Note (June 15, 2013): Exams are hitting me from front and back right now. I have no time to write. Will be updating after my exams are done!

Chapter 13: Equal in Sin

During first period, a most peculiar event had occurred: The grounds and walls had slightly vibrated as though an earthquake had hit, but the vibrations were not unanimous in strength, for certain areas had shaken more than others – some pupils, in fact, hadn't felt the ground tremble at all.

And throughout this whole episode, Harry had not been seen.

Ron was silent by Hermione's side. A package that had arrived through Owl Post this morning was in his hands, but it was addressed to Harry though it had been sent by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. As they both trekked through the cold hallway within the dungeon to their shared destination, trying thoughts regarding their absent friend continued to grow in their minds. "Really, Harry's fine," Ron whispered more to himself than to Hermione. Meanwhile, the commotion of feet thundering against the damp floors of the dungeon continue to grow in breadth—more pupils had arrived to one of the lowest story at Hogwarts for their class; a class to be instructed by a certain notorious witch named Bellatrix Black.

The large, medieval oak door loomed closer. Their feet stilled against the ground as they reached the entrance of their potions class. Hermione's brows then furrowed as she observed the unopened door, she was uncertain as to whether she should open it or not.

Somewhere from behind, a Gryffindor muttered bitterly, "She must be operating on Death Eater Standard Time," and the horrible witticism elicited a few strained chuckles from some Gryffindor students. However, the Slytherins who stood on the opposite side, meters away from the Gryffindors as though they'd catch a revolting disease if they were too near the pupils boding red and gold ties, remained silent and looked more than vexed. For them, Bellatrix was now no more than a bloodtraitor. On the other hand, members of the other houses were more skeptical of where the raven-haired witch's alliances rested, especially Ron and Hermione—especially Hermione.

The precipitous, wild-haired, young female could only be wary of the infamous witch after all; in cold blood, Bellatrix had murdered her best friend's godfather—a man Hermione knew Harry had grown attached to, had begun to see as family, the closest link he could have to a father. And that small thread of happiness Harry had finally attained in his life, the witch with raven ringlets had stolen. Hermione sighed as she continued to stare at the door, and wondered how she would be able to persist being taught for more than an hour for a year by her… while her blood curdled and boiled, then she thought of how Harry could withstand this predicament. Upon gazing at Ron, she knew he shared the same thoughts, for his lips were thinned, the veins on the skin of his pale neck were displaying.

Dumbledore was surely insane.

Insane to have given her a post at Hogwarts.

Hermione had always trusted the elderly headmaster's decisions, but she was wary of this one… angered by this one, as much as she loathed admitting it. Moreover, she was sure the reason Harry was acting so strange as of late was due to him coming to terms, in his own peculiar way, with the decision the headmaster had taken. Neville was dealing with it in another manner—the round-faced adolescent had turned numb… somewhat dazed and deadened. He had said his grandmother had been planning on taking him out of Hogwarts, but he had chosen to remain, and when asked why, he had avowed firmly it was because he was not a coward, and that he would have to deal with it.

As for how he would deal with it, Hermione did not know.

Nevertheless, although Dumbledore's deed was a controversial one, very few parents had opted to remove their children from the school, for Hogwarts was still viewed as the most prestigious school in all of Europe owing to its past glories and colorful history.

Minutes had now passed by. The atmosphere was tense, not to mention cold due to the below-ground level of the floor. "… Perhaps, she's waiting inside, and we're supposed to open the door?" Hermione mumbled to Ron who stood rigidly by her side with the package still in hand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Granger," an arrogant and proud voice warned.

Instantly, Hermione whirled to where it had issued: Between Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini was a sleek-haired, pointed-face male staring at her with his usual scornful smirk. Ron's nostrils flared, for any move towards Hermione by the blond, the ginger deemed as a threat.

After briefly contemplating whether Draco had anything to do with Harry's disappearance, Hermione turned back towards the door, ignoring Draco. She was about to put her hand on the doorknob when she suddenly heard the clicks and clacks of what seemed to be heels hitting the damp floors of the dungeon. Hermione wondered which female pupil was was sporting heels, as it was against the rules at Hogwarts to wear them unless there was an event of some sorts. Certainly, the young female was taking a risk, as she would be met with Minerva's stern lectures regarding brazen behavior. Then, a thought suddenly ascended into her observant and sharp mind: The rule did not fall on the professors, though none selected to wear them—as quite frankly, all the female professors at Hogwarts were old—except for the newest addition to the staff, whom had clearly shown yesterday while strutting through the Great Hall that she liked to wear tasteful and slightly promiscuous garments when not garbed in her withered, black Death Eater robes…

She let out a faint gasp.

Bellatrix Black.

But alas, Hermione had realized too late that the female sporting the heels was the aforementioned woman.

There was silence, shared by both Gryffindors and Slytherins, and the hair on Hermione's neck had unfixed as soon as she had heard the clicks and clacks of the raven-haired woman's heels, as though her subconscious had already deciphered the cause of the noise.

Perhaps it had.

Her hand was hovering just above the glimmering golden doorknob, trembling just slightly, and she despised her body for the way it was reacting. Her hand dropped to her side, she took a step back and glanced for a beat at Ron, shared a look that expressed 'Why didn't you tell me?' with him, before turning her face upwards to view the lean though curvaceous woman who was nearly as tall as Ron, but not quite.

She felt the burning stares of both Slytherins and Gryffindors as she met eyes that were hard, black, shiny and flinty like the mineral obsidian. However, she didn't notice when those seemingly nonchalant eyes travelled for just a quarter of a second towards her back, where Draco stood with his group—rigidly and cold, as poise as ever—just like his mother.

Always trying to be cool and collected.

Bellatrix leaned onto the oak door, while her moist surroundings had caused her ringlets to claim their wilder side. Her hand clasped the doorknob as she tilted her head, and regarded the bushy haired younger woman. The girl, she had seen her before in the Department of Mysteries alongside the Weasley, who stood a few meters away to her right.

They were Potter's little friends.

And the girl appeared frightened—Bellatrix remembered she had looked so in the Department of Mysteries as well, but she had managed to hang onto any shard of courage she could find, so that she could live up to the name of being Harry Potter's best friend—and a Gryffindor.

'Imprudent Gryffindors,' Bellatrix mused. Sirius and his reckless friends would always throw their lives at the face of danger. And ironically, Bellatrix was unaware she was mocking the same house that the Sorting Hat had first decided to place her in.

"Ms..?" she began, while staring fixedly into the younger woman's eyes with her callous ones. Bellatrix very well knew the name of the girl—for some reason she knew the names of Harry's two friends. Nevertheless, she feigned she didn't for effect.

"Granger," Hermione replied stiffly. "Hermione Granger."

"Well Granger, did I ask you to open the door to my classroom?"

"No," Hermione replied then added, "Professor," with a hiss when Bellatrix lifted one of her elegant brows.

"Then, Ms. Granger, would you care to inform me as to why I beheld you placing your," filthy, "hand on this very doorknob?"

Hermione remained still and did not reply, knowing her muteness was the reaction Bellatrix desired. She continued to stare at the raven-haired witch who was leaning onto the door comfortably. Bellatrix was different than her sister. Narcissa was ice while Bellatrix was fire, though for societal norms Bellatrix tried best to withhold to manners that had been instilled into her mind in her formal years.

She tried to be ice, but fire burned just beneath the surface.

The older witch smirked, for she had gained what she desired. Her slender hand twirled the doorknob, and she shifted to the side, letting around the twenty or so pupils—all mum and trembling under her gaze—inside. However, when Draco was passing by, trying to evade her gaze, she pressed her finger lightly on his shoulder, and that was enough to stop him in his tracks. "You will stay after class," she whispered coolly.

Draco's lips curled, a frown played on his face, then he marched onwards, not uttering a word, and seated himself between Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. Meanwhile, the class had watched the little interaction between them, and they now stared at Draco then Bellatrix curiously, viewed the sardonic smirk that gamboled on the raven-haired witch's face, but none knew why it was there.

Bellatrix had frankly found Draco's response quite… humorous.

That buffoon, she thought as she reached the front board, her heels resuming to click and clack from uneven stone floors to dusty marble ones.

They were all seated—both Gryffindors and Slytherins—with their textbooks ready, and five senses on alert. Upon intertwining her arms around her chest, as it was a bit chilly, Bellatrix noted that the eyes of a few males strayed and travelled down to the slight shadow that now danced around the neckline of her robe. She smirked at the effect she had on them—on the Weasley boy whose cheeks were tinged red with fury and yet, paradoxically his eyes had skidded there. Mmm, adolescent boys…

They persisted to wait, and she persisted to let the silence engulf their surroundings. Introductions, after all, left lasting effects, and she didn't want hers to be forgotten.

She then cleared her throat. Icy eyes looked around, stole parts of their souls like a dementor. After a slight upturn of her plump lips, her mellifluous voice began to echo through the room, all ears listened: "Hello little ones," she said, though the students within the class most certainly were not so little—but 'little', that's how she wanted to make them feel.

Little, diminutive nothings.

"As you may have already heard last evening, I will be teaching you all the art of potion making," she announced, and did not care to inform them of her name, for without a doubt, they were all already well informed of her name… and more. "There will be very little foolish wand waving in this class. Brewing potions calls for patience and one's intuition, and it is more of an art—"

Knock… Knock…Knock

Instantly, students all gave sideway glances to the peers whom sat adjacent to them. Hermione's lips pursed as she gazed at Ron. They both conversed through their eyes. 'It's Harry,' they both shared the thought that had sparked within their minds the moment the first thud against the door had occurred.

Upon turning their attention back at their professor, Hermione's fingers curled, brows twitched—she thought of what Harry had told her earlier this morning while eating breakfast at the Great Hall: He had said he had detention with Bellatrix after school. Hermione hadn't believed him, of course, for he had stuttered while speaking –and stuttering, sweating, looking uncomfortable were all signs that hinted at a lie.

However, if Harry had already gotten into trouble with her, then he would now be in even deeper shit.

And Hermione barely, if ever, cursed, as it was crass and showed an infantile vocabulary. Nonetheless, as the knocking persisted, all she could think of was one particular word: 'ShitShitShitShit.'

Meanwhile, Bellatrix Black stood still, her lips were parted open, evidence of how she had been interjected while speaking. Finely shaped brows were tilted, her face expressing the calm before the storm. Slender fingers curled and turned into fists while she smirked at the class. "Let us see this audacious individual, shall we?" Her robe then bellowed behind her, her heels recommenced to click and clack against the floor. She stilled before the oak door, her lips curled upwards. Oh—she knew very well who was behind the door.

Potter.

She would very much enjoy making a fool out of him before the class.

Her slender fingers curled around the doorknob, her lips upturned, and she swung the oak door open in one mighty pull. Unfortunately, the force of the pull caused her to lose her balance, she staggered backwards. Instantaneously, a hand firmly wrapped around her wrist—her bruised wrist, and it provoked a slight wince.

Pulling her hand out of the tight grasp, she glanced upwards and met emerald eyes, at lips turned upwards in a cutting smirk.

Bellatrix was uncollected, dazed, and enraged while feeling his fingers around her wrist (though they were no longer there). She parted her mouth open while her untouched hand inadvertently rubbed the wrist of the other one, but a bitter and scathing comment did not come through her plump lips. Instead, a small smirk was all she produced before she muttered, "I see someone has already tried to give you an antidote in hopes of curing you of your insolence."

Harry raised a brow while a few Slytherins chuckled—though they loathed themselves for doing so, as Bellatrix in their eyes was, as mentioned before, nothing more than a bloodtraitor. Nevertheless, they couldn't help but resist chuckling at any situation that revealed Harry as the fool they regarded him as.

Lips half open, Harry pondered of what she had meant, and when his eyes travelled at his reflection that displayed through one of the crystal vases atop a cupboard, he instantly comprehended what Bellatrix had insinuated…

Someone as in her.

The bruises—the marks of her fists on his cheeks, was what Harry perceived within the crystal vase.

Fucking hell… he thought. The bruises were fresh, and they would hurt like the dickens by tomorrow.

Furrowing his brows, he marched up to his seat—an empty seat Hermione had saved for him. Upon sliding into it, his lips trembled in ire, his hands shaking—she hadn't told him on purpose. As he continued to glower, Bellatrix wore a pleased smirk over her face as she sauntered back towards the front-board.

"As I was saying, before Potter decided to arrive late to class ostentatiously," she began, then a misplaced curl fell over an eye, she blew at it, but it chose to be tenacious, and so her slender hand pulled it back. Male eyes observed her beauty bone that had revealed marginally when she had pulled her hair behind her ear. "As I was saying," she started once more, "potions is an art. It requires patience, a keen surveillance," and while Bellatrix continued to speak in her suave voice, a certain female pupil's brows were crumpled in contemplation.

Something was… odd.

Hermione, as her other peers, was bewildered by what she had perceived: Harry had unconsciously held Bellatrix's wrist to save her from toppling over, and hitting the floor.

It seemed, of course, to be an action elicited by impulse.

Yet… still, something felt odd.

Quickly, she looked at Harry, then grasped his attention by tapping her desk with her fingers when Bellatrix was busy writing on the board. Harry smiled back, his lips were strained though, as he knew she was wondering where he had been first period—and moreover, of how he had gotten the bruises on his face.

Hermione did not return the smile. "You have detention with Snape for a week," she whispered, almost hissed, and immediately Harry's face turned pale. Good, she thought, while feeling more than frustrated at herself for not comprehending what in Merlin's name was going on, and at Harry for keeping things hidden, and being downright dishonest to her face.

oOo

Draco was very much like his mother.

Bellatrix had been more than angry when that realization had hit her whilst speaking to Draco after the bell had rung, signifying that the tormenting hour with the vile young creatures had come to a conclusion.

"You will tell me," she had said, it had been more of a command. Onyx orbs had penetrated grey ones, but though the male had writhed just slightly, showing his fall provoked from her piercing gaze, he had managed to hold onto some pillar, and thus hadn't crashed.

She breathed out jaggedly. The blond stood erect before her, his eyes cold and icy as he stared at his aunt. She observed his features, his set jaws, the determination in his eyes, how he believed he would not fail whatever the Dark Lord had entrusted him to do. The particles in the dust filled room danced in the atmosphere, as she continued to stare into his grey pools, while thinking of Narcissa's blue ones, and how hers had so much colour, and his were so much paler in comparison.

Her brows furrowed, focused as she began to use another method to discern what her nephew was concealing from her. She grasped at the threads that had been knotted firmly together, concealing a mind, memories, a soul. However, she could not drill in a hole, a view to see what was within. A frown danced partially on her face before it was replaced by a smirk: Bellatrix had always smirked. "You've been taught Occlumency by Severus, haven't you?" she inquired.

Draco remained silent. Her lips retained the smirk. Oh, she had other ways of gaining what she sought. "Well then... Snivellus has done a very good job," she stated, as she very well knew Draco was aware that she was accomplished at both Legillimency and its opposite. She then patted his shoulders, and he flinched— a response she had be been expecting and devoured. "Go now, fool," she hissed, and he did not utter a word, as he bended his head, averted her gaze, and began to march arrogantly out of the room, appearing much like Narcissa in her temper tantrums.

Oh fuck. Bloody hell.

And that's when it had occurred, that was when the sudden epiphany had hit: Draco was very much like his mother.

It had made it even harder, harder to deal with what was set in stone for him.

No – not in stone.

She despised the little imp, as she sometimes despised Narcissa. A damaged, broken thing she was, but she was still a Black, and her loyalties would always remain with her family first. Family, it was all that mattered, the only fibers in a shattered word that should never be cut.

But they had been cut, long ago.

Andromeda.

She flinched, chucked her thought away, and her hands turned into fists, knuckles turned white, as she pushed open the large oak door (not before remembering emerald eyes and how... he had stood before her) and then marched forwards, beginning her pursuit in finding a certain professor she had thought of meeting today anyhow.

oOo

Filch had been instructed by Professor Snape to make Harry scrub the floors and polish all the suits of armor in the Armour Gallery—without the use of his wand, of course.

Shallow evening sunrays seeped into the corridor. The floors, no matter how hard Harry scrubbed, seemed to never be free of dust. Groaning, Harry dumped the wet cloth into the basket, and decided to have a minute's break. For hours, everyday after school, he would be spending his time here, in this wretched corridor.

Harry took in a sigh while he leaned against a wall, and studied the tips of his fingers, noticing they had been wrinkled from being soaked and wet. Upon brushing his sweat-lathered hair away from his forehead, he crawled back towards the bucket, took the cloth out, and began scrubbing the ground with it again.

After he was sure the ground was free of dust and dirt, he erected, put his hand into the arch of his back, and groaned. Oh, he was certainly going to have to endure backaches for a good while. He rotated towards the window, and gazed outside at the Qudditch fields that could be seen from where he stood. The Slytherins were holding their try-outs, and he could perceive a prospective team member writhing under Draco Malfoy's glare. The blond had a lost a few pounds, his face had somewhat sunken. Harry had a vague idea of why his appearance had turned so disheveled: The Dark Mark surely imprinted on his arm had something to do with it.

"Boy! You must still wash the armors," Harry heard Flich's grating voice.

Huffing, he turned around, and marched towards the armors. The diary he had found in Bellatrix's room nudged his thigh while he continued to contemplate over the odd occurrences today. What was Draco doing with Yaxley? And moreover, why had Bellatrix seemed so worried over him? Draco, being Lucius Malfoy's son, understandably would be next in line for having the mark imprinted on his arm, so then why had Bellatrix seemed so… dumbfounded?

Harry's brows furrowed, as he then thought of the peculiar chest-box he and Bellatrix had stumbled on in the strange hallway. The chest-box had odd runes engraved on it, and one rune that had stood out to him was an oval with four spiral lines beneath it. As he polished the armors, Harry also distinguished the armors within that hallway were older than the ones in this one. These ones were old, yes, but the ones there—or the ones that had been there, since the corridor was no more— were older, for they had been less sophisticated; they had been made of bronze while these ones were built out of minerals that could guard one more so from an offensive.

Once he finished shining the last piece of armor—a helmet, he called for Filch, and the caretaker began to inspect the corridors while his disagreeable cat tottered behind him.

"Professor Snape wishes for your presence in his office, Potter," Filch growled after he rubbed a shield with his scrawny finger, and held the finger up to his bulging eyes to search for any dust particles.

Harry's pulse pounded loudly in his ears.

Filch turned around from him with a pleased grin on his face, triggered by Harry's blanched face. The caretaker then started to fade into the shadows when he made his way into another corridor. His balding scalp was soon no longer in view and nor was his cat—gratefully.

Snape had preferred his previous office in the dungeons, thus Harry had to make his way down to the lowest floor again for the second time today. He despised this story for its coldness, dark lighting, and damp walls. It yelled darkness and gloominess; it yelled Severus Snape and Salazar Slytherin.

The torches on the sides of the walls were on the only sources of light in the dungeons, and though the flames never died, they always seemed as though they would. The door to Severus Snape's office was shut, and Harry's hand trembled slightly as it rose from his side. His hand turned into a fist, and he began to lightly knock on the door. However, the door remained unanswered, and so his fist thumped again on the old wood, this time with greater force, but the door persisted to remain shut. "Professor Snape," he called, but there was no response.

While grumbling, he was uncertain as to whether he should wait or turn around, and head back to the Common Room to start working on his assignments. It had been merely the first day of school, and already he had been bombarded with tons of schoolwork—curse him for taking on N.E.W.T level courses. Bellatrix had proved she could still torture her students without the use of a wand—she had assigned the class to write a ten thousand words report on how potions were not necessarily used for drinking, and the report was due next class. He had cussed in the privacy of his mind when she had a smug smirk on her face after class had ended, but then again, when did she not wear such an expression.

Speaking of Bellatrix, Harry swore he heard her heels clicking and clacking in his mind. Fucking hell. He had already supposed he had turned insane when he had handed the chest-box to Bellatrix in trust, and now he was even further confident that he had turned completely crackers.

The click and clacks of her heels continued.

Merlin, a therapist was in need, then again, what would he tell them, as they would be a Muggle? Would he say: "Oh, I believe I'm turning insane, as a murdering psychopathic witch in the other world – I mean the wizarding world – has started to mess with my mind."

Er, right, he would be confined in a straitjacket immediately.

An unexpected velvety voice echoed from the distance, from a corridor near this one: "You imbecile!" Harry heard a certain woman with raven ringlets, and was instantly relieved to not have been as insane as he had previously deemed himself to be.

Her voice boomed through the corridors again, "Oh, don't you dare turn away from me, Snivellus. You let him rot for decades in Azkaban, merely to get back at him for the juvenile pranks you had been a victim of years ago—"

"Shhh, Bella dear. This man you speak of, you must recall you have killed. My sin, I daresay, is nothing compared to yours," Snape's cool voice reverberated in response.

An icy silence filled the dungeon.

"You… bastard," Bellatrix finally found her voice, hissing.

"Is that all you have to say, dear? Now, I wish to speak to Potter concerning his absence during my class. Word has come you were with him this morning? How peculiar. Now, are you done with your little outburst, for as mentioned, I have other matters I must attend to."

There was a dry chuckle. Bellatrix had surely gathered an acrimonious remark, one that would certainly burn down Snape. "Oh, Severus, dear, whilst speaking to Potter, you should also inform him as to how you're responsible for his orphaned state."

Snape did not unearth a decent comeback.

"Hmm, Severus, you look dumbfounded. Have I made you recall something— a certain memory? Perhaps, I daresay, we are equal in sin? Yet, at least the world knows of mine… I wear my wrongs on my sleeves, but you – you prance around as though you've got a clean slate. And in a few moments, you'll try to intimidate the boy you've orphaned, because James' death was not enough for you." She bitterly laughed again. "You see – you show yourself as the fool you are in trying to make me feel shamefaced… a duplicitous fool, as you too have stolen lives. Therefore, you are certainly not one to point your bloody fingers at me while wearing a conceited smirk on your filthy face." Silence skipped along the corridors before her flowing voice echoed through them again. "Now, yes, you are excused – for now. The matter concerning Draco will still be attended to. You will tell me of what he has been assigned to do – or I shall tell a certain boy of what you have done."

However, it was too late. The particular young male had already found out.

Harry's hands had turned to fist, his jaws had clenched, while he thought of how many times he had been lied to by Dumbledore – by the one man Harry had always been positive would tell him nothing but the truth.

When Snape arrived before his office, the emerald-eyed male wasn't waiting for him, for his feet were thundering against marble floors, and he was running madly through the third floor; and soon, he arrived before a certain gargoyle.

He was wheezing, as he pounded his fists against it while uttering all the passwords that had been given to him before. The memory of the death of his parents coiled itself around his heart, like a rope it fastened and began clench at it. He breathed raggedly, while his fists continued to pound down against the stone of the gargoyle. "Fucking open," he barked and barked while night began to eat away the evening.

"Open… fucking open," he tiredly bawled.

"Harry? … Harry?!" McGonagall's concerned voice suddenly ushered into his surroundings.

The elderly female professor quickly neared him, wrapped an arm around him and managed to pull him away from the gargoyle. "Did you also know?" Harry hissed from behind, while she whispered, "Tapeworm," and the gargoyle let the hidden office into view. Turning around to Harry, she raised a brow, completely flabbergasted as he stormed into the headmaster's office.

"Minerva, if you may," Dumbledore said from his desk.

Professor McGonagall hastily nodded, stepped back and turned away from the office, while Harry began to thrash about, not knowing how to start – what to say – what to do.

"YOU LIED TO ME!" Harry finally found his voice, screaming, while the gargoyle resumed to conceal Dumbledore's office, and a worried Professor McGonagall began to march to hers.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for updating this after a few months. I have more than forty hours of school a week, plus I've been volunteering at a few places, and so I'm very short on time. As mentioned before, I don't plan on deserting this story, but sometimes life gets in the way. Exams are coming up, but I'll try my best to write the upcoming chapters as soon as I can, and when creativity hits. Anyhow, I will stop rambling now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you have anything to say, don't hesitate to leave a review. Hope you all have been doing well - and again, I'm so so sorry!