Despite Draco's stony assurances of the efficacy of the blood wards that had been placed upon her room, Hermione found her eyes darting towards the door every so often.
She imagined Bellatrix prowling outside, drifting along the hallways like a wraith. It wasn't hard to picture the deranged woman pacing in circles, biding her time, and waiting: for the wards to be dropped, or for Hermione to leave the safety of her room.
Her opportunity came in mid-September, during the midst of a healing session with Narcissa. Hermione had left her bedroom, carefully escorted by Mippet. The house-elf's tiny hand was trembling as she gripped Hermione's, and her eyes darted around as she walked. Every step away from the safety of her warded room felt like a step towards the gallows. The hair on the skin of her arms was raised in goosebumps; even her body knew there was something wrong. But despite the extreme trepidation, they arrived at Narcissa's bedroom unscathed.
Mippet had deposited Hermione at the doors and explained that she was to call for Mippet once finished, and she was to under no circumstances wander the halls by herself.
"Master Draco has made it very clear that you must be escorted wherever you go, Miss," Mippet parroted. "Miss Hermione is not to leave her room unaccompanied, is not to travel unaccompanied, is not to visit the library, is not to wander the halls, is not to—"
"That's fine, Mippet," Hermione interjected. Her forehead had creased as she listened to the house-elf rattle off her instructions. It seemed that Draco had thought of every danger possible and had restricted Hermione's freedom for her safety.
It felt more like a prison sentence than a protection order, Hermione thought glumly.
Mippet nodded again and procured Hermione's wand out from a pocket in her tea cosy toga, handing it to Hermione who accepted it gratefully. Hermione bid the elf farewell and squared her shoulders.
She entered Narcissa's bedroom alone and found the older woman sitting up, waiting and expectant. Her gaze was clear and focused as she stared back with pursed lips.
"Miss Granger," Narcissa greeted coldly. "I did wonder when you might emerge from your sanctuary."
Hermione stiffened but wordlessly made her way over to her work station to begin her standard routine and patient care. She checked over her notes from the previous healing session some days ago, and began preparing another few days of potion for Narcissa.
Her patient watched her with sharp eyes that did nothing to dispel the goosebumps on Hermione's arms. There was a distinct knot in her stomach that came only from treating a lucid Narcissa.
When she had been comatose, weak and frail, it was much easier. Narcissa was a patient in need — another person that needed help. Ignoring the prejudice and who she was had been effortless.
When Narcissa was awake and lucid, she was far more difficult. Her cold, cutting remarks, and the cruelty that she had inflicted upon Hermione previously were not easily forgotten.
Hermione hesitated to turn her back sometimes, nervous of what Narcissa might do if she couldn't keep her eyes on her at all times.
But in the same vein, she didn't want to face her either — she had already learned her lesson about making eye contact with Narcissa. Her Occlumency was no match, and paled in comparison; it was laughable, even, like a straw house in a hurricane.
It seemed the only reasonable solution to the Narcissa conundrum was for Hermione to spin endlessly like a top, avoiding facing toward or away from her.
Hermione's lip twitched and she felt a nervous, slightly manic giggle threaten to bubble out of her.
Straightening from her work station, Hermione carefully balanced a silver platter of half a dozen potions to carry it over and set it down next to Narcissa.
Narcissa's upper lip held just the slightest curl of disgust as she watched Hermione approach. Whether from Hermione herself, or the mini apothecary she carried in her hands, she didn't know.
Hermione ignored the reaction and instead busied herself with casting her usual diagnostic charms, which brought up various flickering charts and diagrams above. Each chart was carefully observed and the results scribbled down on her patient file of Narcissa, which now spanned several parchment scrolls in length.
She had just set down the patient files next to Narcissa's pillow, and reached for the silver tray laden with potions, when the double doors of the bedroom banged open.
"Mudblood!"
Hermione had known it must've been coming, but knowing did not make it any easier, and knowing did not stop her heart from leaping into her throat. She jumped so hard that her arm jolted the entire silver tray. All the carefully mixed and measured potions were upended, and half of them fell to the floor with a tinkle of broken glass.
Narcissa next to her had started too, but far less obviously. As Hermione whipped her body around to stare at the door, she saw a movement from Narcissa out of the corner of her eye.
Bellatrix had stalked into the room.
She loped in gracefully, but there was a sharp, jagged edge to her movements. It was as if her limbs were on marionette strings, being jerked independently and not fully in Bellatrix's control.
"Cissa," Bellatrix crooned, in a much softer voice. "My, my … have I interrupted something? Were you having fun playing Doctor with the filthy little mudblood?"
Bellatrix had drawn close as she spoke, and Hermione shrank back in fear. She could not leave — Bellatrix's form blocked the only exit. Even if she could run, she knew Bellatrix would give chase. Her back had hit the bed at this point, and she nearly screamed with fright as a hand clamped down upon her arm.
"The mudblood helps administer my potions," Narcissa spoke from behind Hermione. Her voice was indifferent and cool as she spoke, but the hand that gripped Hermione's arm was trembling hard. She could feel it.
"Potions? Potions for what?" Bellatrix asked sharply. Her gaze left Hermione's face and focused upon Narcissa's, sweeping her entire form in a once-over. "Why not seek out a trained and qualified Healer? I thought you had recovered from your malaise from a few years ago."
Her tone had become incredulous, and held an inkling of suspicion. Bellatrix's eyes darted around the bed and for a second, Hermione feared the worst as they had landed upon the scattered tray of potions. She stood frozen.
Could she move? Could she hide the patient files without drawing Bellatrix's attention, giving herself away entirely?
Hermione held her breath, trembling. In an instant, Narcissa's grip upon her arm had become vice-like and painful. Her nails were digging in hard enough to bruise.
"It's not worth troubling a Healer for this," Narcissa replied dismissively, easily. Her voice was indolent, even; there wasn't a care in the world in how she perceived Hermione.
The mudblood was dirt to her.
"Draco would worry if he knew I had a Healer visit me; you know how he frets. The boy has enough on his plate as it is. It's hardly worth the effort of procuring the mudblood to come and help me twist open and unstopper a few bottles. I would have the elves do it, to tell the truth, but I do love to watch her scramble and labour."
To this, Bellatrix threw back her head and gave a shrill, barking laugh. It was ear piercing in pitch and ran through the room. Bellatrix's now-lightened mood did nothing to ease the sharp clenching of anxiety in Hermione's chest, but seemed to make it squeeze even harder.
"Oh you do make me laugh, Cissy," Bellatrix eventually said, having regained her composure. "Well, as long as it's nothing serious."
"I am perfectly fine," Narcissa replied in a clipped tone. "I would like the mudblood to finish up here, if you don't mind; I don't particularly enjoy having her around. Her presence in my home is already a blight upon the estate."
"I won't be long, Cissa," Bellatrix replied. She drew nearer to Narcissa's bedside, until she was only a foot away. Her eyes glanced down at the mess upon the floor.
"Disgusting little slut can't do anything right, can she?" she murmured silkily. When Hermione stood frozen for a second too long, too unnerved to reply or act, Bellatrix erupted.
Her wand was out in an instant, the point of it a mere inch from Hermione's eye.
"Pick it up! Pick up the potions, the glass shards!" Bellatrix shrieked. She brought the wand down fiercely across Hermione's form, and a Stinging Hex exploded across her face.
Instantly, pain seared her senses. Hermione whirled back with a startled cry. Her hands went automatically to her face, pressing upon the sharp welt that had been slashed across it. Bellatrix's Stinging Hex had hit and tore diagonally across her face, from one temple down to the opposite jaw.
It was miraculous that she hadn't sliced Hermione's eye open.
Without a pause, Narcissa shoved Hermione hard and sent her careening to the floor. Her knees hit the floor and she gave a gasp of pain. Thankfully, her hands had braced her fall. Narcissa had pushed her hard enough that she avoided the broken glass.
"Pick up the glass, mudblood. And be sure not to cut yourself on it. I don't need your filth mucking up my floorboards," Narcissa called out in a thin, reedy voice. There was a slight tremble that went unnoticed by Bellatrix, who had cackled in delight at the obvious agony and humiliation on the part of Hermione.
"Bella, what did you need?" Narcissa called out sharply. Bellatrix's focus shifted back to her sister in an instant, and Hermione was suddenly ignored by the two. It was as if she was no longer in the room.
Bellatrix made a sound of amusement and was quiet for a moment. There was the sound of light taps on skin, as she playfully tapped her wand into her palm.
"I … I have been thinking, Cissa," Bellatrix mused.
Tap, tap, tap.
Her wand beat out a steady tune against the palm of her skin, and Hermione shook slightly as she tried to pick up the glass as carefully and efficiently as possible.
Tap, tap, tap.
"I've been thinking, Cissa, that we must throw a party. For the autumnal equinox, you know. Why, there's so much to celebrate … our family, in good standing once more. The Dark Lord's continued success and supremacy over the non-magic filth … his hold across Europe," Bellatrix murmured. Her voice had grown sultry, become lower in pitch. Evidently, she was enjoying this.
Tap, tap, tap.
Narcissa was quiet for a moment before speaking.
"Bella, we have— we threw a Yuletide party— and Draco's wedding was at the Manor too—"
"And that was so long ago, Cissa! Nearly a year since!" Bellatrix interrupted. Her impatience was evident as her voice grew louder and shriller.
"Are you not overjoyed by our circumstances, Cissa? Are you not grateful, humbled beyond all else, that the Dark Lord favours us once more?"
Bellatrix was shrieking again. The tapping had stopped.
In its place, Hermione heard the swooshing of Bellatrix's arms. She had started gesturing wildly and pointing accusatorially at Narcissa.
Hermione chanced a peek up from behind a curtain of curly hair that had fallen over her face.
Bellatrix stood menacingly. Her own hair had become electric, stood on end in wild waves and curls, as her magic ran through it. There was a palpable Dark Magic that was seeping from Bellatrix, that felt unbearably heavy.
It felt like there wasn't enough air in the room.
"Are you to tell me, Cissa, that you— that you are not grateful for the Dark Lord's mercy?" Bellatrix whispered. Her voice had taken on a deadly tone, sharp as screeching metal. "That you do not place his favour above all else?"
Narcissa was silent for a moment.
"Of course not, Bellatrix," Narcissa replied with a tiny, tinkling laugh. It sounded like glass breaking; like something delicate shattering. Hermione could hear the unease, even if Bellatrix couldn't.
"You know that I— that my family, we are forever grateful, forever loyal to the Dark Lord," Narcissa pressed on.
There was a forced eagerness in her strained voice.
Instantly, Bellatrix was placated.
"Well! Good, I shall start making arrangements at once. An autumnal solstice, in celebration of the Dark Lord's triumphs! We must make an event out of it — how could we not? The most loyal and devoted family, generations of sacrifice, how honourable and noble," Bellatrix trilled on. Her excitement was girlish and wildly inappropriate; everything about her instant jubilation felt like a symptom of madness.
"Of— of course. My home and staff are at your disposal, Bella," Narcissa called out falteringly.
Her response had been wasted. Bellatrix had wandered out of the room already, ranting excitedly to herself.
The door slammed shut behind her, and Hermione nearly collapsed to the floor in relief.
A silence engulfed Hermione and Narcissa, swallowing them whole until it felt like they were well and truly in the belly of the beast. The only sound in the room was their ragged breathing, each reeling in the aftermath of the terror that Bellatrix had inflicted upon them.
When her limbs had finally stopped shaking and Hermione was certain she wouldn't falter and fall into the shards of glass on the floor, she clambered slowly onto her feet. Her hands grappled blindly, helplessly against the bed to steady herself, and she felt the cool silk beneath her fingers.
It had already been crumpled beyond recognition by Narcissa's own anxious fidgeting.
Wordlessly, Narcissa lifted back the silk sheets to uncover Hermione's wand and patient notes from where she had stashed them away. She handed Hermione her wand with a thin, shaking hand, and they both watched mutely as Hermione magicked the fallen potions.
Shards of glass drew together, as if magnetized. It was like time had reversed before their very eyes, until the tiny vials and flasks were whole and unmarred once more.
With the door shut and the potions rearranged on the tray once more, it was as if the episode had never happened, if not for the two trembling women within.
There was a shuffling of parchment. Narcissa had pressed her own patient files into Hermione's hands.
"Burn these. Destroy them at once," Narcissa mumbled, averting her gaze. The roll of parchment shook slightly, like leaves on a breeze.
Hermione accepted the damning evidence and whispered an incantation. The edges of the parchment had curled in on itself, turning black and twisted. Within seconds, the entire roll had crumbled into ashes.
She stared mournfully down at nearly a year's worth of painstaking research that was now dust in the wind — collateral damage in the warpath of Bellatrix.
The rest of the healing session was conducted in a silence so profound, so pained that Hermione hardly dared to breathe, for fear that breaking the silence might tempt another psychotic episode.
Narcissa accepted each potion that Hermione handed to her, and downed it with a grimace upon her face. The corners of her mouth were pulled downward in a quiver that foretold bitter tears.
As Hermione watched the older woman, she found that her throat had caught.
This was another casualty of Voldemort, another victim.
Narcissa, too, was someone who had lost their loved ones to his tangled grasp, who could only watch as those they cared about were suffocated.
Whose life had been upended, and had been left to pick up the pieces of the wreckage. Who could only carry on as best they could in the aftermath.
"You shouldn't let Bellatrix treat you like that," Hermione said quite suddenly, surprising even herself.
She didn't know where the words had sprung from. It was like they had been whispered to her from another life; spoken by a dark-haired boy with green eyes, or a ginger one with freckles.
Or a young, bushy haired girl with Gryffindor courage.
Who hadn't yet suffered tragedy — had loved, and lost.
Narcissa, whose eyes were closed, stiffened. Slowly, she opened her dark eyes to gaze at Hermione. They were glassy with unshed tears; extraordinarily dark, and she could feel herself being pulled into their depths.
There was a trickle of unease in Hermione. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, and for a terrifying second, she thought she might have invited more pain onto herself.
The moment broke, and Narcissa glanced away.
"Do not speak of matters you know nothing about, Miss Granger," she croaked. The rage, the coldness had left her; Narcissa only sounded exhausted and wounded.
Silence enveloped them again and Hermione had nearly forgotten the exchange, until Narcissa's next words.
"Bellatrix wasn't always like this. Somewhere along the way, she became lost. She was … she was my sister, once. I hardly know whom she is now. What she is."
When Narcissa's gaze eventually found hers again, her eyes were strangely blank. The depth of emotion had gone.
"You should heal your face, Miss Granger," Narcissa said quietly. And without another word, she turned away to stare out the window, and Hermione knew she had been dismissed.