Carpe Noctem

by APermann

"Remember when I told you I'd read her mind? I saw something peculiar. Bella, I think there's a possibility she could be— she could be a venor floccus." AU, centred around Hermione Granger, a very best friend of Draco Malfoy, back when she was just a fifteen-year-old kid dealing with her inner demons, trying to deny the growing interest in a mysterious Bellatrix Lestrange.

31. Human Again

[trigger warnings: mentions of child abuse/incest; mental illness; violence]

CARPE NOCTEM / HUMAN AGAIN / CH. 31

The crackling of the fire had never sounded as dreadful as it did that night. Sleep was not coming to Hermione, and her eyes stung from staring fixedly at her fingers that were caressing Bellatrix's inert palm. Perhaps it was the shock of her confession, perhaps some sort of a defence mechanism that had expunged all the thoughts from her mind and pushed their remnants down and into her stomach, where their edges bit and prickled like spinose teeth.

The secret that must have been marooned at the root of Bellatrix's tongue for far too many years, monstrous as it had slipped out, had paralysed Hermione to the core and left her slumped over the bed for what felt like an eternity.

It wasn't until the blackbirds outside the palladian windows commenced to sing their paeans to the dawn that Hermione levered herself up and released the delicate hand. The loss of the touch felt gelid on her skin, and although she ached to reach for Bellatrix once again, the pain arising from her former position soon became a lifesaving distraction. Pressing her fingers to her nape, she rubbed the sore muscles and quietly rose to her feet. The tension in her belly coiled tighter, threatening to fulminate with the uproar of a spouting volcano; begging her to move, do something instead of standing here idly.

Perhaps she should head downstairs and scramble some eggs for breakfast while the bread behind her back would toast until too dark, forgotten; or bruise her knees black and blue collecting any remaining pieces of the shattered glass from yesterday. Anything would do to keep her head above water.

But what about Bellatrix's head above water?

Hermione's eyes drew toward her. Aglow with the first morning lustre, she lay beneath the malachite-green covers like a finely crafted china doll, chillingly beautiful yet dainty and fragile, as if the tiniest speck of dust could crack her porcelain shell and unrepairable break it into a million pieces. She slept without a crease of concern on her forehead, without any reminiscence of the insinuation which her parted, slightly swollen lips had revealed in a choked whisper that evening.

Taking an unconscious step closer, Hermione shifted her eyes from her placid face to the shining tresses of black hair flowing down the gently heaving chest toward the open palm that still seemed to be cradling the phantom of their touch.

A plaintive heartbeat reverberated between her lungs, and as there grew a painful lump in her throat, Hermione found herself backing away and leaving Bellatrix all alone in the blossoming morning. She stumbled through the corridor with her mind in a stuporous haze, and before she knew how, she was standing in a marbled bathroom, gripping the rim of the frigid washbasin with her two hands.

Facing her was a heavily ornate mirror, a meticulous portrait of the trepidation that was billowing through her body like a flimsy ribbon caught in the wind; and there in the reflective depths, inside her own bloodshot eyes stood the unveiled truth—the rupture of her denial, hurtling her repressed thoughts back into her mind where their cries echoed like a wounded animal; and in that brief instance of conceding, everything crystallised for her.

Bellatrix; she had been assaulted.

Assaulted.

She...

With a prolonged expulsion of breath, Hermione dropped her gaze to the wall-mounted basin, submerged in the fluttering shadows and marigold candlelight, thinking to herself: When? When had this happened and how could anyone have allowed it to happen? She must have been underage, for God's sake—a teenager, or perhaps only a girl that had been too young to even comprehend what was being done to her.

The moment that hideous thought dawned on her fully, Hermione's stomach gnarled with a violent contraction, and she had just enough time to step aside and double over the toilet to let it all out; water and unease spewed out of her mouth, clear foamy fluid splattering within the toilet bowl before a fresh stream washed it clean.

Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and as she sat back, gasping and shivering, her arms appeared to her as though somebody had just swept tiny tapioca pearls beneath her skin. Hugging herself, she drew her knees up and leaned into the cool tiles behind her back.

She wondered whether Bellatrix had ever confided in anyone. Though the answer seemed rather obvious. Had any soul known, in lieu of walking free, Perseus Black would've been sentenced to rot within Azkaban's walls. Every wizarding household would have known about his bestiality and the whole lineage of Blacks would've been begrimed beyond repair. Unless—unless they had figured out a way around it.

For if that tragic tale Bellatrix had told her about earlier was anything to go by, her family, just like Nott's, could have placidly resolved to be discreet about the whole matter and thus spare themselves the public humiliation and shame.

Hermione frowned—what nonsense it had nestled in her head; no parent in their right mind could be as cruel as to choose their prestige over their child. But then... purebloods were an uncanny breed; unscrupulous, and it was no secret they treasured their status above all, even their own flesh and bones.

Hermione gripped herself by the scruff of her neck.

Bellatrix. Bella. What have they done to you? What have they left you with?

Nothing if not pain; a hell whose blistering thresholds she'd probably never escaped but was stuck living there day after day like a wild animal cooped up in a cage without enough room to move around.

And perhaps this was the hidden genesis of her rage: a small seed at first, growing and ripening inside her until her unhinged hatred was born. With the pestilential whispers in her ear, telling her it was the impure muggleborns responsible for her fate. No wonder she harboured all that revulsion and resentment within her—for Hermione and for herself withal.

A sudden echo of the words long ago spoken arose in the back of her mind.

"You shouldn't hold so much anger toward her. She's got already enough of it for herself."

Was this the answer to the venor floccus' inkling? It must be. Goodness, and there Hermione had mused—

Hot shame weighted down her eyes.

She'd cursed Bellatrix's name so many times...

The belief that no one was born evil had always been her alpha and omega, so why all that denigration? She should have been more perceptive; she should have read between the lines instead of drawing conclusions on the spur of the moment.

Rubbish! Bellatrix herself wasn't guiltless, a sagacious voice whispered in her ear. Indeed, life had treated her brutally, but it was no justification for her malicious behaviour. She was a grown woman who should have known better.

Yes, she should have, but didn't. Having been guided by nothing but the cold hands of her family, how on earth could she?

With an intelligence like hers, she could have figured it out a long time ago.

"Oh shut up, shut up!" sibilated Hermione, far too tired to play this pathetic blame game on her own.

She wished, wished so much, she could do something to alleviate Bellatrix's misery; exorcise those spectres of her past, or turn back time and shield her from them entirely, or perhaps just incise Perseus Black's trachea—oh, she could never harm him, but damn her if she didn't wish to cause him paroxysmal pain for every second Bellatrix had had to suffer at his Mephistophelian hands.

How could he...?

Hermione could feel the rich air solidify in her throat, choking her like an unchewed piece of a candy apple freshly smeared with caramel. Her skin tightened around her knuckles as she reached to her throat, changing her mind last second and grazing the hard tiles to her right instead. Hissing, she retreated her arm and punched and again, harder and harder until she ridded herself of all the tension and repression raving beneath her ribs.

After her outburst had subsided, she was left with her hand tingling from the tips of her fingers to her wrist; her knuckles were shell-pink and dry, the pain still dissembled in the intoxicating numbness. Thank God. Submerged in a warm tranquillity, Hermione ensconced herself on the thick cotton bathroom rug and closed her eyes. By the time she opened them, the candles were burned low and the autumn sun was already dancing merengue with the tree branches across her candescent floor. Its softness clung to Hermione like hope, strong enough to restore her senses and composure.

She needed to look after Bellatrix. Vittorio had warned her that sleep might accentuate her infatuation, and therefore make it twice as difficult to fend off. Now more than ever Hermione had to be mindful and keep her distance.

Having brushed her teeth and hurriedly changed her clothes, she closed the door of the resplendent chamber and found herself standing outside Bellatrix's boudoir. The carved doors were slightly ajar, which, Hermione assumed, must have been due to an oversight during her earlier abscondment.

With a swarm of locusts bouncing around in her stomach, she inched closer, wishful for the soft puffs of breath, but was met with so much as ominous silence. In one precarious move, she poked her head inside, her hand tense as it latched onto the door jambs.

She descried the belle fleur still asleep in the silks and a fluttering aureole of gold pouring through the east window like a cascade.

Relieved, Hermione retracted and closed the door, careful not to let it slam before climbing down the stairs. She wasn't particularly fond of wandering around a place that wasn't her own, looking for a room that might not even be there, but what choice did she have? Luckily, her destination had metamorphosed behind the second door that she pushed open.

The regal kitchen of the Blacks' manor was rather compact but scintillant, every surface lacquered as if someone had spent innumerable days giving it a fine polish. Much like the rest of the house, the air of Victorian grandeur had trickled into every crook and corner, into the raised-panel cabinets and quartz countertops which basked proudly in the morning glory like topazes.

The ambrosial fragrance of angel coneflowers nuzzling against each other in a crystal vase at the countertop seemed to cling to every fibre of the room, the vanilla undertones sugar-sweet as they laced into Hermione's nostrils.

Lulled by their savour, she meandered further in, casting around. There was nothing that would suggest the kitchen had been in any, leastwise regular use: the fruit baskets were devoid of scarlet apples, the basic appliances missing. Perhaps Billey could explain where...

His name ran in a whisper.

"Good morning, miss!" the house elf exclaimed as he appeared, bowing lower than she had ever seen him bow to Bellatrix.

Unwilling to show her unease, Hermione returned the pleasantry with her back to him. She reached for the nearest drawer and pulled at the brass handle, unearthing the silver-plated cutlery set. "How is Mr Lestrange doing?" she asked quietly.

"Master seemed well, miss. He left the manor shortly after Billey gave him the potion."

Hermione paused with her hand halfway into the drawer. "Left? Left where?"

"Billey does not know, miss."

A gentle hum escaped her lips. So the potion had patched Rodolphus up well enough to let him mill around the world. Would he care to pay his wife a visit now? His effort would be fruitless if he tried. They had enchanted the place; Hermione had enchanted it.

A load of apprehension sailed down her throat. Could her hasty spells protect them? Did they need protection?

Hermione's fingertips lingered over the forks. "Does Master Rodolphus know about this place?"

"No one knows, miss. Mistress Bellatrix said she would cut out Billey's tongue if he let it loose."

Oh, Bellatrix and her abhorrent threats; how quickly Hermione had forgotten. "And before he left," she went on, hardly controlling herself not to comment on that. "Did he ask you anything?"

"Master rarely talks to Billey," came a hesitant voice. "Master doesn't think Billey is worthy of—oh how unkind of Billey!"

Hermione turned just in time to yank the house elf away from the cabinets as he tried to smash his forehead against the handles. Gripping his arms to steady him, she fixed him with an austere look and scolded, "Hey, hey, Billey, stop! You haven't done anything wrong, alright? As it happens, the truth is rarely kind and there's no point in beating yourself up about it." Her grip slackened, and berry-like tears oozed up out of his eyes. "Now, I'm gonna let you go in just a second, but before that, you have to promise me—listen—you have to promise me not to hurt yourself! Not now, nor ever."

Billey's lips wobbled as he glanced at her, gratitude and tears mixing like water and oil in the lines of his face. "Oh, Billey doesn't deserve Miss Hermione's kindness! Bill—"

"Promise me!"

Having drawn a hesitant nod from him, Hermione released his arms. With her eyes travelling to his, she could sense an omen of new tears rising, which made her drop the subject. Perhaps an errand could distract him. "So Billey," she started with a perkier tone. "Where does one get food around here? The kitchen appears to be so empty and I'd like a warm cup of coffee at least."

The prospect of being of service seemed to have cheered him up. "Oh, not to worry, miss Hermione!" he chirped. "Billey can show miss to the dining room, where she can wait while Billey prepares a proper breakfast for her and mistress Bellatrix!"

"I'll help you."

An utter horror flashed across his tear-stained face. "Oh, miss Hermione mustn't! Billey will do it himself."

Hermione kneeled down to him and gave a small smile. "But I'd love to! I'm quite good at flipping pancakes. You'll see!"

Although Billey wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of splitting up his work, he let Hermione confiscate the just-now summoned pan from his reluctant hands and have her share of succulent herbs and precious spices.

Some minutes later, with her shirt already caked in cinnamon dust, Hermione sliced a small knob of butter and plopped it onto the enchanted pan; and as she watched it melt into soft flavescent bubbles, she could not help glissading into the same tenebrific reverie as she had had at the brink of dawn. There were so many things to chew over, so many. However, even with Dumbledore's blatant lies swathed in the depths of her mind, Bellatrix was still the only subject she could truly focus on.

What was going to happen after she recuperated? Always quick to anger, Bellatrix would hardly care for a touching heart-to-heart; no, she was going to wipe Hermione off the face of the Earth for having driven her to that confession; it was just a matter of time. And time was drawing to a close.

She needed to talk to Bellatrix now, while the potion still swirled in her blood and Hermione's opinion still mattered to her; the conversation might taste acrid on their tongues, might tear open their skins, but it needed to be done. Bellatrix's paranoia was a dangerous assailant, hard to battle unless ambushed with a gutless backstab. One needed to be quick about it, Hermione doubly, if striving to ease the panic which was yet to uprise, loud and inarguable in its cadence.

There was no doubt Bellatrix was going to scream and scratch, afraid of Hermione telling the world...

Was there a way to assure her she wouldn't? If so, which one was it?

What was Hermione supposed to say? Something sweet and nothing salty? And then, paint the whole picture all over again so Bellatrix wouldn't forget?

Probably. She had a habit of jumping to the worst conclusions, and damn it if this situation didn't reek of everything it was not. There was no doubt she was going to assume Hermione had orchestrated this potion fiasco beforehand, perhaps as a retaliation, a clever way to humiliate her and have a good laugh over her wanton behaviour, or... or use the situation in the most unholy manner, which in all honesty was making Hermione want to cry tears and blood.

She'd let Bellatrix promenade in her lingerie, let her pin her down against the cushions and whisper lascivious innuendos in her ear. Hermione herself had almost kissed her in a haze of sweltering desire, and who knew what else she would have done if Bellatrix's patience hadn't run out.

Never before had she felt so execrably ashamed of herself. Ashamed but also guilty. With Bellatrix's aversion to her touch, Hermione could only imagine the fury that was going to cloud her brain over their interactions. And rightfully so—she couldn't argue with that; however, a small part of her couldn't help thinking that no matter how many profanities Bellatrix would spit at her, the majority of that tempest she would still save for herself.

There was a pinch, hot as hell, on the back of Hermione's hand. Coercing half of her attention toward the seething butter, she poured down the first scoop of the yellow batter, spreading it as even as she could.

Hermione didn't want Bellatrix to feel anguished, clawing at her skin at the memory of her hands trailing down Hermione's throat. She was going to feel assaulted all over again, and it was breaking Hermione's heart to even imagine how much pain it might bring upon her.

If only she could spare her... if only she...

"Pardon Billey, miss, but—but the pancake seems to be burning."

Hermione had not proven to be half the pancake maven she had boasted to be mere moments ago; however, darling Billey, who'd meanwhile loaded the porcelain bowls with luscious fruit and steaming oats, had dismissed her failure with a benign smile upon his lips. By a snap of his fingers, he fixed the burned bits of Hermione's pathetic attempt, making the pancakes pretty gingerbread brown and fluffy like cotton clouds. They vanished from her admiring eyes shortly after, joined by the laden trays of overflowing jugs and Billey's delicious meals.

"Billey set the table in the dining room, miss," he announced reverently. "Miss Hermione may enjoy her cup of coffee there if she pleases."

But Hermione shook her head. "Not yet," her fidgeting hands began collecting the dishes that lay dirty on the kitchen counter, and, in spite of Billey's agonised cries asking her not to do it, placing them in the corner sink to her right. Of course, she could leave it to him, she thought as she ran the water—or help herself with magic; a simple flick of her wand would do the trick, but ridding herself of work would leave her with too much time to overanalyse, and that was the last thing she needed right now.

"How long have you been serving the Lestranges?" she asked, pointing her wand at the water to make it soapy before attacking the greasy spatula that had failed her several minutes ago.

"Eighteen years, miss. Since Mistress Bellatrix and Master Rodolphus got married and moved in together— oh please, Billey is begging, miss Hermione, let Billey clean up!

"It's no big deal, honestly," she gritted, scrubbing the tool a bit too aggressively, then adding after a while: "Here, you can dry this one and put it back in its place," she handed him the now clean spatula and dipped her hand into the water in search for another item to clean up. "And... Do they treat you well? I mean, in terms of—?"

"What a question!"

Hermione spun around, the knife she'd just fished falling against the sink with a mild clink.

Bellatrix was standing at the threshold, looking like she had blossomed overnight, a Venice Mallot with her lips merlot red and skin like iced milk. Her svelte shoulder, all ivory and pearls, gleamed naked beneath the weight of her unusually coiffed hair that was cascading down her front in big bouncy locks. She was suited up in a dark charmeuse that fell loose from her hips down but seemed to have a choking hold of her waist and arms.

Glowing and mischievous, she had her lips turned slightly upwards, and Hermione thought she had never seen her so lively, so striking, and yet, it was sorrow rather than awe that she felt upon looking at her, so painfully ardent it made her sigh out loud.

"Of course we treat him well, don't we, little thing," Bellatrix went on, voice dripping like honey as she gave Billey a mocking smirk. "Now, get out of my sight before I crucio you for letting our guest do the work that you should be doing." Poison and honey, to be precise.

Hermione began to protest, saying that it was her own idea to help, but Billey didn't wait to be asked twice and, bowing to both, he Disapparated.

Bellatrix's eyes gleamed of brimstones as they pierced through Hermione. "So this is why you left me all alone? To do the house elf's labour?" she leaned against the door frame and folded her arms. "Am I that awful to be around?"

"No, of course not," said Hermione mellowly, searching those aristocratic features for any signs of yesterday's conversation, but found none. "I just thought, since I had nothing else to do, that I'd come downstairs and make something for breakfast, is all."

"You should have woken me up. There would be plenty to do."

"You must be hungry," blurted Hermione, instantly appraising the floor beneath her shoes. "The table's all set in the dining room, so..."

"I'm not hungry."

"You must eat something before taking the Antidote," insisted Hermione, regarding her with a timid glance before waving her wand to finish washing the dishes magically.

"Antidote for what?"

Hermione reluctantly tore her attention from the splashing water to look at her properly, blinking as their eyes met. "For the potion you ingested yesterday. I've got it right—" Pocketing her wand, she remembered that, no, she didn't actually have it right there. The basket lined with the bottles of the precious Antidote remained nested in Bellatrix's chamber—hopefully still untouched.

In the midst of her internal panic, Bellatrix managed to slide her dress further down her shoulders and purr, "Oh, that... Well, I don't deem it necessary. I feel better than I did yesterday; actually, better than ever before." Her words were mild like dusky roses, tugging heavily at Hermione's heart, perhaps because of their sanguine undertone, perhaps more so because she knew that as long as Bellatrix felt good, she couldn't be truly better.

"But I do deem it necessary," she rasped through the mounting crests of solicitude. "Unfortunately, I left it upstairs, so I must go get it... It won't take me long, I promise," she stepped forward but halted herself as Bellatrix was still blocking the door.

She was leaning against the threshold, innocent at first glance, though at second obviously aware of her charm and power; of her skin and of her eyes, which, like the afternoon sun, one could never really stare at for far too long, and which made Hermione despise her heart for skipping a beat as she caught them, equally as amused as they were famished, shamelessly running up and down her unnerved body.

Please, don't make this hard for me, Bellatrix. Hide your smile, for Merlin knows I want you to feel better too, but not like this. So please, please, let me get through that door without taking my senses and purloining every clear thought from me.

As though having heard her plea, Bellatrix slowly stepped aside, knowing smirk grazing her lips, teeth glowing before sinking into the plump flesh.

Although taken aback, Hermione couldn't afford to waste already precious time. She resumed her walking, rabid jitters caroming in her stomach, for Bellatrix was still close enough to the door, now close enough to touch her—would she try? Don't think about it! Blood rushed to her ears as the outside world became a filmy haze eclipsed by Bellatrix's presence, thicker than saltwater; the air, as though loaded with electricity, fell heavy on her lungs, transmitting their closeness as something palpable—something...

But she let her pass. Bellatrix let her pass, and relief, sweet like honeysuckle, spilt over Hermione, who couldn't help but let out a shattering breath that was cut short almost instantly by a demanding hand on her elbow, pulling her into the warmth and expectations, reckless grip crumpling the loose parts of her favourite cardigan.

Hermione cried out in panic, the sudden frenzied twists in her abdomen prodding her to fight the swishing layers of clothes, the arm curling around her waist, the hot breath seeping into her shoulder and whispers that, no matter how nectarous, had no business sluicing through her hair.

Bellatrix's softness had swept over her arms, her back and bottom, before enswathing her thoroughly, so callously inviting Hermione had almost lost her head and moulded into her body.

Almost.

Grasping the slender wrist riveted below her ribcage, she tugged at it as hard as she could and miraculously wrenched herself from Bellatrix's arms. A pained gasp brushed the back of her neck as she, swivelling, took out her wand and cast a Shielding charm between them.

Chased by the surprised gaze and her own guilt, Hermione stumbled backwards, gasping and wishing she could shed every inch of her skin that had indirectly savoured Bellatrix's touch, for it burned and tingled as though it was coated in both fire and ice.

"A bit rough, are we?" intoned Bellatrix as she massaged her forearm. "And here I was thinking you might have changed your mind. Only if this is how you—"

"Bellatrix, enough!" Hermione raised her voice, praying to God that it wouldn't shake. "I really don't appreciate you making such comments about me. I'm only seventeen and this is highly, highly inappropriate!" she emphasised, hoping that the point about her age might shake sense into the witch, even in spite of the undiscerning potion that was clearly running high in her system.

"Is it now?" Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. "Last time I checked, you didn't seem irked by such trifling details. Besides, love, you're no child anymore. You look, not to mention act, more mature than I did at your age."

Hermione's cheeks became so very hot upon hearing that, and she quickly averted her eyes.

Had Bellatrix just spoken unflatteringly of herself to give her a compliment?

She sure had; well, technically, it might have been the potion speaking, but there was still a possibility that it might not, and if— bloody hell, Hermione, don't even—!

Concluding she'd do best if she moved her arse and did something useful instead of entertaining inane theories that wouldn't help this situation whatsoever, Hermione only mumbled, 'the Antidote' and 'I'm just gonna' before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs without finishing either of the sentences she had started. The amused chuckle that followed swooshed over her pride, but she dismissed it like so much balloon air, channelling its flow into the pace with which she tried to leave the scene with as much class and indifference as she possibly could.

Having climbed the stairs, Hermione soon reached Bellatrix's chamber and entered. She locked the door behind her and briefly flattened her back against them before walking over to the ancient vanity where she, thank Merlin, found the basket with the seemingly unscathed Antidote.

She began shoving the small bottles into her beaded purse in handfuls, her palms sweaty and trembling, still guilty over having handled Bellatrix so roughly.

In what godforsaken place had she left her logic? Had she really expected Bellatrix to just stand there and do nothing? Honestly, as if she didn't know her—as if she hadn't witnessed first-hand all the things that ruddy potion had made her do yesterday.

Impatient, Hermione grabbed the entire basket and dumped the remaining lot into her purse, trapping the neck of one of the bottles in between her fingers as they went hurtling down. She placed the emptied basket back onto the vanity and chucked the bottle into her pocket before slumping the purse over her shoulder. Once free, her hands scuttled to her sides, rubbing and pinching her skin through the layers of clothes where the lingering pressure of Bellatrix's body burned the most. Moving higher, she attacked her arms, then drifted to the small of her back and her stomach, her strokes gradually more aggressive, yet ultimately all fruitless.

Hermione raked through her hair, whimpering as her fingers chanced upon a tight knot that had clearly missed the teeth of her comb earlier this morning. She tugged herself free rather brusquely; the motion disentangling the whiff of sultry, sensual perfume, yet another reminder that mere minutes ago Bellatrix had her, lightheaded and messy, tight in her arms, coaxing butterflies and moths like rain.

Smoothing the ruffled curls with her hand, Hermione walked a short distance to the window, swinging it open and taking in the brisk autumn air, hoping it might calm her frazzled nerves.

She studied the imperial garden wallowed in the rising sun and the rose-coloured mist which had twirled around the sleeping alyssums and perishing leaves below in fantastic wreaths. Everything was going to be alright, wasn't it? Bellatrix was going to take the Antidote, and she was going to be much more reasonable then, and perhaps, once she was a bit more level-headed, they could talk.

Hermione knew she'd be daring death, but who else cared enough to at least try?

Drinking in one last dose of the lush ambience before closing the window, Hermione adjusted her beaded purse and, mentally calling for luck to every four-leaf clover that she'd ever found, set off toward the door. She paused two steps away, stooping down to pick up Bellatrix's nightgown tossed on the floor beside the unmade bed, but the frail silk slipped from between her fingers as though it had burnt her. Hermione reckoned it might have. Doused with the warmth of Bellatrix's sleep, there was a zephyr of intimacy to it, sanctitude even, drawing feelings of intrusion which dropped heavily onto Hermione's already fragile conscience. She clenched her hand, sore from her earlier conniption in the bathroom, before reaching for her wand and using magic to make the messy bed first and then fold the nightgown, pretty and smooth, on top of the covers.

Keeping the wand alert in her hand, Hermione left the chamber and climbed down the stairs sideways, the small of her back brushing against the baluster as she was leaning back to try and catch sight of Bellatrix before Bellatrix could catch sight of her, all in case there were any more antics heading her way.

There weren't. At least for now.

Hermione found Bellatrix pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen's entry, all bothered and impatient like a famished pet one forgot to feed. She came to an abrupt halt, her narrowed eyes darting toward Hermione's wand before shooting up. "When am I going to get mine back?" she demanded, voice slick with irritation.

"Oh yeah, you still—uhm," began Hermione, stopping a great deal away from her. "Don't worry, we're going to find it later. After breakfast."

Bellatrix pierced her with a steel gaze which, while promising a wild storm coming, softened as soon as Hermione took a small step back. Her parting lips seemed to be holding onto a pair of profanities but they fell forgotten when Bellatrix looked down and, smiling, gave a small nod.

"Let's have that breakfast then, shall we?"

It took Hermione a moment to recover from how cooperative and nice Bellatrix was being, before murmuring, 'yeah, sure,' and motioning toward the door, prompting Bellatrix to go first. She complied without a word of protest. Hermione followed, ready to cast Protego at any needed moment, but thankfully, she didn't have to.

Bellatrix led her through the kitchen, which seemed to have been restored to pristine conditions. Clean and scented with fresh coffee and cinnamon batter, all delicious; and while Hermione did not care to eat, she could feel her mouth watering and preparing to consume.

Reflex action.

Just like her next move. Mistaking Bellatrix's intention of holding the door for her for an attempt to grab her and press her into the nearest surface, Hermione blenched and jerked her wand higher, aiming at Bellatrix's heart.

Smirk growing cold on her lips, Bellatrix drew back and hesitated before backing away and letting go of the door, which Hermione promptly caught by the lock stile and waited until Bellatrix turned around and walked into the next room.

The first thing Hermione noticed as she followed her in was that, unlike the dining room in Malfoy Manor—which, although similarly luxurious, felt cold on most days—this one here felt surprisingly cosy and warm in spite of the predominantly dark colour scheme and Bellatrix's unnerving presence. The lacquered table, heavy with steaming meals, and the gentle apricot flames inside the large fireplace were painting a strange sense of familiarity, of a home—something Hermione hadn't felt in a very long time.

Repressing what little sentimentality she had allowed to seep through her, she watched Bellatrix saunter toward the table and take a seat on one of the upholstered chairs that surely must have cost more than all the appointments of her own room back home combined.

"Are you just going to stand there or will you join me?"

Hermione blinked and before she could gather enough thoughts to reply, she found herself moving and walking to the table. And as she settled down on the chair across from Bellatrix, eyeing everything that wasn't Bellatrix, shoulder blades pressing into the backrest as though it could set them further apart, she could not help musing over how strange it felt to be sitting at a breakfast table and to be sitting there with someone to keep her company.

It felt like another lifetime...

A moment of a prolonged silence was interrupted by soft giggles, reminding Hermione that she had to grit her teeth and fight through the melancholia and flurried jitters.

"So... what would you like to eat?" she asked tensely. "I mean, there's not much to choose from. I didn't want to go overboard as it's just us here." She looked at Bellatrix and dear God, there it was again, that devouring need in her eyes, a hammer nailing every nerve in Hermione's body like a butterfly on a pin.

She squeezed her wand tighter, her voice trembling as she added, "There are some toasts if you like."

Bellatrix muffled a soft grunt before an indifferent 'no', which made Hermione strain her neck, feigning an attempt to see what else was there to offer.

"Pancakes?"

No, Bellatrix didn't crave those either.

"Or some fruit?" she tried again, pointing at the half of the pink grapefruit right next to the coffee pot, but Bellatrix merely glanced at it before standing up from the table and walking to the pinnacle window; her eyes travelling to the autumn lying rosegold outside in the garden, then darting back to the silver trays, to the angel coneflowers plunged in crystal vases betwixt the cinnamon pancakes and flaxen toasts, and finally to Hermione, who couldn't restrain from offering, "Would you like me to make something else then?"

"That won't be necessary. As I've said, I'm not hungry."

But the emphasised words were clashing with her expression, hunger, though a different kind, emanating from every inch of her face, and Hermione was certain, had this been any other time, she would have crumbled under such scrutiny, but Bellatrix had to take the potion, and Hermione had to make sure she would.

"And how about," she suggested, her voice rather high-pitched as she reached for the loaded plates Billey had so kindly charmed to keep the food warm until breakfast. "How about sharing a toast? I'm gonna eat one half of it, you the other half." Hermione brought one of the toasts to her plate, cutting it into two even triangles. "It's not even that much, see?" she took a small bite despite her lack of appetite and murmured, "Tastes good."

She could see Bellatrix hesitate, fixing her with a gaze, sharp enough to cut irises. Hermione averted her eyes, a piece of toast turning unchewable inside her dry mouth. She gave up the rest of it in favour of pouring herself a cup of black coffee, proud her stiff hand had not spilled a drop.

Then Bellatrix's heels clicked against the floor and Hermione instinctively jerked her wand closer to herself, but was spared the trouble of defence as Bellatrix simply sat back down. Hermione relaxed, taking a moment before holding her plate out for Bellatrix, who after some consideration accepted her half of the toast.

I'm sharing a toast with Bellatrix... A toast.

She put her plate back on the table. "Coffee?"

"No."

"'kay," mumbled Hermione before forcing some down her throat. "Did you sleep well?" she asked, enclosing her in a cautious glance.

"I did."

"And your wound? Does it still hurt?"

"No, not anymore."

"Good... good."

Neither of them initiated further conversation. Bellatrix seemed to have devoted herself to playing hockey with the toast on her plate, which kept flying from one side to the other until it took off and landed on the table.

Hermione looked up at her. Leaning against the backrest of her chair, Bellatrix raised her brows. "What?"

With a dismissive shrug, Hermione dropped her gaze back to her plate, plucking at the soft part of her toast; she, too, playing with it. Somehow it was unimaginable now; to believe, to take it as truth that Bellatrix—

"You know, I had quite a dream about you last night."

Hermione's hands froze, heat like fire bursting up her cheeks.

"Don't you wanna know the details?" Bellatrix added after seconds of silence.

"No, I'd rather not," rasped Hermione, watching Bellatrix push her plate away and pull the one with the grapefruit on it toward herself.

She had dreamt about Hermione. She—she was most definitely going to kill her once she sobered up.

Hermione's eyes strayed to the elegant hand, an evasive ghost over the juice vesicles of the fruit; two fingers slipped toward the core before plunging in, wet noise of parting and pink juice splashing onto the plate in heavy drops.

The backrest of Hermione's chair whimpered as she pressed into it, blushing and not knowing what to do with herself, and Bellatrix had the audacity to just sit there and laugh at her and—

"Yes, that's pretty much what went down."

Clearing her throat, Hermione leapt to her feet, losing her way around embarrasement. "Look, just take a bite of something and—"

"Anything?" Bellatrix's eyes travelled below Hermione's jaw.

Hands shooting to tangle in her hair, Hermione took a step back, giving a look of despair to Bellatrix, who gave her a foxy smile in return.

"Yes?"

Hermione took a deep controlled breath. "Bellatrix, please—please—eat something so we can get this over with. The sooner you take the potion the better as I'm really not comfortable with any of this," she said, motioning vaguely, hoping it would get her message across.

It didn't.

"Why not? Is it because I'm getting under your sk—" Bellatrix began rising from her chair.

"No, it's because you're drugged and I'm slowly losing my patience here, so either you eat that damned thing or I'm gonna make you," blurted Hermione, dripping with—was that anger? A coping mechanism, perhaps.

Bellatrix's lips parted in surprise before smirking. "My, my. Are you also as controlling in—" she trailed off because there was a wand pointing at her chest; yet again. Looking up at Hermione, she cackled. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

Bellatrix's smirk turned a challenging shade. She took a single step to Hermione but immediately stumbled back, sinking into her chair, rubbing her arms.

Hermione's hand was shaking under the wave of her spell, her spine twirling with guilt, but she could not break down with tears giving way to apologies. Not now, when Bellatrix for the first time seemed truly serious.

"Three bites. I'm not asking for anything else," said Hermione, eyes darting toward the food. She didn't know the origin of her audacity, but didn't waste time questioning it, not when there was a shadow of a battle clouding Bellatrix's face, a calculation, before finally, her hand reached for the small spoon resting beside her plate.

Exactly three loads of the grapefruit pulp went into her mouth. Then she threw away the spoon, which bounced off the table and fell on the floor.

"Classy," pointed Hermione before reaching into her pocket and placing the potion that she'd taken out onto the table. "One spoon."

"You said you're not asking for more than those three bites."

"I lied."

That strangely forced a small smile upon Bellatrix's lips. She didn't protest half as much as she had with eating and once the potion went down her throat, Hermione released her breath.

"Wasn't that bad, was it?" she couldn't help saying, but Bellatrix scowled at her, and Hermione found her stiff face softening. "I... I apologise for that spell, I just, I didn't want to let you do or say anything you might regret later. I would never hurt you just to prove something to myself—or you," Hermione was looking at Bellatrix's plate as she was talking.

There was silence, then the faint sound of an exhale. "I know."

Hermione looked up at her. "Do you?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "I do, actually. You're far too weak for malignance."

Weak? She was w—? Fine, fine, nevermind. Nevermind. As long as Bellatrix knew the truth, it shouldn't have mattered what she thought about her nature.

It couldn't—wouldn't.

"I was thinking," commenced Hermione, easing her grip on her wand, "we could go for a walk if you like. It's quite beautiful outside, isn't it?"

While it certainly was, her sudden desire for strolling wasn't due to the irresistible charms of the lush garden. It was Vittorio's telling her that fresh air and some exercise might speed up the recovery. Besides, after Billey had assured Hermione that Rodolphus wasn't aware of this place, what harm could it do, really?

"Together? Just the two of us?" The question, a mellifluous plea swelling in Hermione's chest like a bubble, hung in the air.

"Yes, just us."

"Well in that case..." Bellatrix's chair was instantly empty, pushed away without an intention to be tucked back under the table as Bellatrix was already sauntering away and smoothing her dress to the point of her chest almost spilling out. "I'm good to go."

Hermione's cheeks must have been the colour of pink sunrise. "Brilliant, I'm just gonna clean this up quickly, and we can go."

"Why, that's the house elf's work," pride and arrogance tinted Bellatrix's words, making her much more herself, much more unlikable.

"It's not the house elf's work. It's the 'clean up the mess you've made' work," Hermione shook her head. "And it's not that hard."

"No, perhaps not, but it's still degrading. Never in my life have I had to do labour."

Labour.

But Hermione's opinion stayed tucked under her tongue, the quick spell cast upon the leftovers cleaning up the table. She reached for her purse, fishing for two cloaks while sidestepping because Bellatrix was prowling toward her like a panther yet again.

Hermione grabbed the closest chair and yanked it in between them, shooting a warning look Bellatrix's way. She plunged deep into the bag and pulled out two black cloaks before lying one on the chair separating them.

"Here, it might be still cold outside."

Bellatrix did not say thank you but hid the pleasantry in her gaze, in that flattered tint of her eyebrows and her amiable smile, so summer-sweet and sincere; which somehow, in the midst of it all, hurt like scratches on sunburnt skin.

Hermione looked away.

"Shall we?"

They walked outside side by side, Bellatrix's lusty behaviour, much like yesterday's night, melting like the snow on the warm palm of a hand. She no longer tried to advance on Hermione, touch her or submerge her in sultry looks. And so in silence, down the marble staircase they went, into the garden of sweet alyssums and perishing mist; the sun bathing their path in light, and shadows delineating the inner conflict, sore and cumbersome, inside Hermione's chest.

She needed to talk to Bellatrix about last night, ask her about all those things that had run loose from her tongue, but her hunger for a tête-à-tête collapsed on her morals as Hermione didn't want to twist the knives stuck in her wounds.

But then, perhaps if she wasn't so direct...

"Bellatrix?" she started, eyeing the yellowing leaves beneath her shoes as they wandered down the cobblestone path. "I don't know if you remember, but last night we had a—we had a rather heated conversation. Do you remember what we talked about?"

Bellatrix replied through the locks of hair swishing in the wind around her, their scent, light and creamy, penetrating Hermione's senses. "You mean your big hero stabbing you in the back?"

Dumbledore. Hermione wasn't thinking about him half as much as she should. And she had plenty to think about. But not right now; she'd have time to figure out what to do about him later, wouldn't she?

"After that," she said. "After I told you—you said something about—" Hermione could feel her stomach churning with an effort to form her words without an intruding undercurrent.

"About?"

Hermione took a deep breath.

"About your uncle."

Quite indirect, indeed; and the silence that followed was colder than the wind.

"What about him?" Bellatrix asked her several seconds later, her menacing tone raising panic inside Hermione's chest.

"Look, I'm not bringing this up to ask for any details," blurted Hermione. "It's not that at all... I just... I just want you to know that the things you've told me, I..."

Bellatrix used Hermione's inability to finish her thought to outline her own. "—you must have dreamt it up as I don't recall talking about anything regarding my uncle," she said sharply, and Hermione immediately got the hint.

Bellatrix remembered everything but would not elaborate on any of it.

"Yes, perhaps I did," she replied quietly.

"Most certainly."

"Right, but in case I didn't," Hermione went on, "I want you to know that I'll keep it to myself. Everything I've heard, everything you've told me, I won't share it with anyone else," she finished, aching to make Bellatrix aware of her intentions and of the fact that she could trust her and that Hermione would never use this piece of information against Bellatrix. She ached to tell her so much more, ask her, but there was no touching the iron while it was still burning.

Bellatrix had no response for her anyway. And however much Hermione wished she did, she could not coax her feelings out of her heart.

"What is this place?" she asked, changing the subject so as to distract herself from the tears that started to prick in the corners of her eyes.

Shielding her hair from the wind with her right hand, Bellatrix replied, "Just an old victorian mansion that I bought after it became quite insufferable to be around my dear husband."

"Does he know about it?" Hermione asked the same thing she had asked Billey just to be sure. "I mean, about the fact that you have a house on your own? That you practically live here?"

Scoffing, Bellatrix turned to her for a brief moment. "Please; he's convinced that I spend my days snoozled with a handsome wizard in some dirty shack by the sea." She took a pause before adding, "Every time I leave, he can't help but create these ridiculous scenarios about me having an affair. Of course, I've never denied it. The possibility drives him mad, and I don't even have to lift a finger."

Had it not been for the previous events, Hermione would have actually felt sorry for Rodolphus. "Is this why you were rowing?" she asked despite the overwhelming feeling of overstepping boundaries. "You know, before you attacked him?"

"No," Bellatrix lowered her voice. "That was a completely different story. He—that hypocritical, filthy shell of a man," she spat with venom, and as Hermione chanced a look at her, she saw the muscles in her jaw twitching. "He—"

"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," said Hermione quickly. "I shouldn't have asked in the first place."

But Bellatrix continued as though she didn't hear her. "He—despite his incessant accusations of infidelity, he's the one who's been having affairs. It's been going on for years. Naturally, I never minded as long as he kept it private, but this time, when I walked into that bedroom—" Bellatrix's voice trembled. "I saw myself there; myself and him; together," Bellatrix glanced at Hermione, who wasn't quick enough to catch her eyes. "He must have been collecting my hair—for the polyjuice potion; he must have made those four-galleon sluts drink it so he could do to them everything I wouldn't allow him to do to me."

Hermione's throat tightened, her stomach turning as though trying to vomit out the words she was unable to digest. While she'd never held Rodolphus for a virtuous man, she'd never guessed him to be capable of stooping so low and exploiting Bellatrix, the one person he was supposed to love and respect against all odds for the rest of his life, in such an amoral way, even throwing it in her face with so much sick delight—especially with her history of abuse. Sure, he might not know about her uncle, but he'd certainly been made aware of her aversion toward intimacy, and yet there he was, making women in his wife's image to fulfill his fantasies, to use her body however and for whatever he pleased. How despicable was—

Hermione froze.

Wait.

If he—

But that must have meant—

Oh God.

"Bellatrix," she murmured, making her turn to her. "That day we went to Borgin and Burkes... Didn't Mr Burke say it was you who bought Slytherin's locket?"

A shadow of confusion, raw on Bellatrix's face, lasted only for an instant; her lips parting as she seemed to have put one and one together.

"What if—"

"No," she shook her head. "He wouldn't have dared. He can't act against—not unless the Dark Lord—" the name slipped from her tongue as though it held no secret, and Hermione, decided to act as though it truly didn't. "Not unless he ordered him to, which is impossible! The Dark Lord, he wouldn't have—," doubt painted faint wrinkles across her forehead as her eyes, dissentious and helpless, ran over the cobblestones beneath them. "He's been growing impatient with me, yes, but that surely... Makes no sense why he'd appoint that idiot to draw attention to me, sabotage me... I don't understand... I've sacrificed..."

Watching Bellatrix's panic unravel, Hermione took two unconscious steps toward her, inwardly bleeding over her betrayed, heartbroken expression before realising her mistake and halting herself. She had no idea how to comfort her as she could only partly decipher what Bellatrix was saying, so she just stood there, forced to survey her turmoil without a word to shed.

"I must speak to..." Bellatrix mirrored her steps, making Hermione retrace her own. "Give me my wand, Granger."

"I'm sorry?"

"I know you have it, I was just too distracted to care last night; and today."

"Why—why do you want it?"

The question made Bellatrix duck her head.

"Well, first of all because it's mine and you have no business hiding it from me, and second, I need to go somewhere."

Hermione gulped. Bellatrix's attitude so close to her face was making her body strangely insensate, yet she still possessed enough clarity to say, "No, the potion's far too unpredictable for you to go anywhere. You were out of control mere minutes ago and there's no guarantee you wouldn't retrogress the next second."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and whispered seductively, "Don't act like you wouldn't enjoy it." Getting no reaction from Hermione, she broke the persona and added, "You're being ridiculous. I'm absolutely fine. Just get out that purse of yours and give me my wand back."

"First—first you have to tell me where you want to go and why," said Hermione, feeling as though she'd just dug out the first scoop for her grave.

Bellatrix lifted her eyebrows, radiating utter disbelief.

"I didn't mean to come off as patronising," clarified Hermione, her face on fire. "All I'm trying to do is to make sure you won't do anything that might harm you—or your social status in this case, so please, just bear with me for now and tell me where and why—" she did not finish but slumped her head instead.

And Bellatrix did not rush, taking her time like a sugar pill before gracing Hermione with an answer. "Perseus. I need to know what he has to say about the matter."

Hermione's stomach twisted, her gaze snapping back to her. "Your uncle?" she rasped. "What does he have to do with it?"

Tilting her head, Bellatrix studied Hermione's face. "Everything. He's my link to the Dark Lord."

Her link? Her—

Corpus deus be damned, Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort also. Damn them all. If this was what Hermione thought it was...

"Are you still in touch with him?" she asked, horror flooding her in waves.

"Why, of course."

Hermione felt as though her lungs were being compressed, and she had to take in a few swoops of breath, running her eyes over the snow-white blossoms and the tall cypresses in the distance before feeling composed enough to say, "I don't think seeing him is a good idea, at least not until the potion wears off."

"Shame that I've already made up my mind," Bellatrix pursed her lips. "I need answers and I'm gonna get them now, so—"

Hermione gave her a defiant look, but Bellatrix's face didn't soften.

"Either you give me my wand or I'm gonna take it myself," she inched a bit closer. "And I'm warning you, I'm not gonna be gentle about it."

Hermione took a step back, shivers running down her spine as she ventured, "Fine, I'll give it back... but only if you take me with you."

Bellatrix coughed out a laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not letting you go alone."

"Listen, sweetheart, this really isn't up to you to decide. I'm more than capable of taking care of myself even without your help."

"I've never said you weren't, but this isn't that simple," Hermione tried to find the gentlest way to put it. "You can't just go there in this state, least of all on your own! And... and..." a sigh escaped her. "You've made it clear that you don't wanna talk about it, and that's perfectly understandable and unless you'd want to, we won't, but Bellatrix... I know, I know what happened with him." Bellatrix turned her back to her, and Hermione was rambling as if saying this quickly would make everything less painful. "And I'm not comfortable with the idea of leaving you alone with him for even a second because I—because I'm... "

I'm worried sick and I need to make sure he doesn't harm a hair on your head. And if he tries, I want to be there to beat the crap out of him.

"He doesn't have to know," Hermione went on. "I can go with the invisibility cloak on, or I'll figure out something else if you're so set on meeting him, but you're not going alone!"

Bellatrix had her arms folded over her chest, thick curls graceful in the wind. "I don't need you to watch over me," she said, cold and pricking.

"I know you don't," agreed Hermione. "And it's not about that. Perhaps—perhaps it's about me trying to distract you with some heroic excuse when in reality I'm just afraid of staying in this big scary house all by myself. It's when the nargle comes out, you know.

"A what?"

"No idea."

Bellatrix turned back slowly, her eyes reproving. "You know," she said, sauntering toward Hermione, who braced herself for whatever price she was about to pay for her dry joke. "It's starting to be less and less of a mystery why Draco likes you."

Cheeks, no doubt the colour of cherries, hid behind the waterfall of curls as the utterly bewildered Hermione bowed her head because Bellatrix's smile, although faint, was somehow brighter than the solar flare.

"Now, my wand," her voice, full of summer fruit and jest, coaxed Hermione's timid eyes up. "Gotta teach you a few spells, should the situation become too much to handle," Bellatrix whispered conspiratorially and, brushing past Hermione, set off further into the garden.

Shedding her tidal shock, Hermione blinked a couple of times before rushing after her. The excitement stretched, inescapable and delicious inside her chest, casting a temporary shadow over her worries, all intoxicating until she remembered that this was but a prelude to the disputation that was ultimately to come about.

The thrill splintered dead at her feet.

While Hermione knew the encounter might potentially answer a lot of her questions, she fretted it would also raise plenty more, much more complicated ones to decrypt; and she already had enough on her plate as it was. Could she take any more? And should she even bother? With Dumbledore's deceptions outstretched in truth right in front of her, there was no reason for her to continue. She could leave right this instant, claim her life back, let Dumbledore handle his mess and forget... Blair was safe, her family was safe. What was stopping her?

"I'm repeating myself but I really need that wand back."

Oh right, she was.

"Now?"

"No, four years from now."

Hermione forced herself into reality and her hand toward the beaded purse around her hips, hesitating. Trust was still an issue, but damn those innocent eyes for being so persuasive. She reached inside the purse, searching for the wand.

Observing Hermione's treasure hunt, Bellatrix shook her head. "Oh, I don't know where your wand is, huh?" she teased. "Cheeky little witch."

Hermione found herself flushing as she pulled out the wand, which she reluctantly handed to Bellatrix while preparing to fight her if she had to.

Once Bellatrix had her arm complete, she fixed Hermione with an assessing look. "I've noticed you're rather good with spells," she started off bat. "But your curse-casting technique is abysmal. You lack flexibility, ease and... ardour. Every time you attack, you grasp your wand as if someone's trying to snatch it from you. See, that's the problem. You can't expect your curse to be powerful if you alone are stiff. Your hand has to relax. Come on," she motioned toward a spot betwixt two guelder rose bushes not too far from them and Hermione, who had always been embarrassed by criticism, traipsed there with her head bowed as though in supplication.

"Blow up something."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want."

Since Perseus Black wasn't present, Hermione laid her eyes on the black ornate bench opposite them.

Having hosted a mental funeral for her wounded pride, she cleared her throat. Alright; flexibility and ease. That's not that difficult. Straightening her back, she raised her wand, pointing it in front of her, firm and outstretched, like an archer with his bow.

"I said relaxed..."

Before Hermione could protest, Bellatrix was standing next to her, freezing fingers rearranging Hermione's, straying in between them here and there like ice, smooth and slippery, instantly vanishing as though having melted against Hermione's skin.

"Not that relaxed, you're gonna drop your wand. Now... throwing curses is quite similar to painting."

"Uhm."

"You need to be gentle but still precise enough to get it right."

Hermione tried to focus on the bench in spite of the whole kaleidoscope of butterflies rioting inside her abdomen.

"And you're not an auror in formation," quipped Bellatrix, and there she was, as unexpected as before, nudging the back of Hermione's knee with her own before pushing it in between Hermione's legs.

Heaven above...

Hermione instantly shifted, standing with her legs apart. She was not okay, she really wasn't...

"Also your arm, turn it more inwards. Good; and your spine..." Bellatrix's hands came to rest on Hermione's stomach and on her right shoulder, the pressure gentle yet firm, as she was apparently trying to show her the correct posture but Hermione's stomach dropped to the yellowing grass below her feet.

"Okay, I get it..."

She quickly stepped aside, Bellatrix's hands gliding from her like a polish brush against the nail.

"Sorry."

Hermione froze. She froze like a statue, and it took her quite a while to come to and say as softly as she could, "Oh, It's fine," for never before had Bellatrix apologised to her. Not so openly, never so sincerely. For some reason, it made Hermione feel all the more blue and guilty.

"That's much better. Go on."

Hermione tried to relax. She swallowed hard and made a circular motion with her wand before pointing it at the bench.

There was an explosive sound, and the left side of it blew up in grey smoke and debris.

"Choose a small section," advised Bellatrix, watching the scene from the side. "Just one part of that bench; don't look at it as a whole thing. The key is to aim small— like this." In a span of quick short movements, the bench exploded like a grenade, covering the nearby bushes with pieces of dust and wood. Then Bellatrix moved her wand again, putting everything back together.

"Let's try again."

Hermione focused on a small spot on the backrest and flashed a spell that blew up the bench in the same way as Bellatrix had. And on her first try.

"Good!"

Hermione tried it a few more times, all successful.

"Now, how about a little duel?" asked Bellatrix, but as Hermione glanced at her with what must have been quite an uncertain expression, her face became blancmange-sweet, all innocence and expectations. "Oh come on, I'll be considerate!"

How could Hermione say no to that?

Bellatrix skipped a couple of steps away from her. "Remember, you have to relax your wrist and that deadly grip of yours."

"Righ—hey!" diving aside in the eleventh hour, Hermione deflected the yellow flash of light Bellatrix had shot at her without a single warning.

"What is it, dear? Do you think your attacker would ask if you're ready?" smirking, Bellatrix winked before flaring another curse, then another and another, but Hermione, once concentrated, was successfully parrying each and every one of them.

It was almost like their first duel last summer, with the only exception of Bellatrix intending no harm this time. There was no malice in her smile, no real hostility or ill will. She looked genuinely intrigued, as if to see how much Hermione could take. And as she moved, poise and perfection themselves, hair bouncing around in curls and euphoria—

"I almost got you."

"Hardly!" retorted Hermione, dodging her purple curse, then managing to counterattack, the blue flare almost licking Bellatrix's side.

They duelled for quite a while without either of them striking the other, and although Hermione, blinded from the constant jets of light bursting from the most unexpected angles, was beginning to feel exhausted, she wouldn't dream of caving in as she really wanted to prove herself. And so she persisted, trying strategy after strategy until a thought of copying Bellatrix's own had occurred to her. She waited for a moment of distraction, a small window of Bellatrix drawing a breath or blinking her eyes, and when the opportunity arose, she took on the role of the attacker, leaving Bellatrix without a possibility of attacking back as Hermione was flaring her curses like a spinfire. Then she feigned a short moment of hesitation so as to create a false sense of security before pulling out her ace and with a single quick strike disarming Bellatrix, who at the same time cast a curse of her own, which, most unfortunately, as her wand went flying out of her hand, resulted in hitting her arm.

Bellatrix hissed, immediately pressing her palm against the injury.

Alarmed, Hermione rushed to her, apologising as soon as she braked at her side. "I am so sorry! I didn't mean to curse you! At all," her fingers went up, pausing mere inches from Bellatrix's knuckles while her eyes examined her arm, but there was no wound, no blood to see.

"Are you hurt? What curse was that? Do you—?" she started, breathless as she glanced at Bellatrix, for she found her smiling. Hermione sighed, letting her arms fall back to her sides.

"It was just a prickling jinx," explained Bellatrix. "As I didn't want to hurt you either."

She didn't wanna hurt me.

Bellatrix didn't wanna hurt me.

God, why did her stomach have to tighten anytime Bellatrix said something sweet?

Sweet? She literally said she didn't want to snap your neck. How is that sweet? What is it with you, Hermione?

"Good thinking, Granger."

"I..." Hermione looked at her. "Really?"

"Really," Bellatrix's smile grew wider, making Hermione feel as though the sun above them was shining ten times harder. There was no fighting her muscles. Smiling back, she looked down before awkwardly backing away. She summoned Bellatrix's wand and handed it to her.

"But not as good as mine."

In a split second Hermione dropped to her knees, an odd pressure shoving her forward, and she fell, landing face down into the dirty puddle which she could not recall being there before, the mud at the bottom frothy like beaten egg whites.

Hermione could hear laughter coming from above her, which increased in volume as soon as she propelled herself and got to her knees. She wiped the mud from her eyes, humiliation biting her veins with sharp teeth.

"Seriously?" she spat onto the ground. The mud which had crept into her eyes now was stinging like crazy, and she had to rub at them numerous times to stop the sensation. When she finally stood up, she gave Bellatrix a look, but the witch was laughing so hard that no sound was coming out of her, and naturally no comment either.

Had Hermione not felt so indignant, she might have acknowledged how precious the entire scene looked, but as it happened, her pride had been hurt and therefore there was no room for sentiments.

"You know," she started, moving closer to Bellatrix, a mischievous thought possessing her. "I think there's something on your face, too. Let me..." but Bellatrix backed away.

"Don't you dare!"

And just like that, Hermione chased her around the bushes and the blown-up bench before catching up with her, which didn't take long, given Bellatrix was wearing a dress while Hermione had the advantage of jeans. She grabbed her arms and pressed herself against Bellatrix's back, rubbing her cheek against her shoulder.

"You—!"

"There, much better."

"Granger!" breathed Bellatrix as she freed herself from her grasp.

And there was her conscience coming back from the vacation. What was she doing! Hermione immediately took a few steps back, realising she had been way out of bounds; without any respect, without—

Bellatrix turned around.

She was glowing; with her cheeks pink like primrose, hair wild and unbridled, her smirk on the brink of dying, leaving just a genuine smile behind as a reminder, Hermione thought this might be the moment that could make anyone fall in love with Bellatrix. Seeing her so untroubled, grace in her hands as she plucked at her cloak covered in mud, and her tiny little nose, scrunched in this weirdly amused distaste.

She was absolutely mesmerising.

And happy.

"Looks like somebody needs a bath," Bellatrix teased through one more chuckle, looking her up and down.

Hermione shook her head, allowing a small scoff past her lips.

"You know, despite this little faux pas," said Bellatrix, giving her a long, very intense, very difficult to maintain look, "you were surprisingly alright. Obviously, it's going to take much more in real life, but... it's a start.

Hermione was stupidly blushing again.

It was rather ridiculous, wasn't it? The way her body trembled from the slightest of praises coming from Bellatrix. If only there was a concoction that could make her life easier and numb these chemical reactions in her. She could ask Vittorio if he had something in store, although on second thought, she really didn't want to end up in St Mungo, and she could only hope there would be no permanent consequences for Bellatrix, either.

Perhaps after everything was over and Hermione got to keep her soul intact, she could suggest to Bellatrix to see a healer for a proper health check, even get examined for any underlying conditions, as Hermione believed there must be something to her constant nausea.

"Alright, now that we've made sure you won't accidentally set yourself on fire," started Bellatrix anew, snatching her praises back and smirking, which Hermione caught only by the corner of her eye as she looked away in a sudden chagrin, "we could move on to something much more intriguing than the technique."

Shrugging, Hermione attempted to wipe the remaining mud from her skin before muttering her assent into her hands.

Strangely, Bellatrix's comment set her mind abroad, floating to the other Hermione as she couldn't help thinking how embarrassed she would be if she heard someone talking about her as though she was Neville Longbottom, unable to perform the most basic of spells. How disappointed she'd be in her, in this copy, this fantastic failure, daring to not live up to her name.

Huh... so this was what it felt like to live in someone's shadow; a younger sister, bête noire, outshined by the oldest; never the one to collect plaudits, never the one to be boasted about during fancy dinners.

Here we go again, self-pity at its finest. Don't be so dramatic, Hermione, it wasn't that deep; and you're not that useless either.

No; no, she wasn't. Surely, her own spell-casting wasn't as proficient as the other Hermione's, but that didn't mean she could never achieve her skill level. They were the same person, for Merlin's sake, the only difference was that they were both formed by different situations. While the other Hermione had faced circumstances in her adolescent years, circumstances that had forced her to grow up much too soon, this Hermione had faced them in her childhood; only instead of bequeathing lessons, they'd held her in place, making gargantuan crevices in her confidence and resiliency development. Not to forget the emotional blizzard born from the memories and bisque gardenias in Greek Islands. It scrubbed her magical abilities like sandpaper, left her fragile and exhausted, but she was still scrambling her way up, wasn't she? She had crafted her skills with professor Prewett, and she was good. It was only when self-deprecation and anxiety settled in that she found it difficult to work to the best of her abilities.

Which happened to be especially when Bellatrix was around.

Hermione gave her a wary look. There was curiosity draped around her like a haze, a challenge asking to be risen to.

"So any useful curses I should know about?" she rasped, and Bellatrix gave her a lip-biting smile flavoured with a humming chuckle.

"Oh. Plenty."

They had spent hours in the garden. Petals of guelder roses fluttering around them like torn butterflies, their curses blazed, ravaged and disintegrated, heartless to the delicate life dying at their hands. Unusually patient, Bellatrix kept explaining the ephemerality of a righteous anger Hermione seemed to be holding on, and rather emphasising the importance of intention. "To cause suffering is to mean it."

Hermione was too intoxicated to care about the connotation, too wrapped up in keeping Bellatrix from seeing her uncle for as long as possible—quite surprised she let her; and it wasn't until late noon that Bellatrix's stomach interrupted their activities, audibly demanding some sustenance.

A pale hand slapped against the rumbling sound, the dark eyes widening, absolutely horrified.

Reckoning Bellatrix wouldn't want to stop the lesson over something so trivial as hunger, Hermione looked away as if she didn't hear anything, feigning a semblance of concentration and flaring one more Expulso Curse at the nearest bush; watching a burst of cerulean light tear the plant apart, she stretched her left, then her right arm.

"Uhm... how about a little break? I don't know how about you, but I'm starving. What if we went inside and had something for lunch," suggested Hermione, summoning the watches from her purse. "It's about time, anyway."

"Yes... perhaps we should."

Hermione put the watches back into her purse, trying not to regard the unusual lack of protest. Because Bellatrix always argued and this was the first time she didn't. Hermione looked back at her, studying her adroit magic turning the razed garden back to Eden; precise, sewing up the ripped florets from the ground and bringing them back to life as if it was the easiest kind of sorcery in the world.

It wasn't.

How fascinating, really, but also a little peculiar if one remembered the way Bellatrix had scrunched her nose over the idea of cleaning the breakfast table, yet had no problem here, cleaning up the mess Hermione had made, which required so much more than a simple 'Evanesco'.

...must have been the antidote wearing off.

Bellatrix's hand fell back to her side, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Thank you. I'm..." but she couldn't remember what exactly she was going to say.

"It was fun, wasn't it?" Bellatrix saved her, flashing a dazzling smile, which faltered as another rumble echoed from her stomach.

Then Hermione saved her, smiling back, but giving no more than a timid nod in addition as she finally remembered, but dreaded Bellatrix might respond unsuitably. There were compliments blooming on the tip of Hermione's tongue, compliments she could just smother Bellatrix in as it was simply exhilarating to be able to draw from her wisdom, to hear her voice mellow while explaining some details here and there, to see her lips twitch—her eyes brighten up everytime Hermione managed to get the curse right.

"Yeah... it certainly was," she said, and as if to distance herself from her emotions, she backed toward the manor, then paused, waiting for Bellatrix to join her.

Shower was in order.

Several steps into the dining room, Hermione was greeted with a delectable smell of white truffle tagliolini, glossy on two porcelain plates set out under the faint glow of the pillar candles. A promise she had been granted before disappearing into the bathroom to scrub herself up, stood all attired and nervous, by the window.

She had not reneged.

It did not come as a surprise, though. Always hard to read, Bellatrix was an open book right now; frightened. Hermione had caught that elusive spectre of it in a darting of her eyes before they had parted, a reassuring sign Hermione could leave her alone for a moment or two; for surely, if Bellatrix wanted to abscond, she would have done it during the practice, even before that when she had gotten hold of her wand; quick as a hummingbird, she'd be gone. But she had stayed, all bravado forgotten.

Perhaps the potion was overtaking again. Or perhaps she had wavered from being an individualist for once.

One way or another...

"You know, you couldn't have asked for a better house elf," opened Hermione, eyeing the fanciful setting as she approached the table. And what a way to start a conversation, she thought, turning rigid, but then perhaps there was nothing wrong with praising a house elf in front of a pureblood.

Bellatrix looked at her, then at the table, her eyebrows bumping together; and as she tipped her head to the side, a few strands of her hair fell over, framing her face like a lovely portiére.

Nevermind.

"You didn't have to wait for me," muttered Hermione in her shredded version of 'how sweet of you that you did'.

Bellatrix made her way to the table, placing her hands on the backrest of the chair. It seemed as though there was a remark lingering in between her lips, something diverting, perhaps snarky; a grain of salt which had dissolved under the tip of her tongue, sweeping just enough to put the brininess along the two luscious rose petals.

Nevermind.

They sat down simultaneously. Hermione ran her hands over her thighs a few times, smoothing down the non-existent creases. She clenched and unclenched her hand, her fingertips brushing against the napkin beside her plate. She couldn't resist looking up.

Entrancing; and she was only eating...

There was an ethereality tailored in Bellatrix's every move, the charm of a veela dripping from the gentle bend of her wrists, her slunting elbows and shoulders—from her lips, slipping over the fork, pliant and puffy, and so so—

Never-bloody-mind.

Hermione grasped her own fork but the pasta, although delicious, did not assuage her. She only nibbled, each forkful thinner than the previous one until she had eventually forgotten she had ever been hungry.

"Why aren't you eating?"

Mouth slightly opened, Hermione glanced up and shrugged. "I... turns out I was just thirsty." She reached out for the nearest jug, purposefully avoiding the long stem glass filled with white wine to her right, and·poured herself a bit of water. Having taken a small sip, she placed the glass back on the table and pulled out her beaded purse, rummaging for the Antidote.

"Oh, not this wastewater again," complained Bellatrix, abandoning her fork as Hermione perched the small bottle on the stack of napkins between them.

"It's just one spoonful."

Bellatrix took the Antidote into her hand, studying it with a hostile glare. "I swear... this ruddy thing is making me more miserable than Roddie does, but whatever makes you happy..." she huffed, her free hand pushing a stray curl behind her ear.

Hermione slumped her shoulders. "You'll have much more clarity, trust me."

"Of course I will," beamed Bellatrix forcedly while pouring the liquid onto the clean spoon. "Granted I won't die of poisoning—in which case," she briefly looked at Hermione, "be a dear and do let my sister know." Squinting at the spoon, she muttered, "She enjoys funerals very much."

"Please, don't joke about these things," said Hermione, frowning. "I mean, it wouldn't hurt to have your blood tested just to make sure that the potion you took yesterday instead of Dittany hasn't messed with you more than we think—in fact, I can only encourage it, but this," she nodded at the spoon in Bellatrix's hand, adding tentatively, "isn't detrimental."

Bellatrix swallowed the spoonful of Antidote in a silent gulp.

"I've already noticed some amelioration," Hermione went on, trying to sound optimistic. "In this 'two steps forward, one step back' kind of way, but I suppose that's just the process of it." Taking the bottle of Antidote from the table, she held it to her eyes, studying the liquid. "Might as well be the case with your emotions. Given the Antidote is trying to expunge all these... affectionate feelings from your body and bring back those that predated them, it stands to reason you feel the way you do; must be overwhelming for your system to cope with such rapid mood swings."

Merely twitching her lips, Bellatrix sank into her chair, making Hermione shift in hers.

"I mean that's just a... I can't even imagine what it must be like for you."

Bellatrix's bare collar bones loomed up in a half-shrug. "Well, as I've said, miserable. It's almost like having this pie-in-the-sky dream where you're without a concern in your head; stupidly happy... as if the world couldn't crash down on your hands, and if it did, it just, it just wouldn't hurt. Then you jolt awake and all the placidity is gone—but it's the middle of the night so you go back to sleep, and you dream the same goddamn dream over and over again, waking up in between and just remembering that you will never ever have it."

A sharp, gnawing pain sucked at Hermione's stomach. "Have what?" she asked quietly.

"This... privilege."

Hermione's arms, two pythons curling, slid around her body, too tight to let in a sliver of air. A privilege? A—did Bellatrix just call happiness a privilege?

"Don't give me this look, Granger."

"I—"

"You're not gonna cry now, are you?"

"What? No! No, of course not," Hermione looked away, taking her time putting the Antidote back into her purse.

Bellatrix's chair creaked as she stood from the table, her heavy sigh carving scars inside Hermione's chest. "Good; because it would be utterly inappropriate."

Yes, it certainly would.

"Anyway, while you were gone, I got in touch with Perseus." Was that a hesitation in her voice? "He'll be awaiting me in London."

Hermione uncurled her arms, drawing a shaky breath. She rose to her feet in dread and sorrow, violent tenderness, a nice touch; like spices blending, but oh, too much nutmeg.

Bitter; for she did not want Bellatrix to go to London to see Perseus. She did not want her to go anywhere. What Hermione wanted was to walk over the table and ensnare her in her arms; keep her there—here by this ostentatiously set table in a butterfly embrace, far far away from him; hold her, soft enough, close enough to allot her that privilege she'd forgotten she could have.

God, she'd give her that of her own.

"Now, one piece of advice before we go," Bellatrix went on, and Hermione forced herself to focus. "Do not make a sound once we're there. Don't even breathe if you don't have to, for if he sees you, we'll both be doomed."

Hermione could feel her arteries clogging with fright, yet found herself responding with a firm, Alright.

"Should anything happen, leave. Apparate."

"Alright."

"He could have you dead in a matter of seconds."

"Alright."

"You can still change your mind and stay here."

"Now see, that's where I draw the line."

The joke was lame, yes, but Bellatrix did suppress a smile, and Hermione thought that that mild twitch of her muscles might be just her favourite countenance of hers.

"How do you feel?" she could not help asking, embarrassing concern leaking from her mouth like a spat drink.

Bellatrix's eyes locked on hers in a silent contemplation. "Let's just not waste any more time, alright?" she said in lieu of an answer.

"Speaking about your feelings isn't... a waste of time," objected Hermione, desert-hot in the face.

Not to me.

Drawing a ragged breath, almost as if trying to inhale fire, Bellatrix lifted her chin—and what a vision she was; submersed in perplexion, this rare uncertainty dragging from her slightly parted lips up to the flutter of her eyelashes—and then a whisper echoed, a husky "come here," so gutturally low, Hermione's arms stood no chance but broke out in painful goosebumps.

But this couldn't be... she just took the Antidote...

"N—no," she managed weakly.

"No?"

Hermione shook her head.

"How do you propose we Apparate then?" asked Bellatrix, her voice a soft bewilderment. Hermione's cheeks rose in temperature as the realisation dawned on her that Bellatrix's 'come here' was no invitation for any sort of intimacy, but a plain white request.

How embarrassing! Perhaps Bellatrix didn't—

A scoff, though a kind one, chipped her hope.

How bloody embarrassing!

Sinking her teeth into her cheeks, Hermione sucked in on air and traipsed to Bellatrix. And there she bit harder, for her hand was suddenly not her own anymore. Taken by ice itself, and surely a rigid oblivion too, she could do nothing but respond with warmth, the gentlest brush over trembling knuckles, a little squeeze there, the only comfort she would allow. Well, perhaps a bit more, as somehow she had Bellatrix's hand trapped from both sides now, cradling her like the velvet miracle she was.

"Have you got your invisibility cloak?"

Oh...

However much Hermione didn't want to, she released Bellatrix's hand and dived into her purse. With little to no effort, her fingers grasped the hem of a flowing material and tugging at it, pulled out the silvery cloak. In one swift movement, she'd thrown it over her head, her heart leaping at Bellatrix's unexpected and quite delicate precision adjusting it wherever needed. Fumbling under the cloak, Hermione rushed to hold her hand again, but Bellatrix found hers first, the gesture having her stomach tightening to the size of a poppy seed.

But then the adrenaline took over; the familiar sensation, the splash of colours and sounds, the choking assault, and a moment later, they were catching their breaths in a positively deserted Knockturn Alley.

The sun was still stretched aureolin and alive across the cloudless sky and narrow rooftops, a contrast to the cold wind somersaulting the dead leaves and yellowing newspaper pages along the granite road.

Bellatrix's hand slipped from hers, a little heartbreak on its own, then beckoned, almost unnoticeably, behind her back as she set off straight toward the dark wall about ten feet away from them.

Suddenly, all of a dither, Hermione retrieved her hand from underneath the cloak and followed headlong after Bellatrix's swaying locks, the extent of how mad the entire idea of coming here was belatedly catching up with her.

They were meeting Perseus.

She had honestly no answer as to why she had allowed it, why she had given Bellatrix her wand back, or why she had agreed to this London venture. No negotiation, no effort to talk Bellatrix out of it. Nothing. Hell, it hadn't even crossed her mind to whip up a decent plan. And they should have at a very least discussed what and how much to share with Perseus. For what if it wasn't safe to apprise him of Rodolphus? What if...

Irresponsible.

This was utterly insane. She was gonna get Bellatrix into trouble and herself killed.

How could she be so dilatory and mishandle the whole situation like this? What was dappling her judgement? The lack of sleep? Bellatrix's disconcerting aura? Information overload, which, according to numerous scientific studies, led to a reduction of decision quality?

Or was it some subconscious, twisted desire for one fleeting encounter with Perseus Black; to get a closer look at his eyes, perhaps in hope of finding remorse, guilt or even grief—one motive for why he'd had to maim such a young mind, someone of his brother's—his own blood?

Whatever reason had made Hermione endorse Bellatrix's idea, it was too late to back off it now.

Wasn't it?

Bellatrix had already taken a turn to the right, then left, then right again, loping alongside the low rooftops that were almost touching the ground with the grimy edges of their eaves. If Hermione hurried up, she could still seize her arm and Apparate. It would be a rather sneaky move as she'd have to do it without Bellatrix's consent, not to mention the risk of one of them splinching, but it wasn't like she had fitter options at hand; having come to this point, there was no way she'd change Bellatrix's mind with pretty words.

What on Earth should she do?

What?

Amidst her hasty contemplations, Bellatrix had turned to face the mouldy wall of the seemingly empty Trackleshanks Locksmith and, looking left and right, rapped on the textured surface with the tip of her wand. An odd sound, as though water boiling, reverberated from the wall, and in an instant, the mould that clung to the facade like a limpet started bubbling and turning into something that could only be described as a frothing algae cluster.

Hermione took three cautious steps to Bellatrix, subtly lifting the invisibility cloak to get in some fresh air, though the second she approached the algae wall, her hand shot up to clamp against her nose and mouth as a terrible, rolling miasma struck her like a slap.

Her stomach heaved, and thank God she didn't have much in there, for she'd have surely ejected it on the spot. She chanced a look at Bellatrix, whose expression did not match hers in the least, and with her nose wrinkled, slowly drew her hand from her mouth before inching in. "I don't think this—," began Hermione but was silenced with a barely audible, yet still quite urgent shh.

There was a gentle brush to her thigh, and as she lowered her eyes, she saw Bellatrix collecting a handful of her cloak, squeezing it till the thin tendons of her knuckles showed through her skin. Hermione had no time to dissect the action, for Bellatrix stepped forward and—was she serious?—pulled the cloak along with her straight into the malodorous mould, which gave Hermione no other choice but to follow lest she lose her cover.

And bless that invisible miracle for providing at least a thin layer of protection, for walking through that bubbling wall felt like wading through a hot pastry filling, which Hermione certainly did not wish to experience on her bare skin.

Pity Bellatrix, who did not have the same luxury.

Actually, Hermione would love to check if she was alright, but the cloak clung to her skin, the resin against a tree, stitching her lashes together like sleep. She tried to reach out at least, blindly looking for something real to grab. She found Bellatrix's wrist and, seizing it as firmly as the cloak allowed her, she persisted pushing through the sticky substance a little braver now.

Seconds later, the wall spat her out, balancing, into the open, the sound of her unsure footsteps muffled in her ears. Bellatrix's wrist slipped from her grasp, and her own arms stretched under the cloak, unlatching it from her face and her body until it loosened and fell around her like the wind. Her eyes were on Bellatrix as soon as the world was full in sight again.

It was her hair she saw first, bathed in the bright candlelight, its tone strangely warm and brown like chocolate. There were no traces of that peculiar bubbling mould on her, and judging by her clear view, neither on the invisibility cloak—Hermione checked nevertheless, twice, before turning back to Bellatrix and watching as her hands coiffed the already perfect curls, then dropped to smooth down the already spruce cloak, only to go up again and tousle the hair at her temples.

Hermione felt gradually sicker and sicker to her stomach, even after the foul smell of the wall became pleasant, spicy and terpenic. No, it was not the odour anymore. It was something about Bellatrix's attempt at fixing her appearance that did not sit right with Hermione; again and again, regret ate away at her, reminding her that they shouldn't have come here; that they should have never come here.

Guilt made her eyes drop to somewhere below the line of dignity, and they caught Bellatrix's left hand lingering at her thigh, open, as if waiting for something, and she hesitantly reached out, nudging it gently with her fingers.

Taking in a ragged breath, Bellatrix pulled away and without a glance behind her set off along the tiers of floating candles, which were marking the way through the stark stone hall they had appeared in, and that Hermione up until now did not care to grace with her attention.

Looking about as she rushed after Bellatrix, she could see no windows there, only countless cuboid pillars peering from the darkness, tall and ornately carved, reminding her of the Airavatesvara Temple, the sketches of which she'd seen in Religion & Architecture of the 12th century; beautiful but chilling, like all the unknown. Through the echo of their penultimate steps, Hermione could almost hear her pervading anxiety as instantly an irrational feeling of being watched rose upon her, making the hair on her arms stand on end.

Distraught, she almost failed to notice Bellatrix coming to a halt.

Hermione stopped in the last second and recoiled, for out of nowhere, there was a tumult of wind around them; wind like an ancient whisper, cold and alive, rushing toward the candles and bringing sheer darkness upon them.

Was this supposed to happen, panicked Hermione, desperately turning in all directions to see the same nothing everywhere she looked. What if it wasn't a preset automatically activated spell but a newly cast one that had put out the flames? What if someone had trapped them in here? What if—?

Be sensible, Hermione!

Devoid of light, she tried inching to where Bellatrix was standing a bare moment ago, her heart thumping like a drum. But before she managed a step, a circle of shining emerald symbols appeared beneath her feet—meroitic, if she was to guess—a stone snake coiling amidst them and spitting hisses like water dripping on a hot surface.

Hermione quickly stepped away from the circle, but Bellatrix remained standing in it with a calming sense of familiarity imprinted on her green-lit face, so Hermione cautiously moved back in.

"Sanguineus est fulmen," sibilated Bellatrix. "Sanguineus. Est. Fulmen."

Hermione had heard it before; the quote.

'Blood is power.'

Suits their agenda well, she thought to herself before gasping as the ground beneath them creaked. Looking down, Hermione saw the stone snake twisting and opening its mouth where it had slid next to her cloak; it lingered, and she budged, just enough to make room for it and watched as it glided up to Bellatrix and swallowed the triangular symbol right behind her heel. Simultaneously, the remaining signs began spinning and spiraling into the air, enclosing them, before bursting into green flames, which licked at their sides, hot and needy, preventing them from seeing anything beyond. Hermione instinctively stepped closer to Bellatrix, whose hand came to rest on the invisibility cloak, the most minute pressure on Hermione's outer thigh.

Before her stomach made so much as a loop, the green flames died out and a rather large room with a high ceiling of sloping sides and dark marble presented itself to them; a much more luxurious sister to The Leaky Cauldron. There were leather sofas there and a crystal chandelier with candles; portraits of the most peculiar creatures on the walls, tables and chairs, velvet draperies, and sluggish flames in a cast-iron fireplace.

Plenty of furnishings, yet still no people.

And the lavish room appeared so dreadful without life; all the more so as it was clearly meant to celebrate it.

Hermione tore her eyes from a silvery ashtray, possibly an Art Nouveau, which was planted on a nearby table, and looked at Bellatrix; she was fixing her hair again, pulling at her sleeves and pinching her white cheeks rose red. It made Hermione's teeth grind with ire, far greater than the first time but poorer than the sadness that arose with it. But she could not shed a word, could she? She'd promised she wouldn't. She watched helplessly as Bellatrix's chest heaved and her chin lifted with pride that did not drizzle into her hands, which were antsy, catching at her dark cloak like a nervous child's hands would.

There was a muffled sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, coming from the winder staircase on the other side of the room and causing them both to whip toward it.

Was Perseus waiting in a room upstairs?

The noise seemed to have slowly died away, and Hermione's gaze returned to Bellatrix, her face unfamiliar to her as a shadow of fear devoured its aplomb; Hermione alone felt no different than that, but Bellatrix was brave, always braver than her, and she blinked it away as though it was nothing before moving forward the sound. Having no other option but to follow, Hermione went after her, palms perspiring and stomach churned in pain, but she walked, determined to stay by Bellatrix's side in spite of everything, even herself.

They very soon got to the staircase. It was quite majestic; old, likely made of dark mahogany, the polished baluster carved with countless skeletons of some horned animal, about as small as a beetle. Bellatrix went right up, lightly touching the scintillating wood with her hand, the curled tips of her hair grazing her lower back at each step. Gulping, Hermione lifted her cloak a bit and, clutching it to her chest, reluctantly tiptoed after her; she let it down two steps before reaching the landing, her breath quick and shallow.

The door atop the stairs was half-open, revealing a stripe of carob-brown wall laced with a thin, rectangular shadow. Bellatrix did not take a moment before knocking; she did it forthwith, and Hermione all at once struggled to maintain a sense of composure as she simply wasn't ready to just breeze in. But Bellatrix was already pushing the door further open and entering, so scared or not, Hermione couldn't afford hitting the panic button; she had to move and quickly get into the next room before Bellatrix could shut the door in her face.

Trepidatious, she slipped into the opulent room in two swift steps and pressed herself against the wallpaper, hot rush washing over her body like a tidal bore. Her heartbeat felt more like punches than an erratic pulsation, for she could not help thinking; perhaps it was just some kind of temporary hyperacusis, but she dreaded her hasty ingress had been far too loud to pass unnoticed. The invisibility cloak had rustled against the floor and her footsteps had sounded like lead falling to the ground. Her eyes ran over the room in panic, ignoring the plethora of books lining the high walls, minding only their quest for Perseus Black.

But she and Bellarix appeared to be alone. There was no one sitting behind the polished desk and going through the stacks of documents that were lying neat and untouched in one corner, or wielding the black quill from the brass ink pot to draw cursive letters on the yellow parchment in the middle.

Where was he?

Hermione gave Bellatrix a sidelong glance, finding her still at the door, careful when she closed it, as if afraid Hermione might still be by the threshold.

"Bellatrix."

Hermione's eyes snapped back, and suddenly the fear that had penetrated every cell of her being vanished like the flame from a blown-out match. All was but a gnawing pain, biting at her abdomen and sucking her raw, because there he stood—had the nerve to stand by that ridiculously ostentatious writing desk, with his pearl gloves and impeccable robe, with those prominent features that no doubt had grown more handsome as he aged, looking at Bellatrix with a smile on his lips as though he had never touched her, as though he had never even thought of laying a hand upon her innocence. And it was maddening; maddening to know the history and yet be unable to confront it. Hermione could barely hold herself from wending her way to the man to punch, claw, bite, tear—mar him beyond recovery.

"Perseus."

Aghast, Hermione turned her head toward the familiar voice which was uncommonly reverent in its timbre, the incipient sight another punch to the gut, for where on Earth had Bellatrix gone? Where had her essence gone? Rather than the conceited, stout-hearted woman, there was but a penumbra of her temper, transmuted, a backwards metamorphosis of a monarch pulling back into its chrysalis; crumbling under the weight of Perseus' vulturous gaze. The gradual concavity of her shoulders almost looked as if she was trying to roll her body into a ball; much like armadillos did when sensing great danger. And her eyes, God, her eyes, always broiling, were blinking too rapidly, darting about the floor between them, the smallest means of escape granted. And it was clear she did not feel comfortable, that she did not feel safe; and it made Hermione wonder what exactly Perseus had been doing to her and for how long it must have been for Bellatrix, even after all these years, to behave like a cowed child in his presence.

All at once she could no longer see clearly, the mouthful of emotions at the back of her throat reluctant to sweep down its burning walls.

Of all times!

Perseus spoke then, but Hermione missed his words. She tried to get a grip on herself, knowing she needed to stay mindful, and looking up, she lured the few angry tears back to focus on the scene again. Bellatrix was hesitantly reaching toward her chest, her posture straightening for just a second before falling back to guarded once she took off her cloak, which revealed an unusually modest dress underneath. She ambled toward the desk, and Hermione, overwhelmingly anxious to stay near her, followed, stopping within a reasonable distance so as not to blow her cover, but still close enough to keep an eye on them.

Perseus waited for Bellatrix to come to him, assisting her into the chair, all gallantry and apple-sweet charm, which made Hermione's blood boil to the point of tearing her skin open; more so as she watched him place his hands on Bellatrix's shoulders. God help him if he wasn't going to remove them soon, for Hermione would help him to it, and she wouldn't give a merry damn about staying undercover.

"I must say I was rather taken aback by your request," he spoke, finally drawing back and taking Bellatrix's cloak from her stiff hands, which caused her to press into her chair a bit firmer. It didn't miss Perseus' attention, of course it didn't, and he unapologetically beamed at that. Placing the cloak on the vacant chair, he arced around the desk and seated himself across from Bellatrix, whence he peered at her with something that reeked of blatant satisfaction, most likely even pleasure—as if seeing her driven to submission was bringing him utmost gratification. The tilt of his chin, the smugness that painted deep lines along his mouth—it couldn't have divulged his triumph of having the upper hand more.

Hermione had never felt deeper resentment toward anyone's demeanour than Perseus Black's; not even Bellatrix's, even despite the fact that he seemed to possess all the ugly traits she did, although seemed to have abandoned the moment he had come into the picture. Her infamous pride, the eagerness to establish her dominance at all times, the joy of seeing someone suffer; it turned to less than ashen dust.

"Moory!"

There wasn't the thinnest sound heard as the house elf appeared, dressed in moon-white and bringing a cold sweat upon Hermione, for what if he could see? What if house elves could actually see beyond magic? Beyond incantations? She'd get discovered. Would she mind? Hermione didn't find out, for the elf did not glance her way once; he kept his head and his back bowed at all times, almost as if he'd risk punishment if he dared to look up.

"Master Black."

"I think whiskey, yes?" asked Perseus, his eyes fast on Bellatrix.

"It is barely past lunch. I don't drink spirits that early on," she refused politely, which had him scoffing.

"You can make an exception, can't you?"

With that dismissal at hand, the elf, Moory, charmed up two lowball glasses of auburn brown liquid—one in front of Perseus, another in front of Bellatrix—and, still bowing, stepped back.

Hermione could only hope Bellatrix would be sensible enough not to drink it. The mere idea of the potential effects alcohol could have if conflated with the potion and now the antidote too... nothing innocuous for sure.

Having hissed at Moory to leave—and he had obeyed at once—Perseus leaned in, and although the desk between him and Bellatrix stretched wide enough to create a comforting distance, she nevertheless shrunk into her chair yet again, which twisted Perseus' smile higher.

"Tell me... to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, grandfatherly-kind, and Bellatrix, who had been parsimonious not to shed more than a couple of words up until now, commenced right away:

"As I've mentioned before, there's a matter I'd like to discuss with you." And her voice held onto desperate composure, much like her hand did onto the side of her dress.

"Speak up then," encouraged Perseus before sipping his whiskey.

"Why is Rodolphus interfering with my task?" she asked off the bat, her straightforwardness catching Hermione and clearly Perseus too, off guard—and, oh boy, if this was the potion encouraging her...

He drew the glass from his mouth and carefully placed it back on the desk. "What do you mean, dearest?"

"He's been on the trail of the corpus deus, hasn't he?" Bellatrix said, shifting in her seat. "I came to find out that some time ago, he bought one of them, Slytherin's locket to be precise, from the old Borgin."

Perseus's left eyebrow arched up.

"When I ascertained," Bellatrix began explaining, "that the locket was in Borgin's possession, I immediately sought him out only to find out that I had already purchased it from him two years ago—which is absurd as at the time I didn't have the slightest notion about the founder's relics playing any role in this. You can't imagine how demeaning it was to have that fool looking down at me and telling me that perhaps it had just slipped my mind—as if I could forget about such a thing."

Perseus was looking at her evenly.

"I assumed someone must have been posing as me; I just didn't know why. Of course, I didn't want to come to you unless I was certain as to who it was. Luckily, that person's absent-mindedness worked its charm in the most confounding ways, and several days later… all the answers I needed came out from within them," Bellatrix paused before adding: "It was Rodolpus. I caught him hanging around this woman, oddly similar to me, identical I'd say. She Disapparated the moment I entered the room, therefore I didn't get to interrogate her, but if my hairbrush in Rodolphus' hand could be any indication, I think it's rather obvious as to who bought that locket."

Perseus smiled at that but said nothing. When Bellatrix's impatience seemed to get the best of her, she went on, "Why is he going behind my back?"

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"So you knew..." came a delayed whisper.

Perseus tilted his head. "Bella, why didn't you discuss it with your husband?"

"I wanted to ask you," she replied quietly. "I wanted to know whether the order came from the Dark Lord or whether Rodolphus is acting on his own initiative."

Smirking, Perseus held up his glass against the chandelier light. "In other words, you did not want to deal with him yet again. Frankly, Bella, with an attitude like that, Rodolphus's business should be no concern of yours."

"But... how could it not be?" she blurted after a while. "He's obviously plotting against me, and with your blessing on top of it."

Perseus froze. His smile was gone, and so was his fake courtesy. "What?"

"Tell me, have I done something to upset the Dark Lord? Does he no longer trust me? I—"

"For Merlin's sake, halt that paranoid whinging!" he hissed, which made Bellatrix bow her head.

"All I meant was—"

"Enough!" Drawing his glass to his heart, Perseus fixed her with a piercing gaze, his index finger tearing away from the glass and pointing at her. "If you invested half the time you spend dwelling in your insecurities in the search for the corpus deus, perhaps you wouldn't have found yourself questioning our Dark Lord—or me, for that matter."

Bellatrix was quiet.

"Where did you even get the audacity to come here, implying I'm behind some made-up treason against you?" he sibilated.

"That is not what I said."

Perseus put his glass aside and reached for the quill in the ink pot. "Let me give you one pellucid piece of advice, which I suggest you take for your own good." Pinching the black feather between his bony fingers, he gave it a small twirl before gripping it tight in his palm. "Mind your own business and cease interfering with everyone else's." The skin on his knuckles stretched and began turning white. "You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat, but darling Bella, it might as well be the delicate neck of a swan." The quill let out a cracking sound before it broke in his hand. "Snapping in half."

Hermione's stomach recoiled into knots, a terrible fear plucking her spine. Just the idea, which she could barely form to the full extent—for he was threatening Bellatrix's life, for Merlin's sake—and over what? Reasonably valid questions? She had every right to ask any goddamn question she pleased; especially in regards to Rodolphus' devilry, so unless there was something shady going on, there was no reason for Perseus to react in such a way. And of freaking course, there was; it was clear as day something was very very wrong about this whole situation, and Perseus didn't even try hard enough to hide it.

But whatever treachery was going on, Hermione first wondered whether Perseus was actually capable of—or was it a regular thing with him? Death threats? Because Bellatrix—well, she didn't seem troubled by the implication in the least.

"Better focus on your task, Merlin knows you're doing an egregious job."

"I'm trying but—"

"Try harder!" barked Perseus, which immediately brought a thick silence between them. His eyes, which were judgmental and cold like glacier, were roaming over Bellatrix as though assessing how much resentment to lavish upon her. "I should have known that putting my faith into a woman would do nothing but misfire," he uttered flagrantly, and Hermione felt her own eyebrows shooting up at the sexist remark. "But that is my fault entirely; old man, blinded by his affection." Perseus stopped talking for a solid minute, the atmosphere turning uncomfortably morose. Hermione didn't dare move an inch, and neither did Bellatrix. When he finally spoke again, his tone sounded mollified. "You've always been my favourite. I believed you were destined for greatness; I believed you were capable of handling this task—well, clearly, I thought wrong," he twisted his lips, pulling the disappointment card. "You're just like her!"

"I am nothing like her!"

"Yes you are!" he raised his voice again. "Just as weak, just as... unstable."

Bellatrix fell meekly quiet again, and maybe, if Hermione wasn't so wrapped up in imagining the many, very inapposite, ways in which she could hurt Perseus for his vile manipulation, she would have bethought of some twisted pattern of behaviour here as the dynamic between Perseus and Bellatrix was oddly similar to Bellatrix's and Hermione's.

"You know," he rose from his chair. "I've always been there for you; for better or worse; half of which you're not even aware. There were times when Cygnus came to me, complaining about what a disappointment you've turned out to be; and I—" he pointed at his heart, "I was there to ease his frustration and say he was expecting too much from you... you were only a child after all. I told him to be patient, that your marriage to the young Lestrange would solve all the problems. And I was right. In a way. After you got married, his visits came to an end—but then Rodolphus took his place. Not even a month after your wedding, I had him here, on this carpet, inebriated with his heart on his sleeve, making complaints like Cygnus once did. What a pathetic boy, I thought, but then, as I looked closer—as I listened, I could see something fascinating; this undiscovered crevisse, just waiting to get its wonders unleashed. Oh how I loved pulling them out one by one... You see, we took a liking to each other; rooted this blessed bond of father and son. In his despair, he shared quite a lot with me. He still does," Perseus let that sink in before adding: "It cost me dearly to talk him out of visiting you in that little mansion of yours after what you did to him yesterday."

Hermione almost gasped. How had Rodolphus discovered that place? No one was supposed to know; both Bellatrix and Billey had assured her of that so how...?

Perseus placed his hands on the desk, leaning in. "As for the polyjuice potion; of course I knew. Honestly, Bella, what did you expect? If you haven't been a wife to him, you cannot be surprised he's resorted to having liaisons outside your marriage."

"I don't care about his loyalty," Bellatrix half-whispered, her voice trembling. "What I care about is one of his harlots parading around in my skin."

"Can you blame him, really?"

Bellatrix turned her head to the side, but the movement was so brief Hermione didn't catch her expression.

"Did you ask him to do it? To get the locket?"

"Why, yes; you were taking too long, dear," Perseus made his way around the desk, pausing behind the chair with Bellatrix's cloak on it. "The time is running out, and the Dark Lord won't wait forever."

"But why did you help him? You clearly knew about the locket so why did you tell him instead of me? I was doing what I could—"

"And yet it wasn't enough. Some things will never change, will they?" Perseus shook his head before resuming his walk and missing the stunned Hermione by a hair's breadth—she automatically inched closer to Bellatrix, aching to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but didn't dare for the fear of startling her. One haughty scoff later, Perseus snorted, "Tell me, Bella, why must I suffer the indignity of having to share the honourable name 'Black' with these useless women married into this family? Look at Orion's wife; while she indeed delivered two sons, it did not yield anything fruitful. Her firstborn turned out to be a traitor, and poor Regulus died before he could so much as call himself a man. But then—" Perseus' voice levelled up in arrogance. "Then there's your mother, a whole nother story. As if the shame of giving birth to three girls, unable to preserve the Blacks' name wasn't enough; her incompetence clearly passed to all the three of you. The middle child ran away with a filthy mudblood, and while Narcissa seemed to be the one upholding the status, her fool of a son destroyed everything by befriending that little mudblood girl."

Hermione's heart grew faint.

Facing Bellatrix, Perseus took a step toward her. "But you—you were my recourse. I believed that you could be the key in this uprising; despite your failures, despite my growing disappointment in you, I still believed that you could break the curse and bring honour to your family. Because honestly, it is your damn duty to make whatever amends you can for the mortification you've caused, wouldn't you agree?"

Mortification? What mortification? Wasn't Bellatrix the quintessence of a pureblood witch—a pureblood heir?

"Why don't you let me make those amends then?" dared Bellatrix. "Why have you sided with Rodolphus and manacled my efforts?"

Perseus prowled toward them. "How dare you!"

"You kept it a secret and I refuse—"

He was in Bellatrix's face within a second, his palms grasping the arm rests of her chair, trapping her. Hermione took a craven step backwards, utterly terrified. Perseus was glaring at the unmoving Bellatrix with unhinged fury, his eyes darting between hers. "Refuse? You refuse? If there's one thing I won't tolerate, Bella, it's recalcitrance," he gritted after a while, causing chills to jump under Hermione's skin.

"I—"

"Silence! You're in no position to make complaints or talk back!" his breath grew audibly heavier. "You are lucky, so unbelievably lucky I gave you this opportunity, for what do you think what would have come of you, had it not been for me? Who else would have given your empty life a meaning?" He bared his teeth before bowing his head, slightly swaying on his feet. A pained growl escaped his throat as he looked up again and leaning in, grasped Bellatrix's chin. "Now, look what you made me say," he gritted, much too close to her face. "You cannot be like this, Bella... You have to play nice and do as I say... Don't you know I only want what's best for you; that I am the only one who truly cares? You've got no one else in this world, Bella, no one but me."

Hermione stood there, sickened and furious, yet unable to do anything to help. But Bellatrix wasn't helping either. "Are you really? So w—"

"You ungrateful child!" growled Perseus.

"I—"

In one swift motion, he seized Bellatrix's arms and yanked her from the chair, shoving her brutally into his desk. A moan escaped Bellatrix's throat, her hands jolting behind her and blindly slamming against the stacks of parchments, which sent them tumbling down and forced her onto her elbows. There was ink leaking left and right, spilling all over the wooden surface, soaking the yellow parchment deep black. But Perseus didn't seem bothered. His furious eyes were mounted on Bellatrix—and so were Hermione's, finally able to gaze upon her face, and God, she thought the sight might just haunt her forever; the terror snuggled in every crease of Bellatrix's skin, the heartbreaking traces of what little defiance was left in her, melting like a wreath of snow.

Enraged, sick to her stomach, all beyond herself, Hermione took a hasty step forward, but stopped the last second. She clutched her wand, unable to recall the moment she had reached for it, battling the voices inside her head that were screaming at her to interfere. Because she couldn't; the consequences it might have on both of them... But if Perseus was to—no, he was just trying to intimidate her, he wasn't actually going to do that—and if Hermione was to act on her emotions, she might very unneccesarily exacerbate the entire situation, which probably even wasn't what it looked like.

"Not another word!" Persus stepped closer and, leaning in, placed his hands on either side of Bellatrix's arms, inches from touching them. "I thought I helped you; cured you of your rebellion."

Trapped between him and the desk, Bellatrix remained completely still as if some wicked force had turned her into a statue, and for a moment, Hermione dreaded it might have. But Bellatrix's chest heaved then, and Perseus, who was shakily towering over her, drew in closer, his leg forcing its way between hers.

No!

"There's clearly one more lesson to teach you," he grasped onto Bellatrix's neck with one hand while the other fumbled with her long skirt.

Fury, so raw and overpowering, sank its teeth into Hermione will, snatching the last bits of her self-restraint. Yanking the cloak off of her, she felt her hand raising, a blinding flare of purple hitting Perseus Black's side, sending him into the nearest bookcase. He slammed against the built-in shelves and with a loud groan cratered to the floor, a number of books in heavy binding hurtling down and dropping onto his body below.

Ears ringing, Hermione had no idea as to what, how or where; all she could think of was Bellatrix—Bellatrix, who seemed to be in too much shock, staring at Hermione, who had rushed to her side, as though she'd completely forgotten she was even there.

"Are you alright? Tell me you—!" Hermione breathed urgently, eyes roaming all over Bellatrix's face just to make sure, just to see, her free hand pausing inches from the sharp cheekbone because her eyes, the hurt in them—but there was no time, so she opted for Bellatrix's upper arms to help her off the desk so they could make for the door.

But Bellatrix almost instantly struggled against Hermione's grasp. "What have you done?" she sibilated, moving toward the seemingly unconscious Perseus instead. "What have you—"

Hermione's hand slid lower, gripping Bellatrix's silk-clad wrist. "Don't!"

"Let me—I need to—"

"We have to leave, Bellatrix, now!" urged Hermione, her voice, her hands shaking uncontrollably. "Please!"

"But he's going to think that I—I need to explain—!"

"You don't need to explain anything; not to him!" protested Hermione, tugging at her, but Bellatrix wrenched herself free. Two steps in Perseus's direction, Hermione caught hold of her again and practically dragged her across the room by her forearm.

"Don't touch me, I must—"

Hermione carelessly shoved her wand into her jeans and seized Bellatrix's other arm, for this "one step forward, two steps back" tango wasn't getting them anywhere. And she was doing what she could to not slip and fall as she tried to get Bellatrix through the door, but she was resisting so bloody hard, Hermione's frustration started to spiral out of control. "Goddamn it! You are not going back!" she barked, frustration clouding her judgement. "You're just not! So stop fighting me and move! We're getting out of here." She realised too late that this must have been the worst possible way to communicate with Bellatrix, but too beleaguered, Hermione could hardly think clearly at the moment. She was still forcing her to move along, not quite mindful of the pressure she was using, because finally, she managed to pull Bellatrix past the threshold, where, yet again, Bellatrix slipped from her grip.

"No, Bellatrix—stop! Stop it!" Hermione cried desperately, lunging for her and, grasping the side of her dress, pulled at it, causing their bodies to crush against each other, Bellatrix's jawline hitting hard against Hermione's lips. Hissing, Hermione drew back and gripped Bellatrix's arms yet again. "Stop and listen to me!"

But she didn't. "If I don't come back now; if I—he's going to think I betrayed him!"

"So what," barked Hermione. "Let him! Didn't he betray you first? Didn't he—" Hermione's voice softened but intensified with dejection. "Don't you understand what could have happened there?"

Bellatrix hesitated, her resistance less resolute.

Hermione took her chance. "Please, there's very little time we have and if we don't leave now, while we still can...I'd be left to die. He's not going to spare me, Bellatrix, and no, I am not leaving without you, so you decide!" Her grip slackened, and Bellatrix looked at her, shreds of heartbreak in her eyes darker than their depth; and they appeared to be searching for something within Hermione, who, however, had nothing to offer other than a promise to take her away from this vile man and never let her come back—but it wasn't enough, clearly it wasn't, as it had only earned her reddened crescents and shooting stars across her skin.

Bellatrix sighed. She glanced over her shoulder and to Hermione's immense relief, seized Hermione's wrist, and then they were off, down the stairs, rushing through the opulent room, clothes swishing, heels clicking, still seemingly alone, and it was only then that Hermione realised she was missing her invisibility cloak, but there was no point in running back to get it. Harm was already done.

At some point, Bellatrix let go of her, and then they were nearing the locus where the emerald flames had conducted them from the pillar hall. Hermione deemed it unlikely to be able to apparate from here and so, still jogging, she gave Bellatrix a quizzical look, whereupon Bellatrix drew her wand. The flames were back, hot and high, bringing them to the pillar room.

"We can't go back," rasped Bellatrix as they at once set off along the candles, which were alight again. "My house. It's not safe."

"I know," agreed Hermione out of breath. "Billey."

"Possibly."

"You have to free him."

"What?"

"I know a place," said Hermione quickly. "We can stay there until—" Until when? Hermione's stomach churned, but there was no time to worry about that now. "You have to summon Billey and set him free. He won't say a word then."

All at once they ran into the thick substance, nasty as it was, which led them back to Knockturn Alley. Hermione looked left and right, late afternoon wind whipping at her hair, and lucky them, there was not a ghost in sight. She drew her wand and didn't ask Bellatrix; she simply took over, taking Bellatrix's cold hand in her own, clammy one, squeezing tightly, all butterflies lost to anticipation.

Hermione focused, thinking of the lovely cottage near the Savernake forest. She'd never Apparated at such a distance, least of all taken someone with her; had it not been for the circumstances, she'd surely crack under her broken confidence, but the graveness of the situation sucked all doubt out of her mind and there was nothing but plain certainty telling her that she was going to get them where she wanted, safe and sound.

And she did.

She bloody did.

They appeared standing amidst the umbriferous spider oaks, the chilly air filled with the soothing smell of wild mint, moss and silence. The sky was darker there, the clouds faint periwinkle; and as they turned to their left, a quaint cottage stood on its own, like a scrumptious gingerbread house about ten yards away, impressive against the lazily setting sun on the horizon.

One look upon it, and Hermione realised the place still bore the spirit of her grandfather, Charles, who had dug the first spadeful of earth beneath their feet into which Hermione's grandmother, Eleanor, had later planted their first geraniums. It had been years since they had last visited the place—since Hermione herself had visited the place—and yet the scent of childhood memories was just as sweet as before.

"Where are we?" asked Bellatrix, but Hermione only motioned for her to follow as she set off toward the thin cedar fence enclosing the cottage. She tapped on the garden gate with her wand and gave a simple wave, a motion she had only ever tried with her hand when copying the wand movements of her mum all those years ago. There was the sound of a dry branch breaking, and Bellatrix swore behind her.

Hermione pushed at the gate, glancing around as she stepped in. Her mom's monthly visits were obviously paying off as the garden beamed alive and splendid; the sculptured lawn, green even against the breath of autumn, the thriving flowers bright with colours—Hermione felt pride welling up in her at the very sight; it couldn't have been more than a week since her mom's last visit, and maybe, just maybe there might still be the faint scent of lavender lingering inside...

They made their way along the stone gravel path, which led to the frontal staircase of the cottage. Climbing right up, Hermione tapped her wand on the handle; the lock clicked and they stepped inside, both simultaneously murmuring 'Lumos' to illuminate the otherwise dark space as the window shutters were left tightly closed. And oh, the nostalgia, the lovely smell of wood and, although no lavender, home nevertheless; but Hermione couldn't dwell—not yet. She closed the door behind them, debating her options. The cottage was protected by a Fidelius Charm, yet one could never be careful enough.

"Could you help me cast the protection spells?" Hermione turned to Bellatrix, blinking rapidly. Her dark eyes resembled a pair of black tourmalines as they shimmered in the light of their raised wands, and she merely nodded before casting the spells quicker than Hermione could have said Nox.

She was brilliant, utterly brilliant.

"Thank you."

Bellatrix shrugged, curling her lips down before drawing her eyes over the room. "Well now, would you mind explaining what this fuckforsaken place is?"

"I... we're about two miles away from the Savernake forest," replied Hermione cautiously, noticing a sudden resemblance to Bellatrix's former attitude. "This cottage belongs to my parents. We used to spend our Christmas holidays here."

Bellatrix seemed content with that explanation as she ceased to comment on it, and so with her wand outstretched, Hermione proceeded to walk further inside the cottage; through the little corridor into the living room, where, if her memory was to be trusted, was quartered a huge cobblestone fireplace, by which her much younger self used to snuggle in Blair's lap during long December evenings, dozing off against the warmth of her neck and inhaling the sweet, cinnamon scent of the hot apple tea set on the table.

Not the best time to remember that particular memory. Not in the least.

She subconsciously reached for the thin necklace coiled around her throat before swallowing hard and dropping her hand. She pointed her wand to the left, finding the fireplace and the cushioned armchair set in the same place.

Damn her little lovesick heart for remembering.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I think it's safe to summon Billey, now. The sooner we do this the better." She stepped closer toward the fireplace. She could certainly call the house elf herself, but didn't dare in case Bellatrix would find his willingness to respond to someone else's commands other than hers or Rodolphus' unruly, and therefore crucio him to cold death.

Lowering her wand, Hermione cast a quick spell to light a fire, which flared and sputtered wildly, illuminating the cosy living room with a warm orange glow.

Home.

"I'm going to need a piece of clothing," gruffed Bellatrix, interrupting Hermione's hankering to drink in every single detail of the room, which revealed itself to them in full glory.

Hermione hesitated, because honestly, she had not expected Bellatrix to actually go with her idea without protesting, but then again, she was still under the influence of the potion, and therefore having Hermione's opinion rather close to her heart. Reaching for her beaded purse, she dipped her hand in, fishing for shorts or something she wouldn't miss much and, to her horror, pulled out her white cotton knickers, which she, blushing, shoved right back in and kept searching until she got hold of the first piece of attire that didn't feel like underwear under her touch.

Oddly, Bellatrix did not comment on anything, which only further fueled Hermione's unease; she would have much prefered her teasing to this deadpan expression.

Hermione closed her purse. "Here," she walked over to Bellatrix, handing her the simple t-shirt she had pulled out, and Bellatrix took it without a word.

"Billey!"

Billey appeared, and Hermione was far too slow to stop Belltrix from taking aim at his tiny form.

The elf gasped upon losing his balance and falling flat on the wooden floor, where he began writhing and screaming as if someone was tearing the flesh from his very bones.

"No, stop it!" cried Hermione, snatching Bellatrix's wrist and breaking the curse.

Bellatrix wrenched free, but surprisingly did not raise her wand again. "How could you betray me like this, you filthy animal?!" she bellowed.

Billey propped himself on his hands and crawled to his knees, sniveling, "Mistress Bellatrix! Billey is so very sorry, Mistress! Billey remembers—"

"Oh, you remember?" repeated Bellatrix with fake sympathy before screaming to the point her voice began to crack. "The only thing you had to remember, stupid elf, was to keep your mouth shut, but you didn't, did you?"

Hermione shuddered at the intensity of her voice; she'd almost forgotten how terrifying she could really be.

"Just as you've clearly forgotten what I said would happen to you if you disobeyed me!"

Billey sobbed.

"Bellatrix, don't," whispered Hermione.

"Billey is so very sorry, Mistress! Billey is so very sorry!" he wailed loudly.

"What else did you tell him?"

"Billey is so sorry!"

"WHAT ELSE DID YOU TELL HIM? ANSWER ME!"

But Billey did not answer, only kept crying over and over again as to how sorry he was, and Bellatrix seemed so very close to hitting him with another curse.

"Please, Bellatrix," began Hermione, her voice shaking. "He won't tell us anything unless he's free to talk; Rodolphus must have sworn him to secrecy; being a man, it is more than possible his orders overrule yours—I know, I know! It's utterly unfair," added Hermione quickly as she saw Bellatrix's menacing gaze dart toward her. "But that's how things are in your world," gulping, she dared to step just an inch closer, her voice softening. "Give him his freedom, if nothing else, take it as a chance to get back at Rodolphus... And who knows; in the end it may benefit you in more than one way."

Furious, Bellatrix locked her eyes with Hermione, who was trying her best not to look away and appear confident. She felt something strange fluttering inside her chest as their eyes drank each other in; it was Bellatrix who eventually ended up turning away. She inhaled and exhaled, then did it again, as if filtering out her emotions, before holding out the t-shirt for Hermione, who only shook her head and motioned toward the ball of sadness crouching at their feet. Bellatrix growled before crumbling the t-shirt in her hands and, walking to Billey, threw it at his head with unceremonious force.

Billey recoiled as the t-shirt hit him before freezing, his sobs forgotten. His long fingers touched the fabric and squeezed, testing. "Mistress Bellatrix...! Billey—Billey is—"

"Yes, yes, free, we're aware. Now, spit it out."

Rendered speechless, Billey didn't spit anything out. Much to Bellatrix's chagrin.

"Listen to me, you little snake, if you don't start talking, I swear—"

Hermione interrupted her, crouching down beside Billey, warmth spreading through her stomach at this turn of events. "Take your time Billey, I know this must be overwhelming."

He raised his big teary eyes to meet hers.

"This is all thanks to Miss Hermione! Billey has never met a nobler witch than you, Miss," he blurted chokingly. "How could Billey ever repay Miss for her kindness?"

Hermione blushed, trying not to look at Bellatrix, whose impatience felt like another person in the room. Disinclined to risk her exploding again, Hermione decided to skip the pleasantries. "I mean... if you could tell us what happened with Rodolphus, I think we could call it even."

"Billey will answer anything Miss Hermione asks."

Bellatrix scoffed, but Hermione tsked and waved a dismissive hand at her before realising what she'd done. She slowly turned to Bellatrix, who had her eyebrows raised, looking utterly bewildered at being shushed.

"Master Rodolphus tortured Billey," the elf let out slowly, breaking the tension. Both looked at him. Billey settled on the floor, sitting on his heels and wiping at his face before continuing. "Master kept asking Billey about Mistress Bellatrix, hexed and cursed Billey until Billey could barely remember his name. Miss Hermione, Master did it because Billey lied to him; but Billey had to lie because that's what Mistress asked," he took a trembling breath, his eyes unfocusing. "One evening, Master came to Billey and gave him a small bottle, ordering Billey to take a sip each time Master asks him a question and Billey lies. It was arsenic in that bottle, Miss, and Billey had no other choice but to drink it, and he drank a lot, because Master Rodolphus had many questions and, and—oh Miss, Billey thought he was dying," he sobbed again, but managed to get his emotions under control.

Hermione herself could barely keep it together as she imagined all high and mighty Rodolphus, sitting in a chair, elf-wine in hand, watching his servant pour poison down his throat. She wondered whether he had known Billey's body would handle the substance better than a human body would—that it would not kill him—but leave him with severely damaged organs.

Her hands clenched. Of course he must have known.

"It would have served you right, treacherous little—"

"Bellatrix!" scolded Hermione, catching her expression changing from angry to defiant. "He drank the bloody poison to remain loyal to you!"

At that Bellatrix folded her arms, giving her a contemptuous glare; the very same she would under normal circumstances. Was the potion wearing off? She sauntered to Billey, who flinched a little. "I want to hear word for word what Rodolphus asked you," she demanded.

And so Billey began—first things first, of course he couldn't do without prefacing with a formal apology for lying to Hermione the other day; he explained that Rodolphus had forbidden him to say a word about anything regarding their interrogation and to lie his face off if asked about it. Billey swore he had wanted to tell Hermione the truth, but given Rodolphus had formulated his order in a very general way, Billey could not tell absolutely anyone and under no circumstances. Then, under the threats of the very exasperated Bellatrix, Billey swiftly moved onto the crucial elements of the story which were Rodolphus' fields of interest. And what interests that were. The way Billey was describing it made Rodolphus sound like an ultimate fanatic; he was delirious for any information regarding Bellatrix; where she kept disappearing day after day and with whom, which dress she wore on a particular day and where she put it after she'd taken it off. ("Master ordered Billey to bring Mistress's dresses to him all the time, even before Billey had a chance to wash them"); he yearned to know the minutiae about the way she made her hair, which jewellery, which perfume she wore; every so often he had insisted Billey followed her and reported back to him. Billey swore he had tried to tell him no more than a few details, but unfortunately even little seemed to have been enough for Rodolphus to figure out the location of Bellatrix's manor; according to Billey, he'd been meeting up with a lot of real estate agents too, notoriously venal people—he added with a slight frown—and spending lots of gold on bribing them in order to get more information.

Then Billey took a moment to look at Hermione, who, after hearing all that, felt rather nauseous, with soft fondness lustring in his enormous eyes. "There have been times when Master Rodolphus came very close to discovering Miss Hermione's presence in the house," he said. "But Billey forced himself to lie to him."

Hermione's vision was all at once so very blurred. "Oh Billey..."

"Miss Hermione has been nothing but kind to Billey and Billey would never forgive himself if anything bad happened to Miss because of Billey."

"But you didn't mind ratting me out, did you?" snapped Bellatrix, who came to stand next to the kneeling Hermione.

"He didn't rat you out," she disagreed, wiping at her eyes.

"Do not worry, Mistress, whenever Billey lied, he put his hands into boiling water," Billey said reassuringly, as if that would make Bellatrix feel better.

Hermione covered her mouth. "Bil—"

"And what about that filthy rogue Rodolphus?" interrupted Bellatrix, Hermione below her sniffing as discreetly as possible. "What can you tell me about his shady business?"

"Billey doesn't know much, Mistress, only that Master Rodolphus..." Billey fiddled with the t-shirt.

"Go on, tell me; what does he do?"

"Well... Master likes to have ladies over. Ladies that look like Mistress Bell—"

"Anything else?" Bellatrix cut in frostily.

"No, Mistress."

"Very well, get your rag and be gone then," she snapped, strutting away from both Hermione and Billey.

But Billey did not even shift. After all, he didn't have to take orders anymore. It was only when Hermione stood up that he did as well.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much, Billey, for everything."

"No, no, it is Billey who has to give his thanks to Miss Hermione."

"Do you have a place to stay?" she asked, a sudden idea flourishing inside her mind. "Because you could stay here with us—as my guest, I mean."

Billey's throat let out a strangled grizzle, and Bellatrix was saying something, but Billey's outburst swallowed it entirely.

"Misshmione isry ind, bbillecaatcept," he wailed through the sobs.

"Eh, does that mean yes?" she asked with a faint smile.

Billey took a deep breath, grounding himself. "Billey is touched, Miss Hermione, greatly. Billey has never—"

"Goddamn it! Get to the bloody point!" barked Bellatrix, and Hermione shot her a reproachful look.

Billey buried his face in the white t-shirt in his hands, trying to smother his cries, but it didn't take him long to regard them again. "Thank you, Miss, for your kind offer, but Billey has a family to go back to."

"You do?" asked the surprised Hermione. She did not expect that. Usually, house elves didn't have... well, anyone.

"Billey does," he nodded. "But whenever Miss Hermione needs Billey, she calls his name and Billey will be there in an instant."

"That is very kind of you, thank you," said Hermione. Falling silent, she eyed him for a moment, before giving a warmer smile. "Take care, promise me?"

Billey smiled too, squeezing the partially wet t-shirt in his hands. Then his eyes shifted to Bellatrix, his expression somewhat faltering. Bellatrix was giving him this sidelong, unbothered gaze, her chin as high as her long neck probably allowed.

"Goodbye, Madam," said Billey and bowed his head politely. There was a small pause, the unspoken hanging in the air, before Billey took a step closer, saying gently, "Billey wishes life had been kinder to you."

And with that, he Disapparated.

Hermione felt her stomach drop, and then she heard her mum's favourite vase do the same.

"Insolent little animal," gritted Bellatrix, stepping amidst the broken pieces shattered across the floor. "Taunting me; after everything I've done!" she began pacing. "I should have known better than to show mercy to his kind, these beasts are better kept leashed else they forget their place."

"I don't think he meant it as a taunt," said Hermione cautiously, forcing herself to ignore the remark. "From my perspective, it sounded more like forgiveness."

Bellatrix paused. "Forgiveness; and for what, may I ask? Have I not been gracious enough? Have I not given him freedom?"

How could Hermione explain it to her?

"And needlessly so... You tell me, what did I gain from listening to his tales? For, I can assure you, I heard nothing new. So you tell me, what?"

Hermione hesitantly parted her lips. "Maybe... the consolation that neither will Rodolphus from now on."

"Hardly a victory at all," riposted Bellatrix, still pacing. "And now... I can't ever return."

Hermione gave an involuntary scoff. "I sure hope so! I—I mean, you couldn't possibly want that; not after all this..." Shifting on her feet, she gave Bellatrix a hesitant look. She knew she needed to be wise with her words; touching upon the subject of her assault so soon might be the wrong move here, so she opted for a different reasoning. "...as it's rather clear, your uncle's got a lot up his sleeves, none of which he seemed keen on apprising you about."

"I realise that," Bellatrix was slightly rocking back and forth, her arms curled around herself, eyes affixed to the fire. "I realise there are certain things he's kept from me; and I... I mean how could I blame him when I really should have made more of an effort... but he should have asked me for more; it makes no sense as to why..."

"It actually makes perfect sense," said Hermione quietly. "But I don't think it has to do with you not putting in enough effort. Your uncle's had the locket for two years now and he hasn't said a word. Had he truly been so pressed for time as he claimed, he would have never left you in the dark, searching for something he already had."

Bellatrix's lashes fluttered.

"I don't want to make any assumptions, but," Hermione went on softly. "I'm not so sure his plans quite correspond with yours; I mean... they may sound alike, sure, but so do chordophones, until you find that some of them produce deeper tones," she paused for a second, sighing. "Even though we know nothing specific about his intentions, I can tell that they are not in our favour... It's almost as if..."

"As if?"

"I don't know. I'm just speculating."

Bellatrix looked at her. "Tell me."

"It's just..." Hermione sighed again, moving forward and choosing to sit in the middle of the pillow back on the sofa. "I can't help thinking that your uncle has been intentionally hindering your task; monopolising key information to make you desirous for the crumbs of the clues... in other words, keep you preoccupied so you wouldn't have a free second to think about anything else besides the corpus deus; almost as though he was trying to keep you out of the way."

Bellatrix gave her a dark look. "Out of the way of what? We are on the same page; I and Perseus. We are pro Dark Lord; we are pro his agenda."

Hermione pressed her lips together. She had honestly no sufficient answer to that. Because Bellatrix seemed like the type that wouldn't have a single problem reducing to much more violent measures than taking someone's magic, had Perseus asked that of her, so yes, why would he want her out of his way?

Still, he had done next to nothing to facilitate the task he had given her; quite the opposite, he had swamped her with work, keeping her stressed out to the point of complete exhaustion.

Wait...

The old familiar disquietude welled up inside of Hermione as a strange thought occurred to her.

Wasn't this exactly what... what cult recruiters did to indoctrinate new members, or in this case, to manipulate—groom their members into submission?

Hermione bit her inner cheek, her heart pounding inside her chest, a particular question on her mind. Would she dare ask? No... later. She'd do without knowing for now. She knew enough to—for the similarities were there.

It was a book she had read some time ago, dressed in a carmine dust jacket with black lettering; there she had learnt about this. She recalled one specific chapter, exploring the brainwashing tactics of cults and the many ways of entrapping people. According to the authors, cult members tended to seek out the most malleable of individuals—sad and lonely people without a sense of belonging; and they came to them with a promise upon their lips, a promise to replace loneliness with companionship, incertitude with stability and security... a purpose.

And people fell for that; for they yearned to feel loved, centred—yearned to feel they mattered.

Hermione couldn't help noticing Perseus' actions were awfully congruous with what she'd read in that book; it would also provide a more elaborate perspective on the assault, for individuals born into cults were often abused, be it mentally, physically or sexually; all with the intention of damaging them to the point where they became utterly susceptible to control. Subjected to constant pressure and stress which lead to mental exhaustion, the victims suffered a significant reduction of the brain stamina and impairment of their ability to question the motives of their abusers, leading them to simply obeying their commands.

A moral coercion.

Weren't these Perseus's tactics, as well?

Bellatrix rarely slept or ate; she'd been constantly enervated, fainted twice by now. And having witnessed Perseus pressuring her to work like a machine, Hermione finally started to understand why; even her fanaticism would make better sense now. All those awful ideas she must have been fed since early childhood; all those lies and degrading remarks carved into her... no doubt she'd tied her value and sense of self-worth entirely to Perseus' opinion of her—to how well she could perform a task he'd give her...

"You shouldn't hold so much anger toward her. She's got already enough of it for herself."

Taking a ragged breath, Hermione's arms came around her. She was sick; so sick she could feel her stomach heaving. How could she even begin to tell Bellatrix about all this? And how could she ever get her to believe her?

"Well, be it as it may, there's nothing I can do to demand an explanation from him now, is there?" Bellatrix spoke quietly, but there was steel in her voice. "It's just a matter of time before my name's blasted from the family tree."

Hermione looked at her in alarm. She didn't know what to say as this honestly hadn't crossed her mind; and this was a big, big, thing.

"So," Bellatrix turned to her with folded arms and too much sobriety in her eyes. "What's your plan?"

"My plan?"

"Yes, your plan."

Hermione gulped, staring stupidly.

"They'll hunt me down," clarified Bellatrix. "I could be dead by the end of the day; so could you... thanks to your heroism."

Thanks to her heroism? Would Bellatrix have preferred her not to interfere? Hermione dropped her hands into her lap.

"I... I had to do something."

"No, you didn't."

"Are you implying... that I should have let him...?" she couldn't finish the sentence.

"Let him do what, Granger?" asked Bellatrix then, a painful smile crooking her lips. "Something you didn't have the guts to do?"

There was a moment of grave silence, a moment of them staring at each other; hurt and challenge meeting somewhere in the middle.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't play coy!"

Hermione drew a shaky breath, trying to ignore the prick of injustice. "I would never do that! Never!"

But Bellatrix smiled, nodding her head as she stepped closer. "Ah yes, just like you'd never drug someone to make them more... approachable?" she chuckled. "But you overestimated yourself, darling, didn't you? You thought you could carry it out, but," her voice dropped an octave. "In the last moment your little dignity speaks sense to you and—"

"Is this about the potion?" interrupted Hermione, her norepinephrine levels raising. "Bellatrix, I told you it was an accident!"

Bellatrix's smile faded and her teeth clenched before parting again, upper row grazing the lower ever so slightly. "I don't want to hear my name coming out of your mouth ever again."

Oh no... No, no, no!

Hermione's head spun, a current of dread assailing her through and through.

Utterly immaculate timing. Of all the moments, it had to happen right now, when there was literally nothing left to go wrong.

Bellatrix... was back.

But how? Well, the true question should be as to how Hermione was going to explain herself...

"I—I'm sorry! I; it's just th—I..." she fumbled for words, her heart quickening. "I-I didn't give you the potion, you found it and took it of your own will," she said, a timorous quaver to her voice. "I didn't even know it was there."

Bellatrix's eyes were narrowing. "So this is my fault, is that it?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying. This, this isn't anyone's fault," Hermione placed her palms beside her thighs, against the soft cushion, and started rising from the sofa. Very very slowly, backing from Bellatrix, a very much sober Bellatrix, and toward the armchair. "Vittorio, the designer, he gave me that potion last summer; he intended for me to give it to Draco but obviously I didn't! I put it into my backpack, meaning to throw it out later, but I had completely forgotten about it. It—it was a pure coincidence, I swear to you, that I used that bag yesterday and that I put the healing potion in the same pocket. You just—you took the wrong one. I assure you that none of it was intentional on my part."

"I don't care if it was intentional or not. It happened."

Hermione backed away some more, feeling goosebumps pricking her skin. There was only that small table between them; that and a blazing fireplace behind Hermione. "I—I know and I am really sorry for that! If I could take it back—"

"But you can't," Bellatrix was talking sweetly, venomously. "Had a good laugh, didn't you?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes flicking to the small movement at Bellatrix's hip and noticing the wand in her hand. Hermione's trembling fingers reached for hers, tucked in her pocket. Bellatrix glanced down, her whole face twisting into something wholeheartedly macabre.

"I didn't," Hermione tried to speak but had to clear her throat. "I didn't found the situation funny at all, if anything I—"

"Save it," whispered Bellatrix—bloody whispered it, but it was enough for Hermione to shut up.

She was completely screwed.

"You have to believe me," Hermione's breath was quick and shallow, her heart going mad inside her chest. What should she do? What the hell should she do?

"Have to?" the muscles in Bellatrix's jaw began twitching and all at once, Hermione realised she was going to die. She was going to die here; in her parent's cottage.

She tightened her grip, slowly drawing her wand from her pocket; and as she did, as its tip so much as parted with the thickened air, a spell hit her square under her breasts. Pain unlike any other pierced through her body and soul; her bones were fracturing; one by one, God, she could feel them cracking in her middle ears, their edges stabbing and ripping through the tissues of her organs with hot, searing pain; and there was a terrible scream drawing from her throat, but another voice was hurling about, so very loud, throbbing through her skull like an agonising migraine.

Let it stop, please let it stop!

It went on and on, the elasticated seconds unbearable, stretching well beyond her boundaries. It was only after a flash of white light started to form behind her eyelids that the curse lifted. Eyes squeezed shut, Hermione found herself sprawled over the pieces of something sharp and pointy; she was hyperventilating and shaking with cold sweat, her face uncomfortably wet from the tears and saliva, which somehow managed to slope down her neck and into her ears. But the pain was slowly fading, and she was vaguely starting to fathom that she wasn't actually injured, that this was just a simulation, just a Cruciatus curse.

A series of sobs burst from her lips as she tried moving in search for safety, because this must have been just a warm-up and Bellatrix was soon going to—but where was she? Where was Bellatrix?

Hermione forced her eyes open.

There, kneeling beside her hip, a blur at first, before Hermione blinked her into focus, there she was with her nether lip quivering, and glaring at Hermione with hatred so intense it felt like a physical touch.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?!" she gritted, grasping at Hermione's chest and gathering her shirt in her fist to tug and pull her close. Hermione snivelled, hands immediately wrapping around Bellatrix's wrist, struggling against the grip, against those black eyes, taking up the entirety of her vision; but she was too weak, having trouble even keeping her head up. "Do you have any ANY idea at all?"

Hermione did; Bellatrix had just lost everything, and she was set to pay for it.

"Answer me!" bellowed Bellatrix, and Hermione recoiled. She could feel the wrath in her breath, cold and prickly, which swept over her damp skin and her gritted teeth like paper cuts. She tried so hard to say something, but she could barely synchronise her accelerated breathing with sobbing.

Bellatrix twisted her lips and roughly shoved her away. Too slow with her movements, Hermione fell back, landing hard against the same pointy something. She took a sharp intake of breath, trying to find a seed of hope—because she wasn't completely helpless; she still had her wand, she could defend herself—but wherever was it?

Just as she tried to move, that horrible, unimaginable pain struck her again. Hermione would swear her muscles had been lit on fire, burning, sizzling, before someone started plucking at them and peeling them off her bones. Like sunburnt skin in the summer. But there was an intolerable pressure breaking through in her jaw, as if—no, not as if—her teeth were being physically and forcefully pulled from her gums. And Hermione was thoroughly consumed by panic as there went one from the upper row, two from the lower, canines and premolars, a tooth here and a tooth there, like 'take a guess which one's next', until there was none left. She could feel herself thrashing around and screaming at the top of her lungs, trying to fight whoever was doing this to her, but there just wasn't anyone to fight.

Help!

She screeched, the ungodly cry lacerating the walls of her throat, for her very eyes were being gouged out, and she could do nothing to evade it; the overpowering helplessness and hysteria made her retch. Repulsive globs of something slimy were hurtling from her throat, leaving her without a moment to take a breath in.

She was choking.

No, no, she wasn't. Because this wasn't real. It couldn't be real! It couldn't!

But her face was burning, her skin melting as though soaked in acid. White noise engulfed her, but Hermione knew she was screaming; horribly so, as the logic-sucking fright clawed at her sanity.

All at once everything stopped, and she was wailing and dry heaving, clasping at her face, pushing her fingers into her mouth and over her teeth in the worst panic attack, feeling it to find whether she still had it intact. A kick to her ribs had Hermione gasping and curling to her side.

"No! You don't get to do that!" raged Bellatrix, planting another kick, but this time to Hermione's shoulder, which forced her on her back. Before she could even shift, Bellatrix's fingers grappled her cheeks, the crook of her thumb pressing against Hermione's wet, panting mouth before the nails dug in and jerked her head up. "You'll take what I give you, filthy girl! You'll take it, and you'll be looking me in the eyes while I do it!"

Shaking from head to toe, Hermione whimpered against her hand, her breath leaking between Bellatrix's fingers, fanning over her damp cheeks. She was unable to break away, unable to see past Bellatrix, but painfully aware of a wand digging into her neck. And while she was terrified beyond comprehension, there was another, much more prominent feeling rising inside her chest.

What happened next was an act of self-perseverance, prompted by an adrenaline rush Hermione had no ability to control. She wasn't even aware of her hands moving and wrapping over Bellatrix's bicep, where her fingers easily found the pressure point—most likely the muscle memory acquired from her self-defence classes—and squeezed hard. Bellatrix groaned, her wand slipping from her paralysed hand onto Hermione's chest and away from her throat. Hermione desperately clawed at her chest, feeling her heart leap as she took hold of the crooked wand, which she immediately pointed at Bellatrix.

"YOU HORRIBLE MUDBLOOD, HOW DARE YOU!"

She could see Bellatrix jolting for her wand, and in one careless moment of panic, rather than flaring a spell at her, Hermione jerked her arm and threw the only weapon she had... away.

Unimaginable regret washed over her entire being as soon as she realised what she had done.

Bellatrix whipped around, looking for her wand as it disappeared somewhere in the room, taking a moment before turning back to Hermione, slowly, like a panther preparing to attack.

And where there was a heartbeat stretching between them, there was a—

Bellatrix pounced on Hermione. Her knees dug painfully into her stomach before shifting and slipping down her sides, straddling her waist consumingly tight as her hands began violently slapping across Hermione's face.

The frenzied motions and the occasional sight of the bouncing curls was all Hermione could see through her blinking eyes, as her head jerked from side to side. And she tried and tried to force her arms between them to dodge the attacks, getting increasingly agitated by being unable to, but Bellatrix was so unhinged she could do nothing but squirm under her weight.

"I hate you!" screamed Bellatrix, punctuating each word with a slap. "DESPISE YOU! You've taken everything from me. Every GODDAMN—FUCKING THING THAT EVER MATTERED TO ME!"

"Stop, Bellatrix, stop it! S—!" spluttered Hermione, but Bellatrix growled and in her fury raked through Hermione's hair, yanking as if trying to rip her head off. Hermione screamed upon feeling the whole strands of hair leaving her scalp. She grasped for Bellatrix's arm to use the former trick again, but Bellatrix was wiser now. She shook her off and struck Hermione hard across her face.

Attaining the matching strike from the floor had Hermione hissing, leaving her a bit dazed and the other half of her face exposed, practically begging to get elbowed.

It was her jaw that took it; and damn her if this wasn't the wake up call she needed. Yes, Bellatrix was delirious in her anger, in her hurt, but Hermione wasn't her bloody punching bag. And she was getting rather tired of being perceived as such.

Bending her knees, she bucked her hips with everything she had, sending Bellatrix a little higher up her waist—startling her just enough to break through her arms and strike her jaw with the heel of her palm. Bellatrix grunted, but Hermione wasn't nearly as done. She clawed for hair, fisting her hand in those fucking infuriatingly soft curls and wrenched with all her might, simultaneously driving her hips up and rolling Bellatrix onto her back.

Hermione threw her leg over her hips, quickly tugging her hand from Bellatrix's hair, and accidentally pulling some out, which remained coiled around her fingers like thread. She seized Bellatrix's slender wrists and pinned them beside her neck.

"Bell—!" Hermione didn't finish; she started screaming.

For Bellatrix had turned her head and bitten into her wrist. Bitten; taken it between her teeth like a goddamn bone and clamped down with enough force to bite it off.

Yanking her arm, Hermione could soon feel the sharp prick of pain as Bellatrix's teeth pierced through her skin. Screaming with a new intensity, she roughly clasped her free hand over Bellatrix's cheek, hidden behind her wild hair, digging her nails in before scratching the hell out of her skin as she tried to force her fingers into her mouth to tug her away.

"Are you—ugh—insa—FUUUUUCK!"

Hermione could feel Bellatrix shaking with the intensity she exerted to deepen the bite, before she relaxed and Hermione finally wrenched free, watching as the witch turned her flushed face to her, blood trickling down her chin in carmine ribbons. Her lips were similarly red, pursing before spitting Hermione's blood right into her face, which earned her a back-handed strike that Hermione couldn't remember agreeing on with her brain.

Bellatrix's head bounced off the floor with a loud thud.

Hermione froze.

And so did Bellatrix. She didn't move for several seconds before turning her head back to Hermione, blinking and curling her lips in a bloodied smile.

"Harder."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and Bellatrix let out a small chuckle. Then another, until she was tilting her chin up, laughing hysterically, maniacally, unbelievably red inside her mouth, somewhat darker in the crevices where her teeth met. And the shocked Hermione just knelt there over her, briefly wiping at her face with one hand, while the other fell limply beside her hip with blood trickling into her palm.

Taking advantage of her puzzlement, Bellatrix pushed up and shoved her forearm into Hermione's chest, knocking her aside.

Damn her!

Hermione wasted no time and immediately set off crawling, feeling for her wand amidst the shattered pieces of table. She was trying to shift her focus from her throbbing arm, which was leaving dreadful sprays of blood behind her every move—because her wand must be close, and she had hardly any chance without it—oh!

Bellatrix's arm curled around her thigh and tugged. Hermione fell onto her stomach, crying out as her injured wrist made contact with the edge of the wood.

"Where are you going, muddy? I thought you wanted to have a bit of fun," hissed Bellatrix's voice behind her and Hermione almost fainted at the implication looming behind those words.

She tried scrambling to her knees again, but Bellatrix's nails scratched sharply against her lower back as she grabbed at her waist belt and pulled her back. Hermione fell down like a domino tile, hissing as she most unfortunately hit her wrist again.

But screw the pain, Bellatrix was going to kill her if she—

Her stomach lurched horribly upon feeling the witch's knees pressing, one in between, the other outside of her legs, while her hand snuck into Hermione's hair, yanking.

Hermione cried out.

"What, my love? Whatever is it?" Bellatrix lowered herself, whispering somewhere above her head. "Don't you want to play anymore?"

Hermione tried to escape, but Bellatrix wrenched at her hair again, forcing her up onto her knees. The motion had Hermione whimpering as she stumbled and involuntarily sat astride one of Bellatrix's thighs. Alarmed, she tried bolting away, reaching forward with her hands, but Bellatrix kept her in place, pressing against her back. And Hermione could do nothing, for shifting even a little would have her sliding against Bellatrix's leg. And she couldn't allow that because... because...

Oh how she loathed herself, loathed herself with rancorous contempt for even acknowledging it—but hell, there was no denying the infelicitous sensation that rumbled through her body as Bellatrix's thigh flexed against her groin. And God help her, they were so flush against one another... Hermione could feel Bellatrix's every breath as though it was her own; and she was helpless against the illusive softness that was her chest, against her warmth that burned through Hermione's clothes so ardently that any minute now, and she'd be shrivelling up like a plastic candy bag tossed into fire.

And she knew it was indecent; to feel this way, given the circumstances, especially after the incident in Knockturn Alley, but there just wasn't anything she could do to resist her body's reactions.

Another failed attempt at breaking free had her sobbing as Bellatrix curled her free arm under Hermione's armpit, her unusually warm hand wrapping around Hermione's wet, bobbing throat and resting there without any real pressure.

Yet.

"Stop," gritted Hermione, turning her head away from her, a few angry tears rolling from her eyes. She grabbed at Bellatrix's forearm, her blood immediately soaking through Bellatrix's sleeve, and Hermione hoped it might distract her, but dear, wasn't she wrong...

"Why, isn't this what you wanted?" Bellatrix's voice was sensuous, husky as it tousled through Hermione's hair. "Isn't this what you were dreaming about?" she pulled away, ever so slightly, untangling her hand from Hermione's mane before gently smoothing the drenched strands aside. Her hand on Hermione's throat slid to rest against her collarbones.

"N—no."

Bellatrix pressed in tighter again, coaxing an unexpected, ragged gasp from Hermione as she placed her palm right under her ribs, and all at once licked from her clavicle up to her jaw.

And Hermione's stomach tightened in a violent fit; left her shuddering, utterly disgusted and mortified, yet unable to stop herself from responding to Bellatrix, for no matter how fleetingly the tip of her malign tongue slid up her throat, it did make Hermione blitzed with urges that were just as tantalising as they were deranged.

"You and me like this," whispered Bellatrix lecherously. "My hands on your body; against your skin." Her unbearably soft fingers glided under Hermione's shirt with ease, warmly, gently, the contrast between their body heat just enough to make Hermione's stomach constrict and send hot flashes down her spine.

"Me all over you."

A sob broke; an agonising, hopeless sob from the depths of her throat, because that was exactly what Hermione wanted; she desired to know what Bellatrix's hands felt like against her feverish body; where they would touch adoringly and where possessively; God, she wanted it so much, it hurt more than any bite on her wrist ever could...

But there was one thing Hermione desired above all that.

And that was for Bellatrix to want it, too.

"Take it," Bellatrix's thigh pressed firmer into her groin, and the helpless Hermione almost spread her knees wider to sink against her with her full weight and seek that satisfying pressure.

One more touch, and she'd be all hers...

"Take it like everyone else. Because what does it matter what I want?"

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

It was like a whiplash. To hear those words. To understand what this was all about.

Hermione felt all of a sudden so very bilious.

Was Hermione just as sick—was she just like him?

She had to get away...

All at once, Bellatrix let go of her and roughly pushed her off. Hermione stumbled forward and ended up with her bottom in the air, supporting herself on her elbow. She whipped around to face Bellatrix who was crawling toward her. The blood—Hermione's blood was slowly drying over her cheeks, but it was still glistening red over her puffed up lips. And she looked utterly wild, wilder than any animal.

"Tell me... how many times have you yearned to see me kneel before you," she husked. "How many times have you wondered what my thighs feel like when you bury your hands under my skirt; what it tastes like as you put your filthy mouth on me, your tongue over—"

"Don't—" choked Hermione.

"I've been told it's like tasting heaven," whispered Bellatrix shamelessly. "You know, when—"

"Shut your mouth," barked Hermione.

"Oh my dirty, muddy girl, must you act all prim and proper? We both know you want it, so why don't you let yourself have it? Come, unlace this dress and have your way," Bellatrix leaned on her hands just a bit forward.

"Take this one last thing from me," she gritted, her eyes clouding with so much hurt and madness, it was like watching the storm rolling in.

"Stop talking like that!" protested Hermione, leaning back. "I don't wanna hear it; it's not—we should have a proper talk and—"

"Oh, and what's there to talk about?" Bellatrix cut her off, feigning perplexion. "The fact that I have nothing and no one left? That you've robbed me of my name, my family, of my—of the one and only person that made my life worth living?" Bellatrix's eyes seemed to have grown in darkness. "Or perhaps the fact that you are the only living thing in this whole fucked-up universe that I hate just as much as I hate myself?"

Hermione sucked in one breath, revulsion, heartbreak, pity, and fright swirling around her stomach in one huge whirlpool. 'The one and only person that made my life worth living...' Was Bellatrix talking about Perseus? Could it be that she cared for him? Perhaps even loved him? Hermione's stomach coiled uncomfortably.

'I hate you just as much as I hate myself.'

But Bellatrix was talking again and Hermione had to focus.

"I should kill you for this, Granger," Bellatrix rasped the shaky words without a sliver of clemency in her dark eyes that were so terrifying in their despair, widened and unblinking, full of pure unhinged evil. "Choke the life out of you, or rip those filthy veins open and let you bleed out in your own home," she gritted, moving closer to the petrified Hermione. "Have your parents find their precious princess cold in dust and death."

Would she do it? Would she actually have it in her to kill? Hermione did not wish to find out.

Willing herself to move, she crawled backwards, moving her trembling hands clumsily until her palm touched over a familiar piece of wood and her heart catapulted into her throat.

Her wand—her precious wand!

She grasped at it in all her hope and immediately pointed its tip at Bellatrix, who stopped in her tracks, scoffing.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her tongue darting to the corner of her mouth. "Because unless your intent is to kill me, there's not much that little wand of yours can do to be of any help to you."

Hermione got to her feet. Her injured arm was throbbing terribly as she pressed it to her stomach to keep the bleeding at bay. "Listen, I know you're upset," she started, still backing away over the broken table as Bellatrix, menacing as she was, stood up herself and mirrored her every step.

"Oh you have no idea!"

Unable to watch her steps, Hermione slipped on the wood, her arm wavering. It was but a small moment of unsteadiness, which however cost her dearly. Bellatrix lunged for her, and Hermione flared the first spell she could think of at her—and unfortunately missed.

The spell rushed toward the beautiful embroidered quilt on the wall, and while Hermione heard it explode there, she didn't see it happen as in that moment Bellatrix stepped into her personal space and shoved her down onto the sofa.

"How embarrassing!" she hissed, towering over her. "You fight like a squib!" With one hand pressing into the sofa above Hermione's shoulder, she clawed for the wand.

"Yeah, what do you know, I learnt it from you!"

It was an asinine riposte Hermione had found herself delivering—and while she knew better than to fan Bellatrix's anger, that lace sleeve of hers had just cut over Hermione's injured wrist, sending searing blunt pain through her entire arm.

Hermione shoved one knee into Bellatrix's stomach, which forced the witch to step back an inch.

Taking her chance, Hermione slid down the cushions and under Bellatrix's outstretched arm before bolting from the sofa. Backing away, she aimed her wand at Bellatrix again. "Listen, just listen to me!"

Bellatrix didn't.

"Audacious bitch!" she was approaching Hermione without any fear, and Hermione thought of nothing else than to halt her with the Everte Statum. Acting without giving it a proper thought, she flared the spell which hit Bellatrix's stomach and threw her into the sofa with such force that it had her body bouncing off the cushions. She rolled onto the floor and over the pieces of broken wood until she collided with the side of the cast-iron fireplace, hitting it with her head.

Horrified, Hermione immediately lowered her wand, dwelling in her shock for only a moment before rushing to her.

Bellatrix was lying on her side, palms on her forehead, her teeth clenched together.

Hermione dropped to her knees. "I am so sorry! I—let me see!"

"Get away from me!"

"Let me see!"

Stubborn as she was, Bellatrix tried rolling her head from side to side in an attempt to prevent Hermione's bloodied hands from forcing their way to her forehead, but eventually gave up and allowed Hermione to spot a rather large, pink lump blossoming in the middle of her forehead.

Sour, acid guilt...

Their eyes locked; Bellatrix's were tainted red, strangely devoid of tears, but heavily riddled with grief and incensed sorrow.

It felt like peering into an all-consuming well of darkness, reaching for the unspoken words within, yet whensoever Hermione got close enough to touch upon them, the groundwater dragged them deeper. If she leant over—perhaps stood on her tiptoes—she'd reach them; but what a dangerous game to play, for one step toward the elucidation was one step toward the unknown... To grasp the answers was to topple over the edge.

And Hermione wasn't sure whether she was capable of taking another fall just yet.

She tore her eyes from Bellatrix.

"Don't move," she said softly.

But of course, the silly woman didn't listen. Bellatrix was stirring and lifting herself up until she managed to propel herself on her elbows, only to immediately tumble down with a breathy grunt.

Hermione scanned the floor for something small, something like that piece of the broken table peeking from the nearby heap of debris and—yes, that would do. Leaning over, she tugged at it and ripped off a splintered plank about the size of a postcard. That would definitely do. She dusted it off the chippings and charmed with Glacius spell which instantly encrusted the plank with a shimmering layer of frost. Hermione then took off her jacket, gritting her teeth as her rolled up sleeve grazed over her maimed wrist, and wrapped the jacket around the freezing piece of wood before shifting to Bellatrix.

"This might hurt a little."

Hermione knelt in closer, hesitating before gently—fingers barely daring to touch—brushing the elusive locks from Bellatrix's glistening forehead and pressing the wrapped up plank against the angry lump.

As anticipated, Bellatrix groaned at the contact and instantly began struggling.

"Please if you could just hold still," tried Hermione, trying to keep the plank in place. "There's a nightmarish lump on your forehead and this is nothing but a cold wrap to reduce the swelling! Give it a few moments and you'll see the pain will be less severe. You can do it yourself, here," Hermione gingerly touched Bellatrix's wrist, intending to guide her hand up, but Bellatrix recoiled from the touch and pushed the jacket from her forehead.

"I don't need your stupid wrap, nor do I need you infantilising me," she barked before successfully lifting herself up to her elbows and moving back to lean against the cold side of the fireplace. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, checking for any signs of blood no doubt, a strand of tousled forelocks cascading over her face as she did. "You—you are chronically hallucinating if you have me for some wilting lily that needs to be taken care of anytime I sneeze or yawn or—bloody close my eyes for too long. I am a grown woman who can handle herself quite alright."

Hermione picked up the plank wrapped in her jacket. "I know you are; I'm only trying to be helpful."

"You and your good intentions!" snarled Bellatrix, her chest heaving heavily. "Whenever the situation arises, you're there—helping! 'Oh, Bellatrix, you are injured, let me help, let me make things right!' I can't stand it! You always want to make things right but you never do, because you're incapable of doing anything right!"

Hermione's breath caught. She reckoned Bellatrix must have been quite bereft of strength, perhaps lightheaded and in too much pain, to have switched from physical abuse to a verbal attack; and despite knowing that all that venom was coming from a place of hurt, she couldn't help feeling wounded by the unkind words. Crawling back, she grabbed her purse to summon Dittany, eyes on the purple beads, rather than Bellatrix, who didn't seem done gutting her heart just yet.

"Oh but you think so highly of yourself, don't you; you—you think you are better than me; taking me for this pathetic, miserable failure that, as humiliating as it is, I admittedly am, while you, the infallible Hermione Granger, can do no wrong."

The unexpected confession swept through Hermione like a gust of wind; left her shocked and bewildered, for it felt like a moment torn from an utterly surreal dream to hear Bellatrix declare herself a failure. Hadn't she prided herself on being superior to everyone else at any given moment? Hadn't she just relished in arrogance and narcissism? Or had her overly-confident behaviour been just a delusion—of others, but herself, too? A survival; a way of dealing with the hatred she felt for herself?

If you repeat something long enough, it becomes the truth.

Had it become in this case, though?

Hardly. Perhaps that's why Bellatrix tried twice as hard.

Hermione took a hold of Dittany, tightening her fingers around the cold glass.

It was quite overwhelming to assess this raw and very much rare instant of honesty. Hermione couldn't help wondering if Bellatrix had ever acknowledged it aloud before; and how much it must have chipped her pride to do so in front of Hermione, who, according to her, secretly disparaged her.

Hermione didn't, of course, not in the least, and she ached for Bellatrix to know that. She could feel the words forming at the back of her throat, words designed to argue against that fallacious failure concept, against the picture Bellatrix had of her, and yet, in spite of her frustration to defend them both, Hermione remained silent, deciding to let Bellatrix get whatever was needed off her chest in hopes it might bring her a sense of peace as well as alleviate her desire to skin Hermione alive. She could talk after Bellatrix was finished, right?

Right.

And so as to distract herself, she focused on her wrist, pouring a single drop of Dittany on her torn, bleeding skin; the monstrous teeth marks sizzling, inducing a sharp twinge of pain as the ripped violet tissue closed up, sending a frisson of warmth up her arm.

The pain was gone, yet the relief was but a briskly dissolving pill under her tongue.

For Bellatrix was relentless with her words as she continued to harangue Hermione in between the puffs of her ragged breaths.

"You think you know everything—you think you can fix everything, because that's what Dumbledore told you, isn't it? That you could be a hero who would change the world for the better, and your—" Bellatrix paused to breathe out a small laugh, "...and your little arrogant self believed it, because deep down you wanted to be special."

Hermione was grinding her teeth, untangling those few tendrils of Bellatrix's hair that she'd ripped off her scalp earlier from around her fingers, tossing them aside and then pretending to be adjusting the beads on her purse; doing anything to divert her attention from reacting.

"Everyone wants to be special," Bellatrix went on bitterly. "But essentially, none of us are. And you—you are nothing if not foolish and a vainglorious girl—too self-absorbed to see past her own misconceptions."

Hermione felt a lump growing inside her throat as she finally locked her eyes with Bellatrix; silence grew between them as they stared at each other, a contest, sort of—as if to see who would break in their pain first. Bellatrix twisted her lips as she studied Hermione, the small twitch of muscles accentuating the thin scratches along her cheeks that seemed almost black in the flickering light.

"You," she paused there, exhaling a breath through her clenched teeth before starting anew. "You walk into my life with this presumed entitlement to take matters into your own hands and make decisions that are mine to make, claiming it is all in my best interest as if—as if you knew better than me; as if I lacked the capacity to make decisions for myself! You wicked girl... you've ruined everything with your—you've taken," Bellatrix's voice broke and Hermione could feel its sonance colliding with her heart, cracking it right in the middle.

A sickening, heavy feeling settled inside her chest as Bellatrix looked away and pressed her lips into her shoulder. There was an intense sense of desolation about her, something so overpowering it crushed every bit of hostility and injustice Hermione might have held for her, and left her with... but what was that feeling? It wasn't pity, it wasn't only sorrow. What—?

"You made me tell you about him! You—of all people!" rasped Bellatrix as she seemed to have gained some semblance of control over herself. "Feels exhilarating, doesn't it?"

Hermione parted her lips, uncertain as to why she should feel—

"To know that I am just as dirty as you are, I mean."

The world unfocused for a moment, knocking the breath out of Hermione.

"Wha..." she tried, but her shock was too overpowering to let her form a coherent thought. They stared at each other for several moments. Hermione felt a stinging in her eyes. "Why would you think that?" she whispered finally, tasting the desperate softness in her own voice. "That's—oh my God, that is not—you—you are not dirty; why would you even...?"

"Oh please!" Bellatrix had her eyes closed as if weighted down by shame—shame. "Weren't you paying attention last night?"

"I certainly was, but... I didn't hear anything that would make me think of you in such a way. What I heard was..." Hermione reckoned this wasn't the time to sugarcoat things. "That a close relative of yours assaulted you and then tried shifting the blame to some..."

Made up tale.

"Shifting the blame?" Bellatrix opened her eyes, sounding outraged. "None of that is his fault," she barked. "What he did to me, did that sorry lot to him! And—and he fell ill from it! These blackouts he's been having—these things he does; he has no control over them—doesn't know... How could I possibly blame him for it?"

Hermione stared at her, mouth slackly agape as she slowly pieced the puzzles together. "Oh my God..."

Was this the excuse Perseus had come up with to justify his abusive behaviour? Pretending to have developed some sort of mental illness after being molested by muggleborns? Illness that made him dissociate and repeat their actions as though it was some kind of a chain reaction? Like a twisted version of Doctor Jekyll & Mr Hyde?

Liar! Heinous, ruthless man!

Where there actually might have been a grain of truth to his coverup, because by all means he might have experienced some form of abuse, there was no way it would leave him with such preposterous ramifications. He was ill, no doubt, but not because of muggleborns; no, he was ill because of his own family and their irrational desire to preserve their blood 'as pure as possible'.

This wasn't any developed mental illness. This must have been the result of generations of inbreeding which had messed with Perseus' mental health and voided him of the ability to form concepts of what was right and wrong...

"Listen," started Hermione softly, uncertain as to how to present it to Bellatrix. This must have been about the worst moment to begin aspersing her uncle as she obviously held great deal of respect for him... but if not now, when? Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm so sorry, but... I think you've been misled here... Both with the corpus deus and this," she paused, mulling over her next words as her hands went up to her forehead, wrists rubbing at the skin before they dropped to her lap. "I was there today, and Bellatrix, he knew what he was doing... he was doing it of his own will, and with a purpose. And I feel like it's been that way since... the beginning."

Bellatrix set her jaw, her eyes shooting daggers. "Oh yes, you feel like, therefore it must be true."

Hermione sighed, hands fidgeting. "It's not just a feeling, I—"

"Shut up!" hissed Bellatrix. "You know nothing about him!"

"Maybe I don't... but you do," pushed Hermione. "And you caught him lying about great many things today. You even questioned him, remember? When you asked him about Rodolphus, for which he then threatened to kill you?"

"Shut your mouth!" Bellatrix leapt to her feet, her hand slamming into the wall of the fireplace, steadying herself. "He had every right to—"

"He had absolutely no right," Hermone cut her off, standing up herself. "He had no right to threaten you! Just like he had..."

"Shut up!"

"... no right to degrade you or tell you that no one..."

"SHUT UP!"

"... cares, that he's the only—"

She jumped aside and stumbled over the broken table as Bellatrix all of a sudden managed to grasp a fire poker and threw it directly at her. It missed her by inches and landed heavily on the floor; her heart jumped at the sound and then sped up even faster at the mere notion it could have been her kneecap.

"How dare you speak of this to me! How dare you even—" Bellatrix growled, feverishly looking about. She turned to face the fireplace and with a swift motion of her hand swept all the little porcelain vases with beautiful succulents from the mantel shelf. They fell down, one, closely followed by another, spilling the rich soil over the broken pieces of white.

"Who are you to pass judgment on..." she attacked the tiffany lamp next; smashed it against the wall like it was nothing and, stepping over the shards of glass, went for the framed photographs on top of the drawer chest. Hermione's smiling grandparents were the first to kiss the floor and feel the cuts of broken glass on their paper faces. It was her parents' turn next and finally, Bellatrix was seizing the only portrait of Hermione, most likely taken in her elementary school, and flinging it across the room where it shattered into pieces against the baluster of the spiral staircase.

Hermione watched in horror, backing into the wall and flattening her back against it while Bellatrix proceeded to destroy everything she managed to get her hands on next. And Hermione did nothing to stop her from destroying the place of so many fond memories; she did nothing despite having her wand ready in her sleeve. Instead, she slipped into the corridor, letting Bellatrix growl and rage and break everything she needed.

There was a small moment of silence, then the echo of footsteps and the sound of things being moved about and—

A deafening explosion rocked the entire cottage.

Hermione's heart jumped into her throat as she pressed flush against the wall, because Bellatrix had just found her wand and there was a storm about to come in.

She did, indeed.

Hermione was a door away from touching it. One blast after another, most likely the polished furniture blowing up and glass being shattered as Bellatrix tried to drown her despair—should Hermione run away before the roof squashed her like a bug, or attempt to stop Bellatrix before she went too far and actually—a luminous flash erupted from the room; like a lightning, and it sounded as if the walls were tumbling down, a delayed sound forcing Hermione's palms up against her ears; a pressure blast whipped through her hair before another bang, much louder enclosed both rooms.

And then, quite a different sound—

Was it a burst of...? Hermione took a hesitant step closer, for the light coming from the bedroom seemed somewhat brighter now; much more tangerine.

Oh God.

She suicidally rushed inside, but halted herself barely past stepping over the threshold. The half of the room was on fire, the blazing tongues devouring everything in sight.

Like an angel of revenge, Bellatrix was standing, tall and angry, one level with Hermione; ringlets of long hair were whipping wildly about her and dark blood on her lips looked almost fresh as it glistened against the blazing light. Her arm was outstretched, one with the crooked wand, the unmistakable source of the fire; though it was her eyes that were the most terrifying thing around. They seemed black, completely black, void of any white, and unblinking.

Hermione let out a short gasp.

"Bell—Bellatrix!"

She got no reaction.

The cushions fell with a deafening bang, setting the armchair, Blair's armchair, on fire.

No...

"Bellatrix, stop it! Stop!"

Nothing. Hermione drew out her wand, but the Aguamenti charm wasn't enough, and the air was slowly becoming unbreathable and Hermione quite honestly, unfathomably desperate. She didn't dare knock the wand out of Bellatrix for if this was a fiendfyre; it could be fatal for them both.

"Bellatrix, please!" she cried.

"PLEASE!"

Finally! Bellatrix's eyes shifted toward her, her whites back—but then, perhaps they had never left; anger in her face was a match to the hell raging around them, and as her lips twitched, there was no doubt in Hermione's mind, that Bellatrix was about to turn her wand on her.

That she was going to burn to death right here, right now.

Bellatrix moved her wand, and Hermione's breath died in her throat as—

Bellatrix's arm dropped. The fire vanished, leaving candle-like flames over the burned surfaces and a thick fog of dark grey in its wake. And then she was dropping to her knees, head coming all the way down to her knees, arm clutching at her hair.

And Hermione wanted to gasp and let her hands tremble; she wanted to give herself time to properly process her fright, and now the overwhelming relief; she also wanted to run to the small bundle on the floor that was Bellatrix, but there were more pressing issues requiring her attention now.

Swallowing, she gave her wand a steadier grip and whispered, "Deterge!"

The air around them started to clear up as the tip of Hermione's wand began drawing the suffocating gray away. Her eyes were darting to Bellatrix, checking on her, and they immediately filled with tears as she saw her rocking back and forth like a lost child. There was this terrible tightening pain in her stomach again, twisting and reaching for her heart like an invisible hand ready to squash it in its palm.

Hermione drew in a deep breath, trying to focus. She had to focus. Luckily, about two minutes later, she tucked her wand into her sleeve and... hesitated. There was heavy silence about the room.

No sobbing, no crying.

Hermione took a step forward. And then another until she stood towering over Bellatrix where she hesitated again.

Screw it.

She knelt before her.

"Leave," came a weak, raspy voice. "Leave me alone! I don't... you—"

"Come on," said Hermione, striving to put as much strength and reassurance into her voice as she possibly could. She couldn't fathom what had made Bellatrix put out the fire—couldn't fathom why she hadn't slain her; perhaps the potion still...? One way or another, she hoped Bellatrix would allow one more step over her boundaries.

Okay...

Hermione slowly reached out and grazed the tensed knuckles roughed by a patch of dry blood before fully sliding her fingers first, then her palm over Bellatrix's hand. She was trying very hard to avoid gentleness which came naturally to her with touching Bellatrix, and rather went for a firm, the 'I'm here and I got you. I can be strong for you for now,' sort of grip.

And Bellatrix's hand relaxed—and Hermione's heart jumped at that. Encouraged, she untangled Bellatrix's fingers from the mass of curls and guided her hand down.

And Bellatrix let her.

Hermione did the same with the other hand, careful not to pull a single hair.

And then she held her limp hands in hers, letting her thumb stroke over the back of the bloodied wrists while she tried not to cry because her heart was bleeding like a river wild.

Bellatrix slowly straightened her back. "What am I going to do now?" she whispered conceitedly, addressing the words to her lap. "I... have no one."

"That's not true," said Hermione, forcing her voice to perk up a bit. "Your family won't abandon you. Your sister Narcissa... Draco, they won't turn their backs on you and... I am here, too."

"You," scoffed Bellatrix. "I don't want you."

"Too bad," said Hermione, biting back her hurt. "Because I am not going anywhere."

She expected a new outburst—Bellatrix screaming at her about her audacity to force herself on her like this, but she didn't.

She said nothing, just squeezed Hermione's hand back.

---

Merry Christmas!

Oh, how I missed you!

A lot has happened; the world has changed and I can only hope you're safe and alright. Please, let me know how you're doing, how you're coping.

*Yes, It's been almost a year, but here I am with a hell of a long update. Thank you for all your sweet messages, some of them made my heart so full I actually teared up! Thank you so so much!

*Special thanks to my amazing beta reader Irymia, who's made your experience much more bearable, 'cause me and English grammar... let's say we're not the best of friends, haha. Also going through so many pages? She's the best, isn't she?!

Love, AP