlest bit strange, Mrs. Riddle-Avery-Lestrange?" And she was funny, too!

"I've always been unlucky in love. It's a tragedy, really." Actually, that was not the true tragedy at all—the true tragedy was that, in her little over thirty years of life, she hadn't managed to secure more than three husbands to kill. Murdering men in general, she was quite apt at—she had more than a dozen victims to her name. But murdering husbands? That was harder, if just because you had to marry them first, which she couldn't say she liked very much.

"It's certainly intended to look like an inevitable tragedy, yes." Observant clever sly little minx.

"If you're accusing me of something, I'd hope you'd come outright with it, Miss Granger. I've been forthright with you, after all."

"It's funny. You don't seem as sad as you were earlier. You could barely form a coherent sentence just fifteen minutes ago." She was catching on fast—Bellatrix liked that. She wanted this goddamn woman to be on her trail. She couldn't confess to anything, of course—she was many things, but daft certainly wasn't one of them—but she needed to lead the investigator down the correct path. So the chase could finally commence.

"Is there really anything funny about my predicament? I witnessed two men I love kill each other, and I'm now being interrogated like I'm a suspect! I'm trying to remain calm and collected for your sake, Miss Granger."

"You don't need to. If you feel like crying or screaming, you're welcome to."

"How gracious of you. Let me just queue the waterworks for you." She was quite adept at that, actually. God knew she needed it to jerk Rodolphus around before he met his untimely demise.

"So you are calm and collected? You're not simply pretending?"

"I'm still in shock, is what I am."

"Who were you hoping to see showing up to the scene of the crime, instead of me?" That had been her first mistake—that quarter of second she had looked surprise upon seeing this newcomer on the premises. Hermione was right to guess she had expected someone else—Umbridge, that nasty cunt down on the first floor, was supposed to be the first one there. She could never resist an opportunity to call the police on her neighbours.

"I wasn't even expecting a crime!"

"You looked shocked to see me."

"I was shocked. I'd just witnessed a double murder."

"You didn't look quite as shocked when you saw your other neighbours. Miss Parkinson, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Slughorn, and Mrs. McGonagall, if my memory serves me right."

"You must have mistaken my relief to see them for something else. I saw a face I didn't recognise enter my home—anyone would have reacted as I did."

"I'm certain I read it right."

"Is your degree as Mr Potter's glorified secretary what is allowing you to make such assumptions?"

"No, it's my degree in psychology, Mrs. Lestrange."

"Oh, you went to university, how fun! Times are evolving indeed."

Hermione paid no mind to that observation. "Here's the question that keeps coming back to me. You come from a wealthy family, with seemingly no restrictions on your spending—or, at the very least, no restrictions once you were married off the first time. A widow who never remarries is far from uncommon—in fact, I would say it provides one with an adequate level of autonomy in a society where we, women, often have so little."

"I fail to see a question there."

"The question is: why remarry? Twice, at that."

"For love." Of murder, that was.

"You don't strike me as the type who does anything for love."

"What do I strike you as?"

"The calculating type."

"That's very rude. In my own home, no less!"

"Is it untrue?"

"Of course it is."

"I'm disappointed. You swore to me you were being forthright. But here you are, weaving more lies into your previous lies."

"This is starting to feel like an interrogation. Keep going and I'll have to ask you to leave my home."

"I might as well. But rest assured, Mrs. Lestrange, we will see each other again. Soon." Oh, did Bellatrix hope she would see her again soon. Things were just starting to get interesting. In fact, she was wondering if she might expand her little hobby—add a little gender diversity to her kill count, that was.

She contained a smile as she directed the young woman to the door. "This was very informative Mrs. Lestrange. Have a good night. I do hope you're not too rattled to sleep."

"I'm a resilient woman, Miss Granger. You'll soon find out," smiled Bellatrix.

And, as she shut the door, she could have sworn she saw Hermione Granger smile too.