Innocent Death - Chapter 31 - Yunaleskah - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter Text

‘Pour essence of comfrey and rotten beet extract into a brass cauldron. Allow it to reach a boil, then reduce the flames to medium heat. Add two griffin claws, pristine and split lengthwise; then add chopped dittany and an intact, fresh flower head. Incorporate three hundred grams of finely ground human bone and ninety grams of ripe boom berry—each berry added one by one at ten-second intervals…’

As the door clicked shut, the cabinets and drawers sprang open in a flurry, the contents settling upon the working table. The necessary tools and ingredients for Narcissa’s intended potion arranged themselves neatly, awaiting use at her leisure.

‘…Using a silver spoon, stir the contents counter-clockwise until dissolved, adopting a viscous, grey hue. Slowly introduce boomslang skin, followed by a spoonful of billywig sting slime and three drops of dragon blood. Add alcohol and sugar for improved taste.’

Without a moment of hesitation, she flicked her wand to ignite the flames beneath the cauldron, the fire enveloping nearly half its base. “I require essence of comfrey and—” The intermittent itch crept back into her throat, causing her to endure a series of coughing fits. “—rotten beet extract; then let it boil,” she muttered.

Her gaze darted to the clock on the wall, marking nine o’clock in the morning. “He will be arriving at Appleby a little after eleven.” The carriage to the village had left at seven forty-five, Narcissa recalled, as if it were a vague memory and not something that happened an hour ago. “Appleby, Morgana’s forsaken village. We should have sent him to Kirkwall instead! It’s not as if the Aurors would leave him alone either way.” It was her husband who, in the end, gave the final word and sent Draco to Appleby, stating that it would please the Dark Lord if their son were to assert influence in the region just by the mere act of ‘being present’ and close to one of the recruits’ camps. After all, Draco needed to make up for his failures however he could, and this seemed to be the least perilous way Lucius could think of.

The bubbling cauldron reclaimed her attention. ‘…Lower the fire to medium heat.’ Another wave of her wand set the silver knives to the task of splitting and mincing the ingredients. The griffin claws, she inspected, there weren’t any signs of cartilage or blood; they were pristine as the recipe required. However, during the following coughing fit, her focus broke, causing one of the claws to not be symmetrically cut. “Blast it!” she muttered, irritated, summoning another claw from the jar.

Narcissa stayed still as she observed the crimson liquid adopt a thicker consistency. “I loathe him,” she mused. At whom? Her own thoughts asked her. She was furious at her husband, but these past seven days she had hated herself more than she was capable of resenting Lucius…or that girl—Narcissa still couldn’t look at her without wanting to curse her.

However, her husband wasn’t who she meant right now.

Who she meant was—was that…No, she couldn’t bring herself to pronounce his name even in her own mind.

Her thoughts continued adopting a darker shade, reliving the same emotions that hadn’t allowed her to sleep these days. By now, the familiar wave of despair came over, her stomach roiling in anguish. In the past months, the mental state of helplessness was a feeling that sometimes came and went, but recently it had settled around her like a membrane clogging her nose and mouth; it robbed her of breath and had taken a permanent hold on her mind that nicotine and alcohol couldn’t ease. What could she do when everything that brought her suffering was out of her control?

“What have we done?” she muttered, words charged with reproach. “How did we let it go this far?” But no matter how often she wondered in hopes of discovering a better answer—an explanation where she could move away the blame from herself and Lucius—the answer didn’t change. They simply had assumed that the same evils they once regarded as morally rightful and sought to execute on others would never turn on them.

“I need to cut the herbs,” she said, regaining her focus on the task at hand. ‘Dittany, chopped; flower head, intact and fresh.’ Her thoughts were scattered, going back and forth, from the present to the past and sometimes the future. At moments, Narcissa felt like a foreign entity in her own body, as though someone else was controlling it. There was a fog in her mind that didn’t allow her to have the clarity that would give her control of her emotions. ‘Ninety grams of human bone, ground to a fine dust, and three hundred grams of boom berry…’

“I’m so angry at him!” Narcissa snapped, this time thinking of Lucius. She had been angry with her husband for almost a year, and nothing had changed. They hadn’t done anything but bring out old wounds and create new ones. At this point, it felt almost impossible to move beyond their mutual disagreements. Not for the first time, the idea of divorcing him crossed her mind… “What good would that do us now?” she muttered. “As if a silly paper would solve our problems.”

‘After the potion adopts a light grey color, slowly introduce boomslang skin…’ Narcissa reached to pick up the snake’s skin, but her intention to add it to the cauldron came to an abrupt halt as soon as her eyes registered the contents within.

The liquid had turned a sterling blue.

It was peculiar, wasn’t it?

How sometimes it was the smallest things that ended up shattering one’s self-control.

Her impassive expression twisted into a full-blown snarl, and in a swift motion, Narcissa swept her arm across the surface, spilling the failed concoction onto the wall and floor. As she observed the fire spreading from the carpet to the curtains, Granger’s proposal infiltrated her foggy mind. “That bloody girl.”

However reluctant Narcissa felt, she knew that if she wanted to survive another year, she couldn’t do it all by herself. She needed help.

“Filqui!” she shouted.

The loyal elf appeared by her side in the next second.

Nevertheless, not everything about her current situation was unfortunate. There was a glimmer of hope, a rope to hold tight—Bellatrix had, in her self-serving actions, created good fortune for Narcissa too.

“Summon my sister to my studio. Tell her I need to talk to her,” Narcissa commanded, flicking her wand to extinguish the growing flames. “If she refuses, tell her I’m invoking my right through blood ties.”

“Gwindell, take this to Yaxley,” Hermione commanded, passing him a red-covered ledger. “Inform him that everything has been arranged according to the timetable provided by Travers. Then, deliver these notes to the Carrow twins, tell them…” tell them to go kill themselves, Hermione wanted to say. Their demands for an updated profile on the Vole family had arrived at three in the morning, rudely interrupting her much-needed rest. “…This is the extent of what I could accomplish to the best of my abilities; anything else about their finances must be referred to Rookwood.”

In the end, Hermione found herself obligated to collaborate with Yaxley, albeit at a distance. Bellatrix had been right; Corban viewed her as a liability now that her mentor had made her Warden of House Black.

“Idiots, both of them,” she mused. They perceived themselves as disparate factions aligned toward a shared objective, rather than recognizing the potential strength in unity, all working towards a common future. This culture of distrust was so embedded in their routine that it seemed like second nature to them. But it was something that Voldemort himself fostered; Nagini showed no hesitation in perpetuating it as well.

As for Voldemort, the man appeared disinterested in the politics occurring under his nose; his focus remained on Scrimgeour and the Ministry’s affairs. Nonetheless, in this recent turn of events caused by none other than Bellatrix, the man had made sure that Hermione understood that he would tolerate neither deceit nor defiance from her in the future. His Cruciatus curse had felt like hundreds of glass shards rending her skin as they sought to lodge themselves into her muscles and organs. A warning that she would never forget, despite its brevity.

The young Death Eater glanced at her pocket watch; twenty minutes to nine o’clock, and she’d already completed her main tasks for the day. Drumming her fingers on the desk, she contemplated how to spend her free time. The last thing she wanted was to stay confined in her quarters. Briefly, she entertained the thought of visiting Bellatrix to see what the obnoxious woman might be up to. ‘…No, that’s, no, ugh, too weird!’ she frowned. ‘I’ve never sought Lestrange out from mere boredom, and I’m not going to start now, despite…’

Despite what?

Her gaze shifted to her right arm and the silver thread that remained invisibly latched on, the quiet reminder of the bond that tied her fate to Bellatrix’s whims. It hadn’t glimmered or shown any signs of activation since the events of Yule’s eve. But that was because Hermione hadn’t yet provided Bellatrix with any reason to make it reappear. Only once she had been tempted to fight back and that was when Lestrange demanded to know the details of her day after the woman had been absent, but even then, Hermione refrained from protesting and acquiesced.

How long before Bellatrix uttered another irrational request causing their fragile sense of stability to break again, the witch wondered.

“Well, visiting Narcissa is out of the question,” she mused to herself, coming to accept it with a lingering hint of regret. “Perhaps I’ll see what Dolohov is up to.” Her eyes wandered to the snowy horizon visible through her window. “Or maybe I’ll search for Nagini…” She paused, uncertain if she was avoiding Nagini or if Nagini was avoiding her. “Maybe I should just go the library and read something, anything.”

One thing remained clear: she couldn’t stay cooped up in her room with nothing pressing to do; the idleness would drive her insane. Not to mention, the haunting voice in her mind would appear, ready to unleash misery upon her.

However, before leaving her quarters, there was something else that had been looming large on her mind.

She opened her potions supply chest, which sat on top of her desk and was greeted by a poignant dilemma nested within.

The supply for the Necitlive Lektvar was ending.

Hermione was torn, not knowing whether to relent or make more, just in case—much like the ritual of drinking them this week, ‘just in case’.

“Just in case of what…?”

One part of her wouldn’t let go of the potions as letting go meant giving up—a notion foreign to her nature. She was not one to concede defeat; it simply wasn’t in her character. Yet, her rational mind argued that, like everything that happened to her this week, fighting against it was meaningless. Avoiding Bellatrix so they wouldn’t form the imprint bond by drinking the potion was meaningless now that the woman had her shackled. This repetitive cycle, expecting change while engaging in the same actions over and over again, epitomized the very definition of madness.

And still, to give up on the potion meant giving up on herself. It meant letting herself be chained down—

“I am already chained!” she yelled into the emptiness of her room.

This had to be what being in denial was like, Hermione thought as she sunk further into her armchair. And upon this realization, she wondered whether she was coursing through the stages of grief. First was shock, next came denial, then anger… “May Merlin curse me if I don’t dive headfirst into ‘acceptance’ today,” she mused bitterly.

Where was that hope she had felt last week at the cemetery?

She glanced at the vials of potion on her desk, knowing very well that they would be ineffective with the full moon looming just a night away. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Yet, understanding all this, why wouldn’t she just stand up and leave?

‘Because you, my dear, are terrified of Bellatrix and her unpredictability. You have no control; you’re at her and Voldemort’s mercy. Somehow you thought you could win! But look at you! There’s no hope! You’ve lost everything! Even your f*cking dignity—if you ever had some to begin with! And the only insignificant thing you have left is your confidence—this f*cking delusion of you being capable enough of surviving them both, yet you have no solid ground to stand on, not even a f*cking inch—’

The voice’s appearance served as a definite cue for Hermione to leap out of her seat and walk out of her room, striding with purpose towards the grand hall.

“You do love your theatrics, Cissy,” Bellatrix remarked with a smirk as she sauntered into the studio. “Summoning me here through blood ties just for a chat? An invitation for breakfast would have sufficed, you know.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes in contempt. The day had barely started and her sister was already annoying her. “Oh, shut it, Bellatrix,” she retorted, turning away from the window to face her sister. “My elf just informed me you didn’t wish to come.”

Bellatrix sniffed with mild disdain, a haughty expression settling on her features. “I find it rather impertinent that you send your elf instead of coming to meet me yourself.”

“Meet you where exactly? In that rat hole you call quarters?” Narcissa laughed, keeping the sneer behind a half-smile. “I’d rather not.”

“Then refurbish it to your tastes; it’s your home after all,” the older witch shrugged nonchalantly, her demeanor taking on a childish flair.

“What kind of infantile answer is that, Bellatrix? There are more than twenty vacant bedrooms with all the amenities for you to choose from, but you’ve chosen to dwell in the dungeons,” Narcissa stated. Inspired to prod her sibling further, she added, “Feeling homesick, are you, sister?”

“Not at all. It’s rather as a precaution. You see, when there are raids, the Aurors never fail to focus on the upper floors first. It gives me enough time to escape through the tunnels.” Bellatrix let herself fall into the nearest armchair, serving herself a cup of tea with a theatrical flourish. “Anyhow, how have you been, Cissy? It’s been a while.”

There was a nuance about her older sister that Narcissa couldn’t pinpoint precisely when it had taken place, much less what had occurred to cause this shift in her. The complacency in Bellatrix’s cadence and the mellow mannerisms when she spoke were the opposite of the restlessness Narcissa remembered. Bellatrix seemed to move with lighter steps, quietly conveying a newfound sense of tranquility. However, at the same time, her gaze carried every bit of her volatile nature.

“You surely hold on to your grudges, sister,” Narcissa reproached her, resenting the attitude Bellatrix had taken towards her throughout this month. “I don’t remember Mother and Father being this petty. Not even Andromeda, who bears more of your resemblance in character as well as in likeness, is like that.”

“Like what?” Bellatrix asked innocently. With a more serious tone, she added, “Andromeda, now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. You speak of her as if you’re aware that her character hasn’t changed at all, after what? Twenty years of not having seen her? Or am I mistaken, have you met with Andromeda in these recent years? While I was at Azkaban, perhaps.”

Narcissa responded with a wry smile. “You would like to hear that, wouldn’t you? That way it’ll be easier for you to cast me aside.”

“Cast you aside? Whatever do you mean, Cissy?” Bellatrix asked, her dark eyes scanning her sister. “I can see your concept of me hasn’t changed at all. You still think I’m going to stab you in the back.”

“Aren’t you? You haven’t given me one reason to change my views,” the blonde retorted coldly.

Bellatrix looked away, rather than to argue back, she decided to go ahead and touch the blonde’s newest wound. “She told me what happened,” she said, taking the first bite from an apple. “You can’t blame her, sister; she was just following orders.”

The poor choice of words struck Narcissa’s very nerves. Her upper lip retracted, baring her teeth as she claimed, “A mother must always protect her child!”

Her sibling stared back at her with an inexpressive look, hinting at indifference to Narcissa’s pain. And just for a second, Narcissa thought she had seen her sister’s mouth curving upward, ready to say something cruel; her ears rang with unspoken words: ‘Well, you f*cking failed, Cissy! Oh, poor you, get over it!’ But rather, what came from Bellatrix’s mouth was: “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Cissy. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

The comforting words sounded so utterly false that Narcissa would’ve preferred Bellatrix hadn’t said anything at all.

Strolling near the courtyard, Hermione caught the sound of someone giggling nearby. The laughter was joyful and brimming with delight, compelling her to gravitate toward the source. As she walked outside, she discerned Nagini kneeling, talking to herself, or… to something?

In an unexpected motion, a sizable ball of pink fur leaped over the woman’s shoulder, affectionately nuzzling against her neck.

Of all the creatures Hermione had encountered so far, this one appeared to be the most adorable. “It’s very cute,” she greeted Nagini, her curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

Nagini giggled again as the ball of fluffy fur licked her chin with its incredibly long tongue. “It’s a Pygmy Puffskein,” she replied, cradling the creature in her hands and presenting it to Hermione. “Corban gifted it to me.”

The young witch nodded, drawn by the charm of the pygmy and the infectious mirth that seemed to emanate from the creature. By Merlin’s beard, that little thing was more than precious with its tiny face and beady blue eyes. Its fur resembled spun cotton candy, boasting a silk-like softness that begged for sinking one’s face into it.

‘Huh, Yaxley doesn’t waste any time, does he? I wonder how long it’ll take him to realize his considerations won’t work on her.’

“I’ve never had a pet before—it never crossed my mind to own one. But now I see why wizards often choose to have a furry companion,” Nagini confessed as she stroked the fluffy creature. “Isn’t it just adorable? Look, its tiny nose is shaped as a heart.”

“He’s too precious. And I know what you mean about owning a pet; they bring a certain joy and companionship that’s hard to find elsewhere,” Hermione agreed.

“How about you?” the woman asked, putting the little beast on the ground. “Have you had a pet before?”

Oh…

She felt a twinge of vulnerability at the innocent inquiry—because it was ‘innocent’, right? Nagini didn’t know about it, did she? “I used to own a half-Kneazle,” she revealed, her gaze following the pygmy’s playful frolic across the snowy terrain. “Crookshanks was its name.”

Nagini’s interest sparked as she leaned in, perceptive that there was a story behind the witch’s words. “What happened to it?”

It had been years since Hermione thought about Crookshanks. What had occurred to it? She hardly remembered—she didn’t want to remember.

“It simply disappeared one day. I blame myself—I left the window open, and it must have wandered off. I searched everywhere, but it was like it vanished into thin air,” she explained, her tone trying to convey sorrow rather than the resentment that the memory evoked. “I missed it for a while, but life goes on. I decided to take a break from having familiars for now.” Wanting to shift the focus away from the somber recollection, she inquired about the pygmy, “How about this little one, does it have a name?”

“No, I haven’t considered one,” the woman replied, smiling sweetly. “Would you help me?”

In that instant, the request sparked a playful gleam in Hermione’s eyes. “I’d say something cute, something like, uh, Puffington,” she suggested, a grin growing with each second. However, after noting Nagini’s raised questioning eyebrow, she continued to offer more options. “Uhm, Cuddlebug? Fluffette? Oh, how about Snuzzlebutt?”

Nagini burst into laughter, her amusem*nt ringing through the wintry air. “Puffington? Snuzzlebutt?” she repeated between giggles. “That’s certainly creative! But I don’t think I could pronounce those names with a straight face.” Her laughter subsided, replaced by a warm smile. “As endearing as your suggestions are, I think I’m just going to name it Ria.”

“Does it mean something?” Hermione asked.

“It means jolly,” the woman replied, her yellow-spotted eyes still crinkling with delight.

For the next few moments, they stood side by side, watching Ria’s playful interaction with the falling snowflakes.

And as the silence continued stretching, Hermione sensed the weight of the unresolved tension permeating between them. This was it. She had nothing more to say, nothing lighthearted at least. Everything she wanted to convey to Nagini carried a heavy burden that could easily breed hostility if she didn’t choose the right words. The witch had anticipated that by engaging Nagini with an air of casualness as she did, the thorns now surrounding them both wouldn’t feel so sharp and prickly; she was wrong.

Turning to Nagini with mild curiosity in her eyes, Hermione broke the silence first. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” the woman nodded, then chuckled with a twisted smile. “I’m the one who should be asking you that, however.” And because she was better at navigating these things, she discarded the pleasantries and approached the origin of their tension: “You do know my Master wouldn’t have punished you if Bellatrix hadn’t acted so recklessly, right?”

Yes, once again Bellatrix did what she wanted, driven by her own desires and without considering the potential consequences for others aside from herself. Yet, despite Lestrange’s selfish actions, Hermione found herself unable to place blame solely on her for what had transpired. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter whether Bellatrix had sought Voldemort’s blessing in public or in the privacy of his quarters. What mattered was the revelation itself—the mere act of making the request had shed light on the depth of Hermione’s and Bellatrix’s relationship, unveiling the young witch’s deceptions before Voldemort’s eyes.

“I’m not resentful of him, Nagini. Not at all,” Hermione responded after a quiet pause. “I just wish things would’ve turned out differently.”

Nagini sighed, holding a serious expression. “I’m relieved to hear you don’t hold a grudge against him, or me,” she admitted. “I never expected he would direct his anger toward you. After all, you possess everything he desires: obedience, competence, power. But as I’ve warned you before, he has little tolerance for lies. Or incompetence, as we witnessed in Draco’s case.”

Hermione’s indignation bubbled up at the criticism, and she countered, “Despite what he, and you most likely believe, I wasn’t lying, you know.”

“Oh? Weren’t you?” the woman challenged her, a cold half-smile setting on her face. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t been downplaying your relationship with Bellatrix all this time? I know you don’t hate her as much as you claim to. After all, you have forgiven her for every insult and injury she has done to you.”

“I stand by what I said before,” Hermione insisted. “I wasn’t downplaying anything to our Lord; I simply told him that afternoon that I’ve learned to survive her— survive her insults and attacks— that I prefer to work with the devil I knew rather than—”

“—Stop lying!” Nagini bristled; the remnants of her good humor shattered under her piercing glare. “I know you aren’t that stupid! You know it’s more than that!” Amber eyes searched into the young witch’s for a hint of honesty. “Bellatrix giving her House’s artifact to you, during Yule’s eve for our allies to witness no less, showed that it’s much more than you both tolerating each other! Or you surviving her.”

“That was all Bellatrix’s idea! You know that! I was caught off guard as much as anyone else. I told you, she wanted to get the upper hand on Yaxley—”

“—Hermione, enough with the lies!” Nagini growled.

The young woman stared ahead, ignoring the threatening glare. Her lips turned into a thin line as she gathered her thoughts, understanding that Nagini didn’t care to hear detailed explanations. Or, like her Master, she didn’t care for excuses, no matter how reasonable they were.

“Bellatrix doesn’t know anything about the bond,” she said quietly. “I keep drinking the potion. We aren’t close. But we are not enemies either. We’re in a twilight zone, if you may allow me to describe it as that. Then there’s the lieutenant position, she wants it back, that’s why she gave me—”

“—You two were never enemies,” the woman interrupted her. “You always worked so well together, since the beginning, I seem to recall.”

The accusation was met with a harsh scoff. “Is that what you think? That all this time I’ve been pretending to dislike her? By Merlin, Nagini, I’d rather prefer you stick to your earlier presumptions; I find these ones insulting,” the witch stated gravely. “Bellatrix and I are good at what we do. We had learned, through much time and effort, to respect that from each other. Beyond that and what’s common knowledge, I don’t know Bellatrix much. As for what she’s done to me, I remain objective, and I would rather forgive her than to rot and drown myself with resentment.”

‘Liar, liar, what a crier, your lies are more obvious than a forest fire…’ sing-songed the voice in her head. ‘Its so much, much more than that, and you know it, anyone with two brain cells can see—’

“—Tell me something, why does it matter to him anyway?” Hermione questioned, her frustration now marked by confusion.

“Because you’re acting as if you have something to hide from Master,” Nagini explained, sounding offended on her Master’s behalf. “He who has been caring for you and trying to keep you sane from this despicable curse. Why did you lie about the depth of your imprint effects? And don’t say you don’t know, I already heard that one, Hermione.”

The witch sighed, hesitating. “…I suppose it’s because I believe this is my problem, no one else’s.”

Nagini chuckled, a shrewd glint in her yellow-spotted irises. “Well, now I know why you chose to stick with claiming ignorance. He would’ve extended the punishment if that had been your answer. You were deliberately misleading, withholding information from him. I’d suggest you don’t do that again.”

‘A little hypocrite of Nagini to be condemning you, don’t you think? Considering that she has been keeping knowledge from Voldemort too.’

“It’s complicated, Nagini,” her mouth twisted into a grimace. “The nature of the imprint, its effects—it isn’t something I can easily convey with words. It’s too personal, and the last thing I wanted was to burden him with the knowledge when we are so close to Scrimgeour’s soiree. Besides, there’s nothing he can do that I already tried and failed.”

Nagini’s gaze remained unyielding as she said, “That isn’t something for you to decide, my Master needs to know if you’re unwell as it might affect your performance. And don’t forget that secrets, sometimes, have a way of complicating things even further. You ought to have known that.”

With that, Hermione understood that she wouldn’t extricate herself from the woman’s scrutiny from now on. “Talking of secrets…” she began, deciding to shift the focus of the conversation. “Why did our Lord want to keep the cabinet a secret?”

“It was meant to be a surprise for you,” Nagini replied as though it was self-evident. “A Yule’s gift, if I may say so. The testament that he means to keep his word. A pity that it came into fruition how it did. But at least now you understand that whatever my Master promises, he delivers.”

‘What a mountain of trollsh*t—’

It wasn't until Yule’s Eve and Voldemort gave her the Dark Mark on her left arm that her analytical mind pieced together the motives behind Voldemort’s silence— Hermione felt like a bloody idiot once again for not having seen it earlier.

“A surprise for me?” the witch asked with dark sarcasm. “And here I was thinking it was all a test.”

Nagini responded as she presented a shameless smile and a nonchalant shrug. “That too, of course.” she leaned in slightly, her eyes wore a coquettish glint, acting as though she wasn’t just caught in the lie. “A test of your loyalty to see if you would question, or if you would simply follow.”

A forced smile played on the witch’s lips. “And what would have happened if I failed his expectations?”

The woman grinned further, embracing the ambiguity of their situation. “Just know that our Lord appreciates loyalty, resourcefulness, boldness, but he values his followers’ patience just as much.”

Her mind churned with thoughts, dissecting the layers behind the snake’s response. “So, the cabinet was one of the instruments to gauge my behavior.”

An amused laughter erupted from her lips in a cloud of steam. “It’s all a delicate dance, don’t you think?” Nagini asked, her reptilian eyes showing the darkness within. “Testing boundaries, pushing limits, and seeing who emerges a true follower on the other side...”

“Come off your bloody broom, Bellatrix,” snapped Narcissa, anger surfacing in her sharp tones.

Bellatrix produced a short smile. “You act as if anything I say to you is an attack,” she retorted, wearing a tranquil façade that only fueled the blonde’s brewing distress.

‘Right now, I feel like your existence is an attack on me,’ the blonde brooded with a sour twist of her thoughts. The calmness exuding from her sister continued to unnerve her, planting seeds of suspicion. ‘She’s planning something; I have no idea what it might be, but I’m almost convinced Hermione is involved in it, otherwise, she wouldn’t have done what she did.’ But trying to pry into Bellatrix’s intentions was akin to attempting to play chess with two sets simultaneously—not just due to the challenge it posed. Her sister seemed more likely to knock one set off the table with a swift slap, all while skillfully exploiting the ensuing distraction to maneuver pieces on the other set. Unlike her previous attempts to entrap Bellatrix, Narcissa sensed this time her sister wouldn’t give anything up if probed.

Allowing the animosity time to dissipate, the blonde sipped her tea to ease her coughing fits and patiently waited for the right moment to steer the conversation away.

Her blue eyes fixed on the distant view as she asked, “Do you remember those occasions when you and Andromeda would go at night to hunt pixies and fairies at the manor’s borders?”

The older woman snorted, half-indulging and half-annoyed by the topic. “Yes, I do. What about it?” she replied, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of intrigue.

“Which year was Andromeda in at that time? First, second year? I can’t seem to recall,” Narcissa said, her voice trailing into the abandoned corridors of her childhood memories. “You both were very competitive at that age; you were always vying for Mother’s and Father’s attention, that I remember very well. Whatever new spell you had learned to cast, Andromeda was right behind you, learning it as well.”

What Bellatrix lacked in the finesse of elegant casting, Andromeda displayed an exemplary exposition of spellcraft. As methodical as, or perhaps even more than their own mother, Andromeda possessed an innate cleanliness in her methods that Bellatrix never had and that Narcissa took much time and practice to master. Their parents never failed to compliment Andromeda’s magic and casting posture.

For a fleeting moment, the blonde wondered if her estranged sister still preserved the sophistication inherited from their lineage or if it had been tarnished by the pedestrian life she chose with that sewer rat she married.

“I remember one night you allowed me to join you both,” Narcissa continued. “I followed you, rather than accompany Andromeda through the hunt. You began to explain how you didn’t use spells, how you were above that as you thought it too easy—”

“—Yes, so I lured them into a few traps. I was there, Cissy.”

Her gaze softened for the next moments, nostalgia and amusem*nt touching her heart as she recalled the memory. “And do you remember how snotty you were too? Some things never change,” she added, turning to look at her older sister. “Even at such a young age, you knew how to appeal to your enemy’s weaknesses. You understood the pixie’s insatiable curiosity and their penchant for mischievousness.” Her sister would fashion tiny, shimmering trinkets, like miniature treasures, knowing they couldn’t resist the allure of something precious.

A soft laugh escaped the blonde. “Or,” she continued, “you would sometimes use Andromeda as bait without her knowing. Meanwhile, fairies were a bit trickier as they’re drawn to beauty and delicate things—I’m sure I still have some of those woven flower crowns you adorned with petals and dewdrops.”

Her sister, ever versatile and quick-witted, had always been a force of nature. But there used to be so much more than her mental agility and her magical prowess. Bellatrix used to have a keen eye for beauty, sensitive to the nuances of art and aesthetics. She used to possess a rare ability to find beauty in the most innocuous of places, whether it be in the delicate patterns of a spider’s web or the gnarled nature of a twisted branch. The same ornaments she created to hunt fairies, she made them for Narcissa as well whenever she asked her. ‘She used to have a way of turning even the simplest things into art.’ However, that ended when the Dark Lord arrived, sweeping Bellatrix off her feet. That once radiant spark seemed to dim, overshadowed by the darkness of her own making. ‘Part of her sensitive mind died the moment the man arrived in our lives. It was as if Bellatrix couldn’t think of anything or anyone else but him.’

“Those were simpler times,” Narcissa sighed, attentive to any change in her sister’s expression. “But the thrill of the chase, the art of cunning—it has its own timeless charm, don’t you think, Bella?”

The innocence they once possessed was no more. Today, they were driven by remorselessness.

“Yes, sure, whatever you say,” Bellatrix scoffed, strong derision cutting through the air. “Did you just summon me to walk down memory lane, or do you actually have a point in all this blabbering of yours?”

And just as Narcissa had suspected, her irritating sister wouldn’t give anything up.

The persistent voice in Hermione’s head sounded like a playful child, urging her to speak. ‘Tell her, tell her, and see how she reacts; go on, tell her!’ it whispered incessantly.

The brunette pursed her lips. No matter how tempting it was, how valuable it would be to simply hint at her doubts to Nagini, Bellatrix’s stern warning remained anchored in her current thoughts, commanding her to say nothing about her parents and pretend absolute ignorance.

Nonetheless, there was something else to be said…

“…However, I should thank you for not revealing my direct involvement with the cabinet,” Hermione spoke, succumbing to her curiosity. “Narcissa told me about your meeting at the greenhouse.”

Nagini’s response was slow, co*cking her head and unfazed by the revelation about the witch being privy to her machinations. “Indeed?” she asked, her tone neutral. “Did she also tell you that if she were to go against my wishes, I’d reveal everything to Master?”

The threat was uttered with true intention.

“You won’t,” Hermione asserted with confidence, knowing better. “Your threat held power once, but now it’s empty. If you were to tell him now, you would have to explain why you’ve been keeping this knowledge to yourself. You’d be showing him that you can and would lie to him.”

Her coquettish look lost most of its charm, “Don’t assume, Hermione. I taught you better than that.” Her gaze narrowed. “Challenging my authority, questioning my loyalty—?”

“I’m not challenging it, I’m stating a fact,” the witch interrupted her. “I’m not oblivious enough not to see that some of your power lies in the secrets you hold.” Still, acknowledging the warning, she nodded and made no effort to argue further. Instead, she turned to the initial topic. “Why did you ask her to stay away from me?”

The woman adopted a wan smile, her expression revealing only glimpses of her inner thoughts. “Because I want to hide you away from that blue-eyed vixen. I don’t like her or her sister, as you already know. I know all of them well; the only thing they want from you is to exploit you to their benefit.” Her yellow-spotted eyes darted to the witch’s right hand. “Bellatrix being the worst of among them. But you already know that.” With a slow chuckle, she added, “You know, if I’d known that it would be you to torture Draco for his failures, I wouldn’t have said anything to Narcissa at all. I bet she now fantasizes about choking you with your own pillow while you sleep.”

‘Part of me doesn’t doubt it…’ Hermione hoped that Narcissa could discern the nuances between intentional actions and those commanded, and not harbor resentment towards her. Yet, with the new knowledge that the witch had pinned her hopes on the cabinet for Hogwarts, Narcissa might have concluded that Hermione did cast Crucio on Draco with a sense of pleasure or, rightfully so, justice. The blonde wouldn’t be wrong to assume this, truth be told. The young Death Eater was indeed a little irritated by Draco’s setback. Still, that was something the Malfoy matriarch would never know.

“By ‘they’ you meant only Narcissa and Bellatrix?” the witch sought to clarify.

“I meant purebloods,” Nagini replied with a subtle note of disdain. “They’re all the same.”

Not for the first time she wondered if Voldemort was aware of his pet’s complex sentiments regarding those of pureblood lineage. ‘…And if he’s aware, it’ll further prove just how little he cares about his own rhetoric.’

“But above all that,” the woman continued, closing the gap between her and the witch. Her voice, a low murmur, holding desire and determination. “I did threaten Narcissa because I want you all for myself. I want to be the only person you can rely on; the only one that can protect you. I want to provide for you however I can. After all, isn’t that what lovers strive to do for their partners? To care for them, to nurture them, and see them become their better selves…” Nagini leaned in, her movements marked by her serpentine grace, a silent invitation to make the witch forget her insignificant offenses. “…To ensure, by any means and ways, that they don’t get hurt.”

Against her feelings of discontent and disappointment, Hermione experienced the magnetic pull of the moment. She stood on a delicate balance between surrender and resistance. The soft rustle of fabric and the subtle scent of the woman’s lotion filled the space as Nagini closed the distance, her lips tantalizingly close to the witch’s. Then, at the last possible second, Hermione’s resolve asserted itself. A small yet deliberate turn of her head caused Nagini’s lips to miss her intended connection. “…I can’t,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” What at first was a look of confusion on the woman’s countenance, slowly turned into something sharper and more threatening; her piercing yellow eyes bore into Hermione’s as she withdrew. “Ah, I see how it is,” she remarked, studying the witch’s face. “Has your Mistress asked you to stop meeting with me? You said you weren’t upset with me due to my duties to our Lord. That means the old crone might be involved as it would explain why you’ve been avoiding me these days.”

The air between them thickened as Hermione failed to refute the snake’s assertions. It was her hesitance that answered for her. “She hasn’t exactly said that,” the witch said, her voice steady but carrying a trace of shyness. “But...”

Nagini’s cold stare prompted her to continue.

Her gaze moved towards the manor’s entry as she recalled the odd glances the Death Eaters had been casting at her. “Everyone has been talking about us since Yule; I don’t like it.” Even Dolohov, whom Hermione thought would be more understanding given the type of establishments he ran, talked to her with certain reservations. “Not that they’ve said anything to my face, but I’ve heard them whisper your name and mine; each time I step into the room they grow quiet. I would’ve preferred that they’d cast their usual disdainful stares at me, rather than these odd, reserved judgmental looks.”

Heaving a long and tired sigh, Nagini said, “Granted, romantic affection between two witches is, at best, odd. But is that the true reason? How do you know they are judging you? Rather they might be dying with envy.” Her next words carried a fondness that didn’t quite cover her entire face. “They’re envious that you, and only you, hold my interest and attention.”

“If that were the case, they would be talking to me, trying to curry favor,” the witch countered, nodding towards the pygmy still running around, a reference to Yaxley’s failed attempts to win favor with Nagini. “We can see that’s not the case.”

Those yellow orbs intensified, searching in Hermione’s eyes for a deeper meaning. After a few moments of quiet prodding, the brunette succumbed to the woman’s rightful skepticism. “Bellatrix said that now that I’m the Warden of her House, she was privy to everything occurring in my life,” the witch confessed.

“Oh, so that’s it. You’re choosing her,” Nagini stated, her features hardening.

Shaking her head lightly in disagreement, she argued: “I’m choosing peace of mind.”

“Is this another of your pathetic lies, Hermione? Who are you trying to deceive, me or yourself?” Behind that cold, ironic tone hid the ferocious snake. “You know more than anyone that you can never have peace whenever you’re close to her. She will find new ways to humiliate you no matter what you do!” After a pause, she insisted, “You’re not choosing peace of mind; you’re choosing her.” In the following pause, a melancholic smile crept into her lips. “How sad, after all this time and effort. The puppet falls into the hands of the puppeteer…You see, Sayang, as I stare into your beautiful face and listen to your spineless excuses, reality crystalizes with jagged edges. It’s telling me that I must cherish this instant with you, and not take any passing second for granted— I never did though, take you for granted. Not once. I enjoyed every second I spent with you.” Her fingers grazed Hermione’s cheek; the woman continued, her voice a soft lament, “I must cherish these instants, memorize them, because I fret that the next time I see you, we won’t be able to talk like this. Next time, your insightful mind and beautiful voice are going to be perpetually controlled by your new Mistress. You’ll be reduced to nothing. The shell of someone I used to know. I can feel my heart breaking at the notion.”

This woman knew very well how to play with her night terrors. Shuddering, Hermione took a few steps back and said, “You don’t have to say such cruel things.”

“Are they cruel? I didn’t realize.” The response held an air of detachment as acumen tinted her serpent-like eyes under a frown of worry. “Tell me, Sayang. Isn’t there something I can do for you? Anything? I’m sure we can think of a solution, you and I. Allow me to extricate you from your duties by asking my Master for help; you only need to ask.” The pleading in her voice sounded genuine, a deep desire of wanting to release the witch from Bellatrix’s shackles. And Hermione perhaps would’ve believed her weeks ago, but she had seen the extent of the snake’s subtle manipulations.

Nagini’s true intentions were hidden in what she said, not in the how.

This wasn’t a plea to help; it was a dare.

The witch stopped to think her next words, her inner conflict apparent in the furrow of her brow and the subtle clenching of her jaw. The yellow-spotted eyes were challenging her to admit what both of them already knew.

“You’re not offering help out of benevolence, Nagini,” Hermione pointed out, her eyes narrowing with intensity. “You’re just waiting for me to expose feelings that don’t exist, to admit that I somehow want everything that Bellatrix has done to me. Why are you pushing me to admit such a thing? Do you want to hear that I prefer her over you? That I’ve somehow fallen in love with her? Is that it? Why would you want to torture yourself with that knowledge, even if it isn’t true?” As the words spilled from her lips, a memory surged to the forefront of her mind, fueling her emotions. “The first night you returned to your human form, you were in my bedroom; Filqui entered and told me Bellatrix was expecting me. She and I fought that night, as always. I ignored her and decided to leave the room, and right after that, I thought about your proposal, about getting rid of her. I thought life without Bellatrix would certainly be peaceful— the idea was far too attractive if I’m being honest. But in that same moment, I realized that I couldn’t do anything to her until I understood how deeply connected the imprint with her was and what the consequences would be if she were to disappear.” She motioned to her right wrist and furiously sneered. “Well, now you can see that I took too long to figure that out! Even now, I still don’t have the answer! But to Bellatrix none this matters, because she doesn’t tiptoe, observe, or overthink her next decision; if she wants something she either takes or creates it, and surely enough Bellatrix went on and created her own connection to bind us together.” Her throat became tight with emotion. “You want the truth, Nagini? Here it is: I’m tired! I’m so tired of fighting this bond, of living in fear. So, yes, it may seem to you like I’ve given up, because truth be told, I might as well have. And I can’t believe you just called me spineless when I am not! I know when to pick my battles and this... this is a battle I know I’ll lose.” The admission hung between them like the smell of rotting meat; it was a raw acknowledgment of the emotional exhaustion that had settled deep within her. “Bellatrix has won! And the most ridiculous thing of all this is that she doesn’t even know about the imprint! Isn’t that bloody ironic?” Her lips twisted into a grimace. “Fate certainly has a cruel sense of humor.”

Nagini softened her gaze, wearing a mild expression of compassion, sympathy—f*cking, disgusting pity. “Sayang…” her voice attempting to harness the broken wolf before her.

“I’m tired, Nagini. And I don’t care,” the witch interrupted her, her voice firm yet still tinged with sorrow. “I don’t care for your apologies, sympathy. Or if you have another round of unkind words; I don’t want to be the object of your disdain.”

This wasn’t how Hermione envisioned this conversation. She had wanted to start with a tame approach, with honest and affectionate words. But they were beyond compliments at this moment. It was better to just move on to the heart of the issue.

With a hint of resignation encompassing her speech, the witch uttered, “You once told me that you wouldn’t ask of me anything more than I couldn’t give.” She approached the woman, placing her cold hand over her warm cheek. “Well, it’s friendship. That is all I can give you.” Not knowing what else to say, Hermione leaned in to press a chaste kiss on Nagini’s cheek; it was a silent acknowledgment of the bond they shared despite the turmoil between them. “Please, don’t hate me,” she begged softly, about to turn away.

“Wait,” Nagini grasped Hermione’s hand. “Before you go, tell me one thing. What vow did you make to Bellatrix?”

The question caught Hermione off guard, leaving her wondering how Nagini knew about it. It then dawned on her that the snake had been testing her honesty from the beginning of this conversation.

“I was deceived,” the witch confessed. “I vowed that I would never turn my back on her again.”

And right there, in that instant and for a fleeting second, Hermione returned to those nights in that dilapidated home, the attic, and the enormous snake hanging from the trussers, staring at her as if poised to attack. “Bellatrix will never love you,” Nagini claimed, her voice carrying a note of finality. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that she will.”

Her response was calm but encompassed with the bitter acceptance of reality. “I don’t expect her to,” Hermione stated, carrying the weight of past disappointments in her words. “I’ve learned not to expect many things from her.”

With that, she untangled from Nagini’s hold and walked away, leaving behind a lingering sense of resignation and the heartbroken echoes of something that could’ve been if fate hadn’t intervened once again.

‘Now! Now you see all the troubles your relationship with Nagini can bring! Not before, but after! You didn’t see them when you were f*cking her against the wall, you didn’t see them when she was on top of you—’

Her hands turned into fists to stop the light shaking of her fingers. “What was I thinking?” Hermione muttered.

‘—you colossal idiot!’

Of all the mistakes she had made in recent months, allowing her emotions to drive her into the arms of Voldemort’s pet had to be the worst so far. Yet despite her regrets and the cruel voice in her head reproaching her, she acknowledged the desperation that had led her to such a precarious situation. But now, uncertainty gripped her, her mind racing with countless possibilities of how things could go awry for having fraternized intimately with Nagini.

‘You better hope it was worth it; you better hope that your loneliness has been forever quenched; you better hope that you have proved you’re not a slave to your curse; and you better f*cking hope that what little knowledge she shared with us is enough to—’

“No, no, it wasn’t like that. I’m not that type of person.” Taking another deep breath, Hermione tried to calm her racing heart and shut down her loud mind as she continued putting as much distance between the courtyard and herself.

‘Say, why didn’t you accept her offer for help? You could’ve said yes…Why didn’t you?’

“Because she was lying,” Hermione said. Voldemort could undo the bond, yes. But at the partial cost of the respect and trust his Death Eaters had in him. For all his power, even he was forced to dabble in politics and respect traditions. He wouldn’t risk the stability of his rhetoric at his pet’s request. “And even if her intentions had been true and I accepted, then I’d owe a massive favor to Nagini, while simultaneously making Bellatrix a permanent enemy.”

‘Ah, right. Of course, we wouldn’t like that; our self-preservation is of utmost priority! It doesn’t matter how spineless we look while doing it, right?... But, wait, is that really all? It can’t be only about self-preservation, can it? There’s something else. You know what I’m talking about, ever since Yule, Bellatrix has been—’

Hermione had half-mind to cast a Stupefy spell on herself just to rest from that hateful voice in her head. But thankfully, someone else came to her much-needed rescue…

“Miss Granger, good morning to you,” Yaxley called out, his voice cutting through the deafening silence of the drawing room and the noise of her thoughts. “Would you care to play a match with me?” A deck of cards began to shuffle itself in the air.

The invitation sounded amicable, almost with a hint of intimacy, as if they were old friends accustomed to such encounters. Hermione knew better than to trust such gestures. Still, curiosity mingled with the need to get away from herself, prompted her to nod. “I’d like to,” she agreed with a polite smile. “But I must warn you, I’m not much experienced with these sorts of games.”

“I’m afraid I’m not falling for that trick again. Travers told me the same once and he made off with all the galleons of that evening,” he chuckled, winking at her. “I jest, of course. Please, take a seat. I have to say, Granger, it’s a crime that we haven’t gotten to know each other better ever since you began working with us, wouldn’t you think so?”

A polite grin tugged at Hermione’s lips. “I agree, but it seems we can’t help it; we all have responsibilities that keep us apart.”

“I won’t argue that. Yet, you have managed to disappear every time I’ve wished to meet with you. In the beginning, you were very furtive and elusive, like a nocturnal animal that spends most of its time in a burrow.”

The cards landed before them, face down and six in number, plus one extra which was the wizard card. All this indicated that they were playing by the Southern Rules.

“And now?” the witch asked, pressing him to elaborate.

“And now, it seems that we can’t talk without your Master being present,” Yaxley observed, expressing disappointment. “I understand, and of course, approve, that an unmarried witch such as yourself must be accompanied by a chaperone. The role couldn’t fall on someone better than Madame Bellatrix,” he smiled, “she’s married and, therefore, much more capable of setting a good example in modesty.”

‘Modesty’? Bellatrix, who often wore dresses with those bloody deep ‘V’ lines?

Surely he had to be joking.

She couldn’t tell. Still, she found it impossible to suppress a small chuckle.

“That being said,” Yaxley continued, his tone carrying camaraderie. “I believe we’re beyond the point of being just mere acquaintances to you. In truth, I expect you to regard us as family, Granger. Know that with us you’re as safe as you’re with Madame Lestrange.”

Of all the people Hermione could say she had got right at first sight, Corban Yaxley occupied a position close to the top five. This wizard was a diplomat and a politician at heart; a weaselly hypocrite no doubt.

“Forgive me, but my absence has never been about me feeling insecure around you gentlemen. It’s simply as I said, our tasks and priorities, more often than not, have kept us apart. And I don’t know about you, but the free time I have, I prefer to spend it sleeping.” A subtle smirk tugged at the corner of her lips before she continued, unable to resist the opportunity to inject a note of irony. “And about my Master, I must say this is the first time I’ve heard the words ‘good example,’ ‘modesty,’ and ‘Madame Lestrange’ in the same sentence. It’s so refreshing to see that I’m not the only one who holds her in high regard.”

Yaxley laughed, the sound resonating in the opulent room. “I’ve noticed you have a way with words, Granger. I suppose one might say you’re as elusive with your words as you are in person.”

“It’s a practiced talent. One must adapt to the environment, don’t you agree?”

“As much as one can, in our line of work,” he conceded, his eyes gleaming with a subtle challenge. “But I wonder, is it the environment or a specific individual that prompts your elusive tendencies?”

Hermione met his gaze with a calculated smile. “Perhaps a bit of both. After all, discretion is a valuable trait in our circles.”

To her surprise, she found herself enjoying this back-and-forth banter. Maybe this time she could relax a little and shed some of the stress that was weighing her down.

“So it is,” Corban commented, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing her with newfound interest.

Both settled their gazes on their cards; Hermione had two Centaurs, one Mooncalf, a Ukrainian Ironbelly egg, and two Mandrakes, and the wizard card: Gifford Ollerton. All in all, an acceptable hand.

“What did you mean earlier, about Bella— My Master not allowing to speak if she isn’t present?” she asked, too curious for her to let his comment fade away.

“For a while now, I’ve been trying to get a proper conversation with you, with no avail as you can see,” Yaxley explained.

Realizing that he wasn’t getting the desired reaction from her, the wizard paused to gather his thoughts; his finger came to rest lightly on his lips. “Help me understand something, Granger, what makes you so valuable to Bellatrix?”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “That’s a big word, valuable,” she deflected, her tone cautious. “If you think that she did all those theatrics about her welcoming me to her House for my benefit or hers, you’d be very mistaken. I was just a tool. Bellatrix doesn’t like you, Yaxley, as I’m sure you know. You took her post.” Her half-smile held a dash of danger. “She’s very spiteful as you can see. Anything that can help you, if she can, she will take it away from you.”

A pearly white smile graced Yaxley’s lips, his eyes conveyed confidence. “If only that were the sole reason, then it’ll be easier to handle. But I know it’s more than that, Granger. And now that I’m talking to you, I realize that Bellatrix didn’t tell you why she handed all your work to me,” he inquired, reclining on his chair and pausing the game momentarily to fix her with an eloquent stare.

Too intrigued by his statement, the brunette leaned to listen.

“You see, I was impressed with your observations, not only your notes about elves, but your arithmancy equations about the spell force to tear the castle walls as well as their gates were mostly exact. Moreover, the measurements between the distance of the spell hitting its target, and the probability of ricocheting projectiles was, again, quite precise. I was forced to recognize that it was all very impressive, Granger—that’s not to mention the ledger you sent me in the morning, a pristine job as always.” he stated, appearing sincere in his compliments. “I don’t know if you know this, but one of my specialties is arithmancy. Therefore, to see someone like you, of your age, being this talented, while I witness your abilities going to waste in whatever Bellatrix has you doing all this time, it’s an insult to me—to this marvelous magic branch itself.”

Again, Hermione was reminded of the conversation she had with Severus at Yule: sometimes showing to be competent could be counterproductive.

“I asked her to send you to work with me,” Corban continued. “She refused, telling me that you were still undertrained; I asked her when you could be ready, but she didn’t give me a direct answer. I insisted again a week later, making my case and explaining to her that her refusal meant obstruction towards our goal—deliberate obstruction towards our interests, well, under the right circ*mstances can be interpreted as a betrayal. Anyway, to not make the story any longer, she offered me my name in your and her work as long as I stopped insisting.”

‘Bellatrix Lestrange, the witch who claimed many times to hate you, yet cannot fathom to let you go.’

“I wasn’t aware of it,” Hermione admitted. “Though it makes sense she refused, Bellatrix tends to delegate the arithmancy equations to me.” As if! Their combined attacks during the assaults would be much cleaner and more precise if that were true. “Yet, you didn’t stop insisting,” she said, understanding that Voldemort had to intervene; maybe leaving no other option to Bellatrix than to trick her with the mask.

“Can you blame me?” the man asked with a smile. “I thought this was it, a protégé for me to nurture. But then, she makes you Warden of House Black. Congratulations, by the way. I hope your future becomes bright under the Black’s banner.”

Pretending not to understand the small jab, the witch said instead, “You know, I’m much more surprised that you find value in my work, considering that the last time we talked about it, you called it rubbish.” Her expression showed skepticism as she tried to divert the conversation further away from Bellatrix.

Yaxley chuckled, a sparkle of amusem*nt in his eyes. “Your proposals for infiltration were rubbish, if I may say so, Granger,” he asserted surprisingly candid. “Everything else isn’t.”

His frankness was enjoyable. Hermione felt a flicker of respect for the man, even if his overall intentions weren’t the most altruistic—she hadn’t forgotten that this man was conspiring with Rodolphus to put Bellatrix and herself further down the ladder.

She picked up her cards, deciding that the conversation had to die right here. Otherwise, her curiosity would get the better of her.

“What are you two playing?” said a gruff voice.

“Leyre Cards,” Yaxley explained, turning to the men passing through the corridor just as Hermione had a moment ago. “Would you two care for a match?”

Dolohov’s interest was immediately piqued. “Are you betting?”

Yaxley turned to Hermione, then nodded after seeing she wasn’t opposed. “A few galleons.”

“Fine,” said Dolohov, clapping Rabastan’s shoulder to join them too.

Hermione shifted on her seat, aware of the proximity between her and Rabastan. It was the first time she had found herself sitting so close to him, a situation she had avoided in the past. The memory of their last close encounter, where Rabastan had been on the receiving end of her wand, resurfaced as the man looked at her with animosity each time they were in the same room.

“Throwing the Antipodean Opaleye, uh?” Dolohov said to Yaxley before he threw two of his cards to grab the white dragon.

“You know, Yaxley, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Hermione began, setting aside the Mandrake cards. “During our last meeting, you mentioned that a few delegates from the International Confederation of Wizards are going to be there. Not all, but the most prominent from the western hemisphere. What is our Lord’s opinion on this?”

Dolohov turned to her, sharing his knowledge, “The Swiss, Irish, and Russian are confirmed. Then there’s the Supreme Mugwump: Babajide Akingbade, who is going to be there along with Osakwe Kouassi.”

“—the Mongolian delegate has confirmed too,” Yaxley added, then turned to Hermione. “Our Lord says their presence won’t interfere with our plans,” he stated matter-of-factly, his focus remaining on his cards as he drew two of them and placed them on the table.

“That doesn’t sound so reassuring,” she commented, her concern evident in her furrowed brow. “What I mean is: can we afford international attention on us, Yaxley?”

“That’s why we’re attacking that night; it’s going to be a display of raw power,” Dolohov interjected again, “It’ll be a loud warning to the outside.”

“You think they’re going to watch and sit idle?” the young witch challenged.

“They would have to. They can’t impose their will without breaching our sovereignty and risk a direct war,” Yaxley countered, turning to regard her with a steely gaze.

“They might offer aid,” she persisted, her mind already conjuring up the potential consequences. “It’s not unheard of for external forces to intervene in such conflicts.”

“Offer aid to whom, Granger?” Rabastan scoffed, his features edging with a hint of annoyance. “The Ministry of Magic? We will be in charge of the Ministry of Magic, and no one will be the wiser. Whatever aid they decide to offer it’ll be ours to exploit.”

Hermione shook her head, her convictions unwavering. “Aid to any form of resistance groups,” she stated, “like the Order of the Phoenix. We can’t afford to overlook any potential threats.”

“Granger,” the blond began, his tone measured. “I understand and applaud your stance about never underestimating the enemy. But if we spend our time worrying about every potential threat, we’ll be wasting our energy on insignificant matters.”

How many times did she have to say it? “There’s no such thing as an insignificant enemy, Corban.”

Rabastan snorted derisively, “Argumentative to no f*cking end. I really don’t know how Bellatrix stands you.”

The young witch shot him a scathing look. “Oh, I don’t know how, but I know she tolerates me vastly more than you and your brother together.”

“Children, children, please, don’t fight,” Yaxley intervened, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rabastan, Hermione has proven many times that she keeps our best interests close to her heart. Hermione, if you have any concerns, you can address them with me later if you wish. Now, it’s the last day of the Sunstone year. Either we can twiddle our thumbs away from each other as we have nothing to do, or we can play in peace.”

Both Death Eaters quietly conceded to the temporary ceasefire.

Meeting with failure, Narcissa opted for the direct approach.

“My point is that you’ve always been deceivingly cunning; a brilliant manipulator,” she began, infusing a semblance of admiration into her words, though it rang hollow in her heart. ‘And a bloody sad*st…’ She could never forget the cruel games her sister used to enact on the same fairies. Needles carving their faces; wings mercilessly torn; embers burning their feet; mirrors in their cages for them to witness the destruction of their natural beauty, having their vanity mocked, all for her sister’s entertainment. That was until her whims waned, and the creatures were discarded in the garden serving a mere composite. “And to be fair, I’ve always admired your finesse.”

Bellatrix lounged back, a wicked smirk playing on her lips, reveling in the acknowledgment of her own cunning. “Why, thank you. Guilty as charged,” she purred.

“You know, during Yule’s dinner, as I witnessed your grand display of generosity, I wondered if you enticed Hermione with the mask much like you used to lure the fairies with flower crowns,” the blonde mused aloud, her eyes carrying a blend contemplation and accusation. “However, I then dismissed the notion; Hermione may be many things, but she’s certainly not vain enough to fall for pretty trinkets, or so foolish as to overlook the potential cost of accepting a pretty gift. No, you tricked her into putting our family mask on. And the fact that she didn’t bolt like a startled Pegasus—though she bore a striking resemblance to one— as she witnessed you strip away her inherent rights, it’s clear to me that you wield influence over more than just her actions; her forced agreeableness shows that you have control over her mouth as well.”

All Hermione could do that night was walk out of the dining hall while struggling not to show her distress. Narcissa would’ve felt sympathy for her, but lately, her reserves had run dry.

Her sister’s countenance remained stoic, her smile a soft curve—a silent affirmation of Narcissa’s deductions.

Determined to unveil her own depth of awareness, the blonde continued, “I read the newspaper a few days ago about the Aurors finding a rotting body at Sorcerer’s Curious, Marko’s store, your long-time supplier; your friend. He was found beheaded. Not struck by an errant curse, just beheaded.” Her eyes steadied on her sister’s face. “The Aurors never arrived that day as you said, did they? You see, I think you killed Marko,” she declared, untangling the roots of her sister’s actions. “I too suspect it was because of Hermione—though I cannot say what drove you to do it, I know you wouldn’t have killed for something insignificant—, how is it that the girl has become that valuable to you, Bella?”

A glint of acknowledgment flickered in those tar-like pits. “Well, she’s become a very useful asset, one might argue,” she replied cryptically. “I’m certain you understand the sentiment.”

Narcissa did understand the sentiment; it was the very reason they were having this conversation in the first place. If she intended to employ Hermione for herself, she first required a bit of leverage—insight into Bellatrix’s personal investment in the girl, a glimpse into her next intentions and schemes.

Yet, Bellatrix wasn’t giving any.

The younger woman put on a cold smile. “Not so long ago you thought she was a blight to eliminate. I’m very surprised that it took you much less time to accept her than it took me. Isn’t all this too ironic? To think you were mocking me for getting acquainted with her, now look at you. You’ve made a werewolf the Warden of House Black for everyone to witness; it’s quite the honor you have bestowed her. And I’m more baffled than I’m insulted that you did never consult me about this decision.”

“If this isn’t about you wanting to complain, then what is it that you want, Narcissa?” The question signaled impatience and reluctance to engage further.

Narcissa felt a pang of worry at Bellatrix’s refusal to play along. Normally, her sister would be probing for what the blonde could offer in return. This deviation from their usual dynamic set off warning bells in her mind.

But despite the present warnings, Narcissa Malfoy failed to grasp what was there before her very eyes, an inconceivable thought. The unthinkable. The surreal rape of Bellatrix Black as she desecrated her own image as a true pureblood and as heir of centuries-old House of Black. The shocking revelation she was about to have a moment later from now, didn’t arouse the shame for her own lack of guile, but the fury of realizing that she didn’t know her sister at all.

“While I would like to hear how you achieved to tie her up to your hip, that’s not the reason I summoned you.” Taking a deep breath, Narcissa observed Bellatrix closely. “I’m having a few setbacks as you know, and I need Hermione to help me sort things out. She offered a solution to the cabinet’s problem; I require her assistance to see it through.” Now as acting warden, the girl was obligated to help her; Hermione’s initial plans for enacting the Unbreakable Vow were null. “I’m not asking you this as your sibling, but as a member of House Black. I, too, have a right to our warden,” Narcissa asserted. “We need to split our time with her. Let me know your schedule and I’ll make sure to adjust mine so it doesn’t interfere with yours.”

Bellatrix clicked her teeth in a feigned display of regret. “I’m afraid the girl is indisposed indefinitely. She has duties to fulfill, Cissy. Her servitude lies with our Lord.”

“She has always been a servant to our Lord,” Narcissa countered. “Yet you chose to alter that the moment you decided to give her our family’s mask.”

“I’ll tell you what I told our Lord: the girl needs a House now that she’s regarded as a pureblood,” Bellatrix replied, dismissing the younger sister’s arguments. “I’m simply ensuring the girl remains where she belongs.”

“Granger wasn’t going anywhere! She has the Dark Mark, you moron, which holds more weight than the name Black! If you’re going to lie, at least try harder!” the blonde stated, exasperated. “It doesn’t matter; you opened this opportunity. I have a claim to the girl.”

“You don’t,” Bellatrix asserted, her demeanor unwavering. “In any capacity.”

“I’m your sister, Bellatrix! I am a Black,” she scoffed, incredulous at the audacity. “Of course, I have a right to her!”

Her dark gaze bore into Narcissa’s blue eyes with a chilling finality. “Not anymore,” she declared with an expression of self-satisfaction. “I’ve removed you from the family tree.”

Narcissa recoiled as though Bellatrix had unleashed a powerful spell on her. In the next instant, her head spun, the room swaying around her as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Her vision blurred, leaving her disoriented and struggling to maintain her balance.

“What—What did you just say?” Her voice quivered with disbelief, each word branded by shock and horror.

“Oh, Cissy, I’m simply doing what you requested of me, remember?” Bellatrix remarked with a twisted sense of innocence. “You told me explicitly how you wanted to put distance between yourself and my mistakes, as to ensure that they don’t tarnish your family’s legacy. So, of course, I obliged, for I only want to make you happy. To safeguard you, I’ve severed your ties to the Black name. You’re no longer a part of the family tree. Not a Black but only a Malfoy; you’re quite welcome, by the way.” The glint in her eyes adopted a manic gleam, lips curled into a cruel sneer, tainted with anticipation, showing that Bellatrix had been biding her time to utter the next words: “Because if I’m going to f*ck it up, I’ll f*ck it up far away from you! I don’t want my mistakes to be your family’s mistakes!”

With a fluid motion, Bellatrix rose from her seat, advancing toward the exit with purpose. “The girl belongs to me, Cissy. She serves me and our Lord,” she declared, her tone carrying an air of finality. “I suggest you seek assistance elsewhere. I’m not feeling particularly generous at the moment. Ta-ta.”

It was peculiar, wasn’t it?

How sometimes it was the little things that made us fall off the precipice.

“So, Granger,” Dolohov resumed, his features hid impish intention that didn’t sit well with the witch. “What’s going on between you and, you know,” the bloody sod punctuated his next words with a suggestive whistle, “Nagini the snake.”

“She doesn’t look much like a snake to me, I’ll say that much,” said Rabastan, smiling as he put two of his cards upside-down.

“Nothing that whatever those wiggling caterpillars you have for eyebrows are implying, Antonin,” replied Hermione, aloof. “We are friends; we have always been since I joined the ranks.”

Dolohov’s grin grew further. “I want to be friends with her too,” he remarked, shameless in his cadence. “Do you think there’s something else in her that she needs… curing? You know, to get her to trust me.”

The question would’ve been taken at face value, but then Yaxley produced a small smile, and Rabastan chuckled after, revealing the cruel undertones beneath.

Hermione produced a half-smile, masking her immediate emotions. “I’m confident she doesn’t, but again, I can ask her for you. I’m sure she would love to answer any doubts you have,” she replied coolly, though her words carried a subtle warning. “On the other hand, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to her so you may ask her yourself. Just don’t commit the terrible mistake of assuming she doesn’t know you; don’t try to impress her either. After all, she’s witnessed your desperate pleas for forgiveness to our Lord more times than you’d care to admit, or that stuttering you make when you can’t answer his questions.”

A bark of laughter erupted from Yaxley, silencing Antonin’s weak ripostes. The witch ignored him, and focused her attention back on the cards, discarding one and requesting another.

“Is there a room for another?” Rodolphus interrupted, bringing a temporary halt to the banter.

“Join us,” Rabastan replied, gesturing to an empty seat. “We were just talking about Granger and her very friendly friend Nagini.”

Hermione had this strong feeling in her gut that she had likely been the subject of their jests for quite some time.

“Have you seen Macnair this morning?” Rodolphus redirected the conversation to Yaxley, clearly uninterested in partaking in teasing the young witch further.

“I caught sight of him earlier, mentioned something about heading to the werewolf’s camp in the west,” Yaxley responded, his tone casual.

“f*cking arsehole,” Dolohov muttered, shooting a disgruntled glance at Rabastan.

“Too much for you, Anton?” he retorted with a smirk, picking up another card.

“Get bent,” the dark wizard shot back, though there was a hint of amusem*nt in his tone.

“Here, you can take my Norwegian Ridgeback, I don’t need it,” Rabastan offered. “By the way, this reminds me, you said you ate Dragon meat the other day. How was it?”

“Where?” Rodolphus asked.

“Ukraine. And, I don’t know. It tastes like chicken. It was a roast, not bad. Dragon meat is tender and juicy only if the beast is young, otherwise, it’s too f*cking dry.”

“I’d liken it more to Diricawl, but moister,” Yaxley interjected, adding his own culinary perspective.

“Which, essentially, is just a fancy chicken,” Dolohov stated. “Less expensive than a Diricawl and their eggs, though.”

“The recruit’s camp in the south managed to catch a Hippogriff with Macnair’s help,” Rodolphus commented. “The ladies there whipped up a casserole, and let me tell you, it’s nothing like chicken; surprisingly delicious, however.”

Tears welled in Narcissa’s eyes, her usually stoic gaze now clouded with a storm of emotions. The icy waters within her irises hinted at a tempest brewing beneath the surface—a crimson tide of anger and betrayal. Never before had she felt such profound raw hurt. Bellatrix had always been capable of stoking the flames of her darkest tempers, but this... this was beyond her usual spitefulness. This was a betrayal of sisterhood, a violation of the deepest bonds of kinship.

Before Narcissa could fully grasp and digest her emotions, instinct took over. With a flick of her wand, a golden light burst forth, striking Bellatrix squarely in the back and sending her hurtling over the ornate wall, her face colliding with a fragile glass vase.

“You had no right!” Narcissa screeched, her voice thundered in fury, echoing off the walls of the room. “How dare you erase me from our ancestry!”

Bellatrix’s laughter rang out, hollow and chilling, grating against Narcissa’s ears as the older woman tried to regain her footing, her lower lip and right cheek now split from the impact.

“Of course I have the right! I am the eldest! I get to decide who deserves to stay!” Bellatrix declared, her arrogance and entitlement tainting her expression. Her head tilted forward, eyes like a hawk amidst a hunt. “You really want to do this, Cissy? Think you’re going to win?”

“Win what exactly, you idiot?” Narcissa hissed like a caged lioness. “I don’t expect to win—I expect you to lose!” With another flick of her wand, a curse erupted from Narcissa’s wand, akin to the wrath of a hundred harpies. The curse struck her sister’s shield, causing her to recoil backward. From there, Narcissa followed a flurry of spells and with each subsequent stroke of her wand, the furniture in the room became ensnared in a tangled web of magical energy.

With each spell hurled by her blonde sibling, Bellatrix either retracted a bookcase or a painting to hide behind or redirected the attacks toward the walls with the sole aim of further destroying Narcissa’s possessions—just as she did when they were children. Her mouth shaped into a mordant smile. “Morgana’s tit*, Cissy!” Bellatrix cackled. “You’re so f*cking weak! It’s embarrassing to know you have Black blood in your veins!”

Her older sister behaved as if this was all just a twisted game for her, a sad*stic pleasure derived from inflicting further emotional pain upon Narcissa. This wasn’t about vengeance anymore.

As the minutes passed and Narcissa continued her attacks, trying everything to strike Bellatrix, she finally grasped the extent of her sister’s power. She was witnessing the reason her sister had held such sway as a lieutenant for so long; the reason she was feared among both enemies and fellow Death Eaters alike. Bella hadn’t moved from her initial spot. Even as Narcissa melted the floor around her sister’s feet, Bellatrix simply stepped over the books and levitated without a second thought and counterattacked her spell, solidifying the floor back again. When she breathed life into the statues scattered throughout the room, her sister mercilessly pulverized them before they could provide any semblance of protection or distraction. It seemed as though nothing could touch her, as if she were invincible.

And yet, despite this humbling realization— the stark evidence of the vast difference in their magical abilities and strengths, the battle raged on. Narcissa wasn’t ready to give up or to accept defeat when all she wanted to see at that moment was to see her wicked sister on her knees.

Hermione smiled lightly, reminiscing about how she used to consider Wizard Chess barbaric, thinking that a horse stomping on a pawn was plain cruel. But now, here she was, enjoying herself as she watched one of her two centaurs being mutilated by a sub-Saharan manticore. Meanwhile, her other centaur continued throwing spears toward the manticore’s beady eyes.

“By the way, you’ll never guess who’s the new Potions Master at Hogwarts,” Corban announced, drawing everyone’s attention. The witch looked with interest at the mention of the Potions Master, her mind instinctively jumping to Snape. “Horace Slughorn,” he revealed.

“Slughorn, who is he?” Hermione inquired, curious.

“A bloody talented potion-maker the Carrows tried to recruit a little more than half a year ago,” Dolohov interjected. “He’s on par with Snape, if not better, I’ve heard. We wanted his expertise and aid against the Ministry.”

“I always wondered where the old sod had disappeared to. Now we know,” Rabastan remarked with a smirk. “You know what this means, if he’s not with us, he’s against us.”

“It’s a draw,” Rodolphus declared, redirecting everyone’s attention back to the table’s center where every creature was dead, turning into dust then reappearing again on the card deck.

Curious, the witch thought, she was pretty sure she was about to lose. “So, that means no one claims the money?” she queried. “Or do we split it?”

Rodolphus appeared to consider the option, but then he turned to Hermione with mild interest. “How about we make this interesting? A little duel between you and me. Friendly, of course,” he proposed “Just to settle this score, all or nothing, I’d say.”

His younger brother wasted no time in seconding the suggestion. “The first one to draw blood wins. A little cut, nothing lethal.”

“You know, that actually sounds interesting,” Dolohov chimed, standing up from his chair. “Come on, Granger, show us what the Warden of House Black can do.”

The proposal sounded far too appealing to refuse; Hermione would like nothing more than to measure up to Rodolphus Lestrange and watch his conceited stares at her lose their edge after he had lost and had to pick up his wand from the frozen mud. The words of acceptance were in her mouth and on the verge of coming out when a sudden sense of danger washed over her. An unnatural dread gripped her, chilling her to the bone, and then a dull pain shot through her chest.

Trying to mask her discomfort and worry, Hermione rose from her chair. “I’d love to make off with the galleons but I’m afraid I must go now. Perhaps next time, gentlemen,” she announced, her voice strained as she hastily made her way out of the room.

‘Please, please, please…’ Hermione recited in her head as she tried to guess her imprint’s location. ‘Don’t be Voldemort, don’t be Voldemort—’ But, if it wasn’t Voldemort hurting Bellatrix, then, who else? ‘Bloody hell, Bellatrix, what did you do to anger him this time?’

Narcissa’s chest heaved with exertion, rage etched across her features as none of her spells seemed to make a dent in her sister’s defenses. Bellatrix, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying herself, laughing raucously as she continued to toy with her, uttering taunts that embedded on the blonde’s skin like shards of broken ceramic.

“You don’t seem happy at all, Cissy!” A manic stare framed her cruel mirth. “For a second there, you made me think that this wasn't what you had in mind when you said to make that distinction to my dear Lord!”

The blonde gritted her teeth; her emotions mounted with every word coming from her sister’s ugly mouth, but so did her focus—Bellatrix was far from getting the best of her. Narcissa squared her shoulders and prepared to launch another assault.

“What are you trying to achieve with this, Narcissa? To change my position?” Her features showed disdain as she deflected yet another Stupefy spell. “How ridiculous you are, look at you! You always throw a tantrum when someone frustrates your plans—you never grew out of behaving like a f*cking entitled brat. You’re so used to having your way; Father and Mother granted you every whim you had that—!”

“—Oh, f*ck you, Bellatrix!” Narcissa spat, her voice rising above the explosive arcs. “You’re so predictable in your insults! I knew you would bring up the past— It’s the only point of reference you have of me! As if people don’t change at all after they grow up! People change, Bellatrix, unlike you, who continues having the brain of a five-year-old, you old cow! Our parents treated us all equally. It’s not my fault that you didn’t ask; you never wanted for much, good for you! But Andromeda and I were different, and that didn’t make us wrong!”

Tired of getting nowhere, Narcissa made a sharp thrust with her wand. One of the drawers from her wrecked desk snapped open, and after a swift Accio spell, a jar containing a piece of root fell into her hands. The root writhed and twisted within its narrow confines, pulsating with a dark mist. As soon as Narcissa opened it, the root spilled out in sinuous coils, its tendrils reaching out and ensnaring everything in their path.

“Devil’s Snare?” Bellatrix sneered at the seemingly pathetic trick. “Incendio!” she bellowed, unleashing a blast of fire in an attempt to incinerate the unruly plant. But to her surprise, as the smoke cleared, she realized that the root remained unscathed.

“This is my special breed, resistant to fire and sunlight, albeit a little unpredictable,” Narcissa explained presenting a sly smile, her control over the Devil’s Snare evident as it obeyed her immediate commands. “A little project of mine; I was planning to use it with a beast, but I suppose you will have to suffice.” Not giving her sister a chance to devise a strategy, she pressed on with her assault. The roots thickened and multiplied, resembling the tendrils of an ancient elder tree as they climbed the walls unopposed.

Bellatrix, caught off guard by the sudden escalation, attempted to halt their advance with a Confringo spell, but the fire only served to blast and cut off very few of the resilient tendrils. Her usually confident demeanor faltered for the first time in the battle as her younger sister continued to press forward, relentless in her attacks.

If only her older sister had had a little less pride, she would’ve begun to retreat. But the arrogance in the Rosier’s blood ran strong in her.

As the Devil’s Snare coiled around her ankles, Bellatrix aimed her wand at the ground, causing a thick sheet of ice to spread across the room, engulfing everything in its solid, gleaming shell.

Right that instant, the balance of power between the two sisters appeared to equalize, both held in place by each other’s spells. The outcome was hanging precariously in the air.

“Your little tricks can only get you so far, Cissy,” Bellatrix sneered; exhaustion beginning to mark the cadence of her voice.

The claim would’ve been true if their fight were for something less meaningful. After all, Narcissa always regarded herself as being the most composed among the three Black sisters. Temperance was a virtue, one that she learned very early in life how to reap its benefits in the long term. However, the intricate bond of sisterhood often intertwined their characters much more profoundly than their lack of apparent physical similarities, blurring the lines between shared traits and individuality.

…All this to say, it had been a bloody terrible week for Narcissa Malfoy.

A soft smile shaped her thin lips. “Do you truly believe so, Bella?” she countered, calm but resolute.

Suddenly, a crack echoed through the room, and the roots snapped toward Bellatrix with startling speed. They converged on her right hand, immobilizing it and preventing her from casting any more magic.

Having emerged victorious, Narcissa melted the ice around her legs and walked up to her older sister, who pretended to be unaffected by the choking embrace from her Devil’s Snare. “The weakest point for a wizard or witch is their right hand, Father used to tell us. Have you forgotten his lessons, Bella?”

Bellatrix sighed out loud, rolling her eyes at her. “I haven’t forgotten,” she groaned as if bored. “So, what happens next, Cissy? Are you planning to torture me? Cast Crucio on poor little me?” Her mouth turned into a pout before smiling again. “You do realize that you’ll have to let me go in the next hour, don’t you?”

The confidence irradiating from her defeated sister reminded her very much of that night when she was sitting before the Wizengamot, declaring her crimes and fearing nothing of the consequences—what a revolting sight her older sister was. Did she even care for something or someone else aside from the Dark Lord?

Only one way to find out…

“Did you—” Her voice cracked. “Did you truly erase me from our family tree?” she asked, still clinging to a sliver of hope that it had been all just a ploy to teach her a lesson.

“Yes!” Bellatrix’s answer was cold and definitive. “You can go see for yourself. The scroll holding our tree is in my room—” The tendrils holding her wrapped around her neck at the blonde’s command, cutting off her words and the oxygen from reaching her lungs.

To demand an explanation about why her sister did it seemed useless at this point. Narcissa knew that nothing she had done to Bellatrix in the past warranted such punishment. No, there wasn’t any form of justification her sister could use, and therefore, they couldn’t reach any form of understanding after this.

As the pressure eased and Bellatrix struggled to regain her breath, she managed to utter a threat through strained breaths. “...And once I retake Black Manor,” she wheezed, her voice filled with venom, “I’ll make sure to erase you from the tapestry as well!”

Narcissa tilted her wand upward, and the Devil’s Snare tightened its grip around her neck and torso, but particularly, she focused on her sister’s right hand. Its tendrils spread across her fingers, stretching them in different directions as if threatening to tear them off from her hand. The vines then began to sprout thin roots, resembling fine needles, that slowly and painfully penetrated Bellatrix’s fingers.

“Before I let you go,” the blonde declared, as a contemptuous smile appeared on her face, “You should experience a fraction of the pain I’m enduring right now, sister.”

In the following seconds the pained growls filled the air intermingled with the crackling of the magical roots as they kept her twisting sister in place. Her Devil’s Snare, her most recent work of art, was now wasted on sibling squabbles. Yet, as the torture took place, she stared at it behind a scholarly eye. At least now, she would know if it served its purpose well.

Fortunately, before her darkest and most dangerous thoughts could translate into further damage, the doors of the studio snapped open, breaking up the disturbing moment. Hermione stepped in, her wand in her hand. An expression of absolute disbelief painted her features as she bore witness to the chaotic scene unfolding before her.

Dangerously responsive as Bellatrix had taught her to be, the girl disarmed Narcissa, undoing the hold over her older sister in the process. The roots shrank back, returning to the blonde. Hermione wasted no time and rushed to Bellatrix’s side, her concern evident as she winced at the sight of the hand drenched in blood.

“How serious is it?” the girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper as if she needed to minimize her presence in the midst of this unbreathable air.

“Nothing serious; she can’t hurt me,” Bellatrix spat venomously, her hateful gaze fixed on Narcissa. “Her magic is as weak as her character!”

“It does look serious. Let me see that,” Granger insisted, her tone firm yet empathetic, and gently reached for Bellatrix’s injured hand. Anticipating any protest from the proud woman, the girl addressed her with unwavering resolve: “Don’t fight me, Bellatrix, you’re losing blood.”

Without any form of protest, Bellatrix allowed the girl to examine her wounds, a flicker of vulnerability crossed her features before she masked it with her usual taut resolve.

Meanwhile, Narcissa had to take a few steps back to discern what exactly she was witnessing before her. Her eyes darted back and forth to both witches as though she was watching an abstract painting and her mind was struggling to find the correct shape.

Without any form of protest, her proud sister let herself be touched by a girl she still addressed as ‘Mudblood’.

Without any form of protest, her hateful sister let herself be in a position of weakness and be taken care of by none other than a mudblood.

Without any form of protest, her contentious sister obediently obeyed the girl’s instructions.

“I don’t think I can treat you if I don’t first see the extent of the damage. Bellatrix, I need you to…”

Never before in her entire life had Narcissa experienced an epiphany as startling as this one. The idea that was unfolding before her was so outlandish that it had never crossed her mind until this moment. Here it was, all it took was a glimpse into her, into them. The guarded secret lay hidden in her sister’s eyes. They were the very same eyes the blonde had seen twenty-five years ago; the eyes that first gazed upon him when he entered their lives.

Neither Hermione nor Bellatrix noticed Narcissa picking up her wand. Perhaps the girl thought the fight had settled their differences, that the sisters had reached a silent truce, and there was no longer a need to be on guard against the blonde’s retaliation. And that might have been true, but an overwhelming wave of disgust surged through her, prompting her to act once more.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, Narcissa commanded the Devil’s Snare to carry out one final task. In less than five seconds, the roots snaked around Hermione’s waist, yanked her out of the room, and sealed the doors behind her by forming a wall of vines.

With another swift flick of her wand, she seized her sister’s wand. As she approached, her older sister scrambled to stand up again but failed— showing that she had more injuries than only her hand and face. Vulnerability lurked behind Bella’s wild eyes, and in contrast, a cold condemnation gleamed in Narcissa’s gaze.

“Oh, Bellatrix,” Narcissa lamented, her voice full of disgust. “Just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower, you go and prove me wrong.” A small pause followed in hopes that she didn’t need to say out loud what was in plain sight for both of them. However, when her words met with silence, her scowl turned more prominent, hissing, “What is wrong with you? She is a child! She’s your nephew’s age!”

Bellatrix’s expression morphed from confusion to defiance, her eyes narrowing as she processed the accusations. “I don’t understand what you’re insinuating,” she retorted.

“Of course you don’t!” Narcissa spat sarcastically. “You f*cking, revolting fiend! I see it so clearly now. You’ve never been right in your head, have you? Lucius was right, everyone was right about you! You’re not sane! And I don’t recognize you; I don’t know who you are anymore— I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re a stranger to me, and it seems that you want me to be a stranger to you as well. So be it! If you don’t want me in your life, then I don’t want you in mine. You’ll leave my home at the earliest convenience.”

For once, her older sister’s hardened façade seemed to crack, her lips trembled ever so slightly. “Why are you acting as if you’re the f*cking victim here, Narcissa?” Bellatrix hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re the one who keeps distancing from me; you are the one who lied and decided to put me in danger! And who the f*ck do you think has been looking after you around here? But you only call me in your time of need! Not once, Cissy, did you visit me or wrote me a f*cking letter when I was at Azkaban! Why is it that your sisterly love only appears when you want something from me and f*cking vanishes when you don’t!”

The resentment that Narcissa had been harboring for a long time against Bellatrix, simmering like a cauldron sitting on a medium flame, finally spilled over.

“It’s because I hate you!” she yelled. “…At least, a large part of you. I hate you for bringing him into your life; I hate you for bringing him into mine when you decided to drag my husband into this, and by consequence my son too!—My son, Bellatrix! He’s hurt my son!— I hate that when he disappeared, you refused to renounce your crimes. You had a chance to reduce your sentence, yet you didn’t even try! I hate you for robbing us of time together. I hate you because I can’t connect with you anymore. And I hate you because I’m realizing that perhaps I did never connect with you.” She wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks, her vocal cords shaking with sorrow and fury. “Believe me, Bellatrix, that during the time we’ve been living together, I’ve tried to forgive you; but after this? I won’t! I can’t.” Taking a shuddering breath, she continued. “And I distance myself from you because you’re a very, very unpleasant woman, Bellatrix. It’s not only me who believes it. Just look around you! Nobody respects you, or appreciates you; they fear you, just like I do. And what a miserable life that has to be. What pathetic little life awaits you, not knowing friendship or any form of love— you aren’t worthy of any of those things. But it’s not like it matters to you, apparently. You’re a selfish, sad*stic, egotistical witch.” Her gaze softened in the next moments, and quietly, she added: “Maybe, more than I could hate you. I think pity you.”

The heavy pounding on the door echoed through the room as though an explosion had erupted just beyond the roots keeping it in place. Narcissa cast a long glance towards the entry. When she returned her attention back to Bellatrix, she asked, “Poor Hermione, haven’t you corrupted her enough? Why must you pollute everything you touch?” Not waiting for an answer, a rueful smile tugged at the corners of the blonde’s lips as she reminisced about a specific moment from their past. “Isn’t life full of bloody ironies, Bella?... Suddenly things make much more sense now.”

Bellatrix remained silent, her posture rigid and unmoving, her features betraying little emotion as she absorbed every accusation hurled at her.

“Do you remember Adeline?” Her voice wavered with hurt and unresolved pain. “For years, I tried to convince myself that you were looking out for me, that you were concerned about what Mother and Father would say or do if they found out about us. But now I see you did everything out of envy. You were jealous of me and her. That’s why you kept pushing me to end my relationship with her. And when that didn’t work, you sent Severus to talk to me, then to Adeline. You, Bellatrix, couldn’t bear the thought of me having something you believed you couldn’t have because you were too much of a bloody coward to pursue it yourself!” A contemptuous smile twisted Narcissa’s lips as she continued, her words sharp with bitter truth. “And now, history repeats itself, but with you as the main subject. The Dark Lord doesn’t want you, not in the way you’ve been longing for all these years. What makes you think someone like her could ever feel anything for the likes of you after everything you have done—”

“—Keep talking Narcissa and I’ll f*cking cut your throat open in your sleep! That’s a promise.” Bellatrix’s threat speared through the air, filled with sudden rage and menace, accompanied by the thunderous spells from the House’s warden outside the room.

“Touchy, are we?” Undeterred, her smile turned icy, a glint of cold resolve in her blue eyes. “I have nothing else to say to you,” she declared, her words carrying a permanent disdain as she turned away, leaving Bellatrix sitting on the melting floor.

The Devil’s Snare shrank back again and as Narcissa pushed the doors open, she was met with the intense gaze of Hermione, her amber eyes ablaze in a mixture of fury and concern. “Where is she?” she demanded, displaying a set of two prominent canines. This was what Narcissa had been expecting to see one day. It seemed that the secondary effects of Hermione’s lycanthropy became evident only when her emotions were stronger.

“Forgive me, Hermione. I hope I didn’t hurt you when I put you aside,” Narcissa pleaded, undoing the root’s grip on the girl. “Believe me when I say that I don’t have any quarrel with you.” With a gesture of contrition, she stepped aside, allowing the little wolf to reenter. “I’m ashamed that you have to see us like this, Hermione. This isn’t right.”

The girl’s expression mellowed slightly, her eyes reflecting conflict. She appeared unsure of what to say in return, so she merely nodded, acknowledging the apology.

As the blonde surveyed the wreckage in her studio, the devastation was evident. Everything lay in ruins, transformed into splinters, stones, or ashes, with no semblance of its former state. Her focus returned to Hermione, who was kneeling before Bellatrix.

Realizing the irreparable damage caused by their conflict, Narcissa accepted the new grim reality. They would never move on from this, and from now on, they would avoid each other, never engaging in conversation again. And once the Ministry changed leadership, Bellatrix would no longer be welcome into any of her homes.

People changed through time, but not Bellatrix; her sister still enjoyed hunting fairies.

“I owe you an apology, Hermione,” Narcissa said as she reclaimed Granger’s attention away from Bellatrix. “I want to ask for your forgiveness, once again. I should’ve warned you about my sister. I should’ve been more explicit about her sad*stic and manipulative nature and urged you to stay away from her. Now because of my silence, my indifference, my bloody ignorance, you find yourself with responsibilities you shouldn’t have. And under the command of someone as heartless and despicable as her. I’m truly sorry. I know this isn’t of much worth to you, but know that I’m deeply regretful.” Not giving a chance for the girl to respond or her sister’s trenchant glare to turn into words, Narcissa requested, “But please, do me one last favor and take my sister out of my sight. I’ve had enough of her.” She handed Hermione Bellatrix’s wand. “And you’d be wise to stay away from her as much as you can… if you can.”

It was peculiar, wasn’t it?

How sometimes it was the small things we assumed to be insignificant could sometimes wield immense power.

Her mind had a hard time reeling from the violence and hatred between the sisters.

Gwindell apparated them into Hermione’s room, where the atmosphere shifted from one of distilled antagonism to one of urgency and concern. The young woman sprang into action, issuing instructions to Gwindell to open her potions chest while directing Bellatrix to take a seat.

“I can’t feel my hand,” the dark witch muttered, a pained expression crossing her features as she bent to sit.

“That’s because I numbed it,” Hermione explained, her focus divided between assessing the situation and gathering the necessary supplies from her potions chest.

The most important thing was to stop the bleeding, or perhaps it was better to start with a blood-replenishing vial. The young witch’s mind raced through the available options, considering the risk of infection and the limited resources at her disposal. She knew that Bellatrix would vehemently refuse the bandage charm as she hated anything restricting her hands or spells that had been inspired by Muggles. ‘First, I must find the vials…’

“No, what I’m trying to say is that…” Bellatrix attempted to interject, but Hermione’s attention remained fixed on the chest.

“Here, this is for blood loss,” the young Death Eater announced, setting aside the vials. ‘Now, how do I stop the bleeding? A mixture of fanged geranium, foxglove, and fluxweed might work, but—’

“…It was already numbed before you cast the charm,” the woman clarified, completing her thought.

Hermione’s ears barely registered what her mentor had said. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as her brain decoded the message, and then, she slowly turned to Bellatrix with a dumbfounded look. Their eyes locked in a moment of silent understanding and realization.

Bellatrix dropped her head back on the seat, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. “I have a few potions in my room; send your elf to get them,” she instructed with a calmness that belied the tension in the room. “They’re in the desk’s lower drawer, bring them all.”

Reservations etched on her features, Hermione pressed further, her concern evident. “Do you have any protective spells he needs to deactivate befo—?”

The woman rushed to cut her off, “—He’s going to be fine!”

With a nod of affirmation, Hermione signaled for Gwindell to act swiftly.

“I have nothing made to stop the bleeding…” she summoned a pair of clean towels from the bathroom. “At least let me wash your hand while we wait.”

If there was one aspect of her magical education Hermione felt she had neglected, it was healing. She, more than anyone here, relied on Narcissa to attend to her injuries. Despite this, Bellatrix remained uncharacteristically quiet, allowing herself to be tended to without uttering scathing remarks about the witch’s nervous motions and evident inexperience.

“You won’t feel it, but the water is close to freezing,” Hermione explained, having conjured up a water orb that encased the injured hand. “I’m hoping that this will contract your veins and slow the bleeding.” Her attention drifted towards her mentor’s broken lower lip and the shallow cut on her left cheek. “I’ll check that out in a moment.”

Bellatrix’s earlier fierce demeanor had softened; a sense of contemplation lingered in her dark eyes as she stared at her hand and the water washing the blood away. Still, the tension was present in the air, hinting at the gravity of whatever had transpired between the sisters. The inflicted wounds and the utter destruction of the studio showed that they bore a deeper conflict that went far beyond Bellatrix being angry with Narcissa merely because the latter decided to keep Hermione’s lycanthropy a secret.

‘Though I’m pretty sure I know who started it.’ Bellatrix’s character was fiery, irritating, provocative, and belligerent; her mentor wasn’t the innocent party in this scenario. She had done and said something to Narcissa that set her off. ‘The real question,’ Hermione thought, ‘is what exactly happened to cause such a rift. And what prompted Narcissa to apologize to me? Responsibilities I shouldn’t have, she said.’

Narcissa’s reddened eyes suggested an emotional blow, which then implied that Bellatrix had done something unforgivable to her. ‘…Like what? Threaten to kill Draco?’ For all the terrible things her mentor was capable of doing, killing her nephew wasn’t one of them. Bellatrix cared for her sister and nephew. But, Lucius on the other hand… ‘…Hmm, no. I don’t think she would do that either.’

If Hermione didn’t have a vested interest in working with Narcissa, or the fact that now she was the so-called warden of House Black, the same House to which Narcissa belonged as well, she would’ve remained indifferent. Not to mention, to pry into their family affairs would have been a glaring indiscretion.

“Would you like to talk about what happened back there?” the witch inquired, careful to keep her tone neutral and non-accusatory. “Mrs. Malfoy seemed completely out of character; it was almost as if I was looking at—”

“—At me?” Bellatrix interjected, attempting to sneer but faltering, her discomfort evident in the strained movement of her lips.

The young Death Eater paused, connecting her gaze with the dark witch’s. She was going to say a wraith, but after the interruption, Hermione wanted to agree with her. It was true; Narcissa did indeed bear a striking resemblance to Bellatrix when she was consumed by fury. However, instead of voicing her thoughts, she remained silent, waiting for the woman to continue.

“Either way, it’s none of your f*cking business, mudblood.” The response cut through the room with a blunted edge of hostility.

It was Hermione’s business, unfortunately.

The witch offered her a mild reproachful look. “You made it my business the second you made me Warden, remember? Besides, I thought we agreed that you’d be more open.”

“I said I’d think about it,” Bellatrix retorted, her annoyance increasing. “And if I say it’s none of your business, it’s because it’s none of your f*cking business!”

An involuntary, dry chuckle escaped the young witch as she shook her head, finding Bellatrix’s predictable defensiveness somewhat amusing. “I understand, Master,” she murmured with a hint of sarcasm and proceeded to ignore the woman’s frown. She focused on the task at hand, ensuring that the woman’s hand was cleaned thoroughly. The water orb glowed softly, its gentle hum filling the room, providing an almost soothing ambiance amidst the tension.

After a few minutes of stretched silence, the woman’s anger seemed to wane, replaced by a sense of resignation. She sighed heavily, the stiffness in her posture easing as she spoke. “It’s a family matter,” she added with a dismissive gesture, her gaze drifting off into a distant spot. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hermione guided the now crimson water into the bathroom sink, then wrapped the towels around her mentor’s hand, her movements precise and careful. “Very well, then just listen to me,” she began, taking on a more urgent note. “I don’t know what this is, I don’t know what she did to you— I think your nerves are ruptured, but if that were true, your fingers would be all rigid or flaccid, which is not what I see. You lack sensation, yet you can move your fingers slightly. I’m worried too that a small piece of that Devil’s Snare might have broken off inside and now it’s traveling in your blood vessels and towards your heart or brain. The only healer I know hates your guts for some reason right now. And I don’t think Severus is doing house calls. So, do you know anyone who can help you?”

Bellatrix didn’t respond immediately; her expression was a mix of contemplation and uncertainty. She stared forward, as though the answer were plain for Hermione to see. And indeed, the young Death Eater could see it: Bellatrix didn’t have anyone to care for her, at least, not in this moment of need.

Feeling a wave of empathy, the witch sighed out loud before asking, “Would your vials be enough? Are there any other options or remedies you have that could alleviate the situation?”

Her thoughtful expression softened, and a hint of indifference overtook her eyes. “I don’t know, perhaps they’ll be, we need to wait and see,” the dark witch admitted.

It was now Hermione whose irritation had appeared over the surface, seeing that the woman didn’t seem worried for her life. “Well, then I suppose there’s nothing left but to try my best,” she remarked, a determined edge creeping into her tone. Moving to gather the potions, the brunette couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that Bellatrix was withholding information or simply didn’t fear for her life. “Gwindell should be coming any time now.”

As if on cue, her elf appeared with the potions. Bellatrix reached for them and uncorked them with her teeth. She emptied the flask on her hand as if she was meant to wash with it, then took another vial and drank from it, then emptied the rest on her hand again.

Mint and something spicy began to reach Hermione’s nostrils. “That smell…” her voice trailed off as she recognized its familiarity. It had been a while since she had experienced it. “…that’s how the room smelled that night when you cut your hand with glass. What is it?”

“Essence of Dittany,” Bellatrix replied. “A modified version from the book’s usual recipe. It works faster and can be ingested as well,” she added, observing the wounds on her hand healing fast, yet it seemed she still couldn’t move her fingers.

Meanwhile, the brunette was wondering why Lestrange had been carrying one vial of Essence of Dittany in her hand that night.

“…It had been for me,” she muttered; the revelation struck her with pleasant emotions. “Nagini made you so angry that the vial broke in your hand; you then didn’t mention anything after it happened.”

Bellatrix raised her eyes from her hand, staring at the brunette from behind her eyelashes. “I didn’t see any reason to, you seemed quite fine with Narcissa’s treatment.” Her voice was charged with defensiveness, a barrier she often erected to shield something else.

In the following instant, a strong impulse came to Hermione; she wanted to reach for Bellatrix, cup her head, force her to look her in the eye, and ask: ‘Why can’t you be more honest?’ The desire to break through the walls of secrecy and denial was pulsing in her heart… but she already knew the futility of such an attempt. Her good intentions would only raise a stone wall between them. It was better to leave it as it was. Instead, she kept watching as the wounds on Bellatrix’s body disappeared, leaving just a bit of scar tissue.

“Do you have any more pain?” the young witch asked.

“It still hurts to breathe,” the woman admitted.

Every breath she took seemed to elicit a wince, further confirming her mentor’s statement. “It seems that Essence of Dittany heals muscle, not bone,” Hermione muttered thoughtfully, her brow furrowing. “You might have a broken rib. Lucky for you, one thing I know how to do well when it comes to healing is mending fractured bones. Here,” she said as she reached for one of her potions, “drink this—it’s for replenishing your blood—while I search for the fracture.”

Contrary to Hermione’s initial fears, the interaction with her imprint had been endurable so far. The aromas surrounding the dark witch were barely there; the yearning was nowhere near to cloud her mind and pain her. Instead, there was only a lingering sense of concern and desire to care for the woman. Rather than feeling hollow or consumed by desire, the brunette felt remarkably normal.

However, it all became a small torture as soon as she sat next to Bellatrix.

“Separate your arms slightly.” Their proximity sent her heartbeat to double pace as her hands began to feel the woman’s waist. “Let me know whenever you feel any discomfort.”

Her fingers pressed against the taut muscles beneath the soft fabric of Bellatrix’s laced dress. Something was amiss, the witch noticed in that instant. The strong warmth often emanating from Lestrange was absent, and so were the scents that always accompanied her imprint. Rather, an unusual sweet fragrance was surrounding her; it was mellow.

‘Apricot…?’ she recognized.

The irony struck her, what a juvenile scent contrasting the harsh, ruthless nature of its wearer, a juxtaposition that bordered on comical.

Her prodding was gentle, yet clinical. She trod with care, aware of the intimate nature of her examination, especially given the area she was now assessing—as soft as a pillow. Hermione prayed that her face wouldn’t betray the flustering feelings surging within her.

But it was the display of trust in this current moment that stirred a new emotion in her. Unlike past instances, the witch was now aware of Bellatrix’s state of mind, of her capricious responsiveness. And it made her wonder if she, too, could one day relent and accept what hand fate had given her.

She halted her actions when Bellatrix hissed in pain, prompting the brunette to retract her touch with utmost care. “Ossum Emendo,” the young witch incantated as she positioned her wand under the dark witch’s armpit. “Inhale again, and tell me if it hurts.”

‘How would it look like? If we were…’ Her thoughts drifted momentarily, contemplating a different reality.

“It feels better,” the woman acknowledged, taking a deep breath to test the improvement. “Healing bone in one try and that fast isn’t easy; you weren’t lying.”

By now, the young witch was convinced that Bellatrix was mentally challenged when it came to giving compliments to someone. “Don’t you know, Lestrange?” she quipped, arching an eyebrow. “I never lie.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across her rosy lips, a rare display of sincerity. “You could’ve fooled me, given that you suddenly can’t meet my eyes,” the dark witch teased, daring her.

Rising to the challenge, Hermione raised her eyes and met an arrogant look that underscored a keen perceptiveness. Almost nothing escaped Lestrange’s scrutiny. “How’s your hand?” she asked, seizing the opportunity to create some physical distance as she stood up from the sofa.

Resignation settled on her face as the dark witch replied, “I’m guessing it’ll take time until I can move it again since she ruptured the nerves, just as you said.”

“That’s understandable,” the witch said, her voice reflective as she returned her potions and ingredients to their respective places. Engaging herself in the task, she decided to share a relevant memory with the woman. “When I was in my second year, an accident happened during broom flying classes. A student broke his arm, and a professor, a completely inept one but we didn’t know that yet, decided to cast the bone-mending spell. But instead, he removed the bone from the student’s arm. His recovery took nearly a month, as it turns out that if you damage the bone, it is likely that you damage the nerves. It wasn’t until eight days later that he had full mobility, and another four days for sensation to return.” She paused, realizing the story didn’t sound very encouraging. “But that was an arm, I’m sure your hand will heal in less time than—”

As the brunette turned back to Bellatrix, she noticed the sudden change in demeanor, a hint of suspicion in Bellatrix's dark eyes now fixed on her. “What?” she questioned. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Her curiosity mingled with a touch of apprehension, unsure of what might have prompted such scrutiny from her mentor.

“Why were you there?” The dark witch’s voice held a note of accusation, the thought just occurring to her. “I didn’t summon you. How did you know? I’m sure our little spat made some noise. But for you to hear it, it means you were close. What were you doing before arriving at Narcissa’s quarters?”

Hermione turned to busy herself, then replied evenly, “I was playing Leyre Cards in the drawing room with Yaxley, Dolohov, your husband, and your brother-in-law—”

“—You heard us from the drawing room? What excellent hearing you have,” Bellatrix commented. “Does it come with the infection?”

“After we finished, I went to see Narcissa,” she admitted, trying to decipher what the woman wanted to hear. “I happened to overhear the commotion and decided to investigate the cause.”

The dark witch crossed her arms, her expression incredulous. “Why were you going to see her?”

“To— I don’t know,” Hermione shrugged again, trying to downplay the significance of her actions. “To check on her well-being after what I did to Draco, I suppose.”

“Check on her well-being?” she asked, reproachful. “Were you planning to apologize for fulfilling your duties?”

“I wanted to see how she was doing; talk about her present problem with the destroyed cabinet too,” Hermione stated, refusing to delve into further details. “I sometimes enjoy your sister’s company, Lestrange, is that a bad thing now?”

Bellatrix paused, her eyes flickering as if weighing her next words. “And before?” she pressed on. “Before you played cards, where were you?” Her gaze bore into the young Death Eater’s, searching for any hint of deception or evasion.

There was an unspoken challenge in the question. Hermione wasn’t new to her mentor's probing. “I was in the courtyard with Nagini,” she replied without hesitation, knowing that the dark witch was already aware of her whereabouts.

“And?” Lestrange prodded further, dissatisfied with the lack of detail.

“We engaged in idle conversation; there isn’t much to say. Oh, well, here’s a piece of news you might find interesting: Yaxley gifted Nagini a Pygmy Puffskein,” the young Death Eater offered, a faint smile playing on her lips. “The little thing is insanely adorable.”

“Right, I’m sure she’s going to eat it later,” she scoffed, “Yaxley just wasted his money on an expensive snack. A dead rat would have sufficed as it wouldn’t earn him any favor with her either way.”

Leave it to Lestrange to think the worst of Nagini. “Perhaps it’ll charm her into sparing it.”

“I don’t think so. What else?” she demanded, her tone brooking no evasion.

Realizing what Bellatrix was after, Hermione shook her head with a look of resolution. “You said you wanted my loyalty; you have it. That doesn’t mean I’m your master spy now. I have a private life, and I’d prefer it remains as it is—private.” Her words were firm, reminding the woman that boundaries needed to be respected.

“I seem to recall mentioning that whatever you do concerns me from now on,” Bellatrix retorted sharply.

“Well, forgive me for not seeking your insights before I choose what to eat in the mornings, and how much time I should spend grooming myself after I wake up.” she countered with a touch of sarcasm. “I don’t understand why you’re so interested in the mundane details of my day-to-day life. Maybe you’d like to discuss which are Nagini’s favorite pastimes too?” The words were pointed, emphasizing the absurdity of Lestrange’s scrutiny. “Or is it that you’d like to know what she and I do behind closed doors? Is that the reason you keep probing me about Nagini?”

The last remarks seemed to hit a nerve, as Bellatrix’s expression darkened visibly. “Oh, spare me from those grotesque details. No one wants to hear about your sickening preferences,” she snapped back. “My concern lies in matters that affect our plans and if my name is mentioned, not in your vapid personal affairs.”

“Then it remains as I stated earlier: my loyalty is already yours,” Hermione reiterated, firmness marked her features while maintaining her stance. “And if Nagini ever decides to share her plans about killing you, worry not, I’ll let you know.”

Her mentor reclined slightly, a subtle nod indicating a temporary ceasefire. They settled into an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes; the young Death Eater busied herself with tidying the scattered ingredients while Lestrange brooded quietly.

However, the tranquility was short-lived as the dark witch soon unveiled the plans for today’s afternoon.

“We’re setting off for the werewolves’ camp in the west once you’re ready,” she declared with an air of finality. “We’ll spend the night there, possibly a few days more. Pack whatever essentials you deem necessary for yourself.”

Hermione raised her gaze to meet the woman’s, a surge of apprehension in her words as she voiced her concern, “The werewolves’— no, this isn’t wise, Lestrange. My transformation is tomorrow—”

“—I am aware of that, and it makes no difference as it’s clear you look unaffected by the approaching full moon. We’re going.”

Undeterred, the young woman pressed on, “And what about you? Do you think it’s wise to depart? We still don’t know if you’re fully recovered—”

“—I am well enough! We are leaving; gather your belongings,” Bellatrix commanded, her tone leaving no room for further debate.

This sudden shift in demeanor hit the brunette on the face. This wasn’t her mentor; it was the ex-lieutenant issuing a direct order

“I’ll go wash the towels,” she announced and proceeded to walk purposefully toward the bathroom, signaling her acceptance of the command.

Silent frustration boiled within her as she made her way to the adjacent room, the task of washing bloodied towels providing a momentary distraction. Each interaction with Bellatrix meant navigating a roller-coaster of emotions that left the brunette unsettled and conflicted.

‘Really, it’s like she made the decision up on the spot!’

But then, she realized that maybe there was a real purpose in the idea. By leaving the manor, Bellatrix was providing a cooling-off period between her and Narcissa; a way to diffuse the tension that had built up between them. ‘And if I go with her…’ Then she wouldn’t have to worry about the imprint torturing her during these days.

‘If we were…How would it look like?’

The question hovered in her thoughts, unanswered and laden with possibilities. For now, the reality was a mosaic of conflicts and disagreements, punctuated by occasional moments with silver linings.

Upon her return to the bedroom, Hermione was met with an unexpected scene: Bellatrix and Gwindell stood locked in a tense stare-down; a particular display of prominent defiance and hostility replaced her elf’s usual friendly demeanor.

“What’s happening?” the young witch inquired, frowning at them.

Her mentor shifted uncomfortably, casting one last disdainful sneer at Gwindell. “It’s nothing,” she dismissed. “Your elf is simply too disturbing to look at. I’ll procure you with two House Elves if you dispose of him this instant.”

Her protective instinct for Gwindell surged, and she moved closer to her elf, patting his head. “Don’t listen to her, Gwindell. You’re a fantastic House Elf.”

“A fantastically hideous House Elf,” Bellatrix quipped, her words carrying every bit of malice as she shot Gwindell a cruel smirk. “Three House Elves tomorrow, trained by Havelock Gorsemoor himself, and that’s my final offer.”

Growing irked by the mean attitude, Hermione turned to face Bellatrix squarely. “Gwindell and I won’t be your punching bags, Lestrange.”

Her pale expression shifted, annoyance and confusion clouding her features. “I don’t understand what that means,” Lestrange exclaimed. “Nor do I care for such language, especially since it’s clear that it’s borrowed from filthy muggles.” Then, her demeanor shifted to a more serious note. “You’d do well to watch your tongue. It’s unbecoming for a pureblood witch to use such vocabulary.”

Hermione, adept at navigating the woman’s unpredictable temperament, chose not to engage in a futile argument. ‘Why do you keep calling me Mudblood, then?’ she wondered, though the answer seemed inconsequential at the moment for this wasn’t a battle she wished to carry forward. Rather, she focused on gathering what she needed for their impromptu camping trip, not without noting that the woman was inspecting her possessions as if she held any authority to do so.

“Have you taken your Wolfsbane today?” Bellatrix asked as she flicked through the pages of the books on Hermione’s desk.

“Not yet, I drink one every twenty-four hours. My next dose is at six o’clock,” the brunette replied and to assuage her mentor’s reservations she added: “I’ve never missed a dose. I’m very consistent with it. So, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

The words sounded confident as if Bellatrix truly meant it. Hermione had to stop her actions and take a good look at her mentor, to see her expression and find out if the solemn voice matched with her features.

They matched; the young Death Eater felt comforted by the knowledge that the woman implicitly trusted her with this.

After the brief pause, the dark witch shifted the conversation, her gaze drifting to the floral arrangement on the window’s sill. “I see you have recovered the flowers,” she remarked.

“Gwindell brought new ones after you destroyed my room,” she explained. “He has an incredible memory. I couldn’t have ever replicated the original arrangement.”

“The previous ones,” Lestrange began, curious, “did you steal them from Narcissa’s greenhouse?”

“No, I didn’t steal them. They were a birthday gift,” she clarified, struggling to fit a few tomes into her satchel. “Nagini claimed they were hers, but I’m starting to doubt that now.”

Despite her friend’s lies and subtle manipulations, a pang of longing for Nagini tugged at her heart. ‘I hope she isn’t angry with me.’

“That might be because these flowers aren’t hers,” the dark witch remarked with a sly grin.

The statement caused Hermione to turn from her books and look at Bellatrix, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she managed to speak again. “How do you know that? You just asked me if I had stolen them,” she asked, her gaze fixed on her mentor’s enigmatic and knowing expression. Then, the next obvious person struck her. “Was it Narcissa?”

Lestrange chuckled, a sneer playing at her lips. “Say what you want about her, but her flower arrangements are not as insipid as this one.”

‘If it wasn’t Narcissa, and it wasn’t Nagini, then who?... Wait, does this suggest that—?’ Her mind raced with one possibility. No way, it couldn’t be. Bellatrix hated her guts at that time. Still, what if it was her? Her eyes narrowed in utter disbelief. “Was it you?”

“Ugh no,” the dark witch replied, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. “Wrong again.”

“Then who?” Exasperation welled up in her as she was unable to fathom who could have orchestrated such a gesture.

And just for one second, Bellatrix appeared as if she was about to tell her, to put the brunette out of her misery, but then, she raised her chin, and stared at her like the ever-snotty womanchild she was and said, “I’m not telling you.”

Her eyebrows puckered and her brown eyes hardened like river stones. “Fine! Don’t tell me!” Hermione turned to her satchel, aggressively pressing down a few changes of clothes into the narrow gap of her bag. “I couldn’t care less at this point!”

True to her word, Bellatrix kept the secret for years. It wasn’t until a decade later, on a dreary day filled with rain and melancholy, that her imprint finally chose to share the story with her.

The Floo exit was underground, concealed within the depths of an old cellar. Bellatrix climbed the creaking wooden stairs and pushed open a pair of heavy iron doors. Sunlight filtered through the tall, grimy windows of what appeared to be an abandoned kitchen, with pans hanging from hooks coated in soot and dust, and an iron oven rusted beyond recognition. The rest of the room was littered with furniture that vaguely resembled chairs and tables, their surfaces worn and splintered.

“Through here,” Bellatrix instructed, leading the way into a dim, narrow passageway. As they emerged on the other side, Hermione’s eyes widened in astonishment at the scene unfolding before her. They found themselves in the courtyard of a crumbling castle, perched atop a hill that overlooked a vast expanse of lush green pastures on one side and a shimmering lake on the other.

The castle was a haunting spectacle, its once tall walls now weathered and crumbling, ivy creeping up its ancient stones as if nature were reclaiming its rightful place. Broken windows stared back at them like hollow eyes, and the silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant calls of birds and the wind blowing through the grass.

“What is this place?” the witch asked, her gaze sweeping over the tranquil surroundings. It was eerily beautiful and calm; the scenery reminded her of the vacation home her parents used to own in Ireland. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. A gentle, chilly breeze tousled Hermione’s long hair, prompting her to adjust her red scarf to cover her nose from the bite of the cold.

“This is Venari Anima Castle—the remnants of the home of the last member of Morgana’s bloodline. Alexander Teague was his name. Today these ruins belong to the Blacks—to me, just not on paper... yet,” Bellatrix explained. “After we control the Ministry, I might try time to rebuild it; turn it into a village.”

“A wizard village, like Hogsmeade? There aren’t many of them in the country,” Hermione muttered, envisioning the village and the possibilities of a new magical community where wizards could thrive without the pressing necessity to hide from Muggles. “It sounds like a wonderful idea. I’m sure it’ll prosper in no time.”

“Maybe even more than that,” the dark witch continued, removing the ivy from the stones. “This can be a place that one day could rival Diagon Alley.” Her eyes sparkled with ambition as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. It was as though Bellatrix could already see it too—the bustling streets, the enchanted shops and vendors on the sidewalks; the main center of commerce for all of wizard-kind. Not an alley, a district, or a village, but an entire town.

It seemed quite fitting, Hermione agreed, considering the rich history that the castle held within its walls.

“Our destination lies beyond, within the forest between those two hills,” the dark witch announced, her finger pointing at the hills.

Her brow furrowed; the young witch followed the gesture in search of the forest but saw no immediate indication of it. “What forest?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“You’ll see it soon enough. We’ll walk from here to avoid leaving any trace of magic behind,” she explained, setting a brisk pace.

As they continued their journey on foot, each stride brought Hermione closer to a sense of marvel and delight in the tranquil beauty of the landscape. The sky above stretched out in a radiant deep blue expanse, unmarred by clouds and promising a day of clear weather. It contrasted beautifully with the lush green hues of the tall grass that swayed gently in the breeze. It was a welcome change from the freezing temperatures of the far north, a sign that spring could come a few weeks earlier this year.

Leaving Malfoy Manor behind felt like breathing pure air. The weight of the recent events seemed to lift from Hermione, replaced by a sense of adventure and curiosity about their destination. There was something liberating about being out in the open, away from the confines of walls and obligations. A glance at her mentor showed that the woman shared her feelings; Bellatrix looked a little less moody, and her posture was more relaxed as if the serenity of the countryside was seeping into her usually tense demeanor.

However, aside from the chilly and gentle wind and the warm sunlight, something else was touching her skin. Hermione wasn’t sure how to describe it. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant; it felt like the tall grass around them was releasing some sort of spores, causing subtle itchiness on her body, but not bothersome enough to make her want to scratch it.

Noting they were now treading a worn path, the witch asked, “Bellatrix, who walks this road?” She reached for her hood to cover her head.

“Death Eaters, among some reliable recruits who we can trust with the Floo entrance,” the woman replied, her eyes scanning their surroundings. “And aside from us, I suppose herbologists, merchants, craftsmen—all dwarves. Volney isn’t so far from here; a few dwarves aren’t so opposed to selling their crafts to filthy Muggles.”

Volney. The largest Dwarf village in the country. “Can we go?” Hermione asked tentatively, her mind already racing with all the pictures she had seen in her books, and all the things she would do there. “Not now, but… later? Tomorrow perhaps, just a little. An hour, or something. I just want to see it, experience it for myself.”

“Unlike Dyrwood, Volney maintains more contact with the Ministry, girl,” the woman explained.

Meaning, no, they couldn’t go as they would stand out like two erumpents among hogs. Hermione nodded in understanding, if not with a hint of disappointment.

Then, Bellatrix offered a glimmer of hope, “I’m sure you can wait until Thicknesse becomes Minister. After that, you can peruse any village you want for as long as you want.”

A smile touched the witch’s lips at the thought. “I’d love that.” Everyone knew that after the chaos settled following the demise of Scrimgeour, Pius Thicknesse’s ascent to power was all but assured. This would open doors for her again. No more hiding in the shadows; she would walk the streets of Diagon Alley with her head held high.

Her attention soon moved from the fantasies of her future to the woman’s injured hand. It didn’t look good, but it hadn’t worsened either. In fact, she noticed a hint of color returning to it, a sign of improvement that reassured her amidst the uncertainties. 'I’m impressed that she’s willing to leave the manor given that she is most vulnerable right now.' Either her mentor was taking unnecessary risks as was her wont, or she knew no Aurors were meant to patrol the area. ‘Either way, she must recover soon. We have thirteen days left before the party, and a few tasks still are left unfinished.’

Bellatrix’s voice cut through her contemplations as she warned, “There are Kelpies in the lake. They’ll try to pull you in and drown you if you get too close.” A dark glint in her eyes appeared before she added, “And I’ve read in recent reports that a group of nymphs likes to frolic beyond those hills. I’m sharing this with you should you prefer to return to your old, nasty habits, you know where to find them now.” Her chuckle was low and amused. “Though I must warn you, they’re much duller than the Longanas.”

While the mention of the Longana brought her an unpleasant feeling, the young Death Eater took the barb gracefully. “Thank you for telling me,” she nodded, adopting an interested cadence. “I might pay them a visit later, see if they’re as beautiful as the books claim they are.”

“And what are you going to do after you meet them, hmm?” Bellatrix retorted with a sudden mean bite as though she hadn’t expected a response. “Bore them to death with your encyclopedia of useless knowledge? Or just go at it, play fetch, and hump their legs?”

Hermione was on the verge of crafting a more pointed response, but the woman abruptly stopped. Turning to her with a serious shift in tone and expression, Lestrange asked, “Do you feel it, little wolf?”

Feel it…

The tingling sensation at the tips of their fingers, the crispness of the air with a subtle warmth at each breath’s end. Hermione closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to immerse in the moment; it was all over her skin, discharging on her like jellyfish particles.

“Feel it? I can almost taste it,” the witch replied.

A pleased smile appeared on the dark witch’s lips. “A marvelous feeling, I’d presume.”

Yes, yes it was.

Kelpies, nymphs, jobbernolls—it wasn’t a coincidence that several magical beasts were gathered in one territory. As they resumed their steps, deviating from the path, Hermione searched through the blades of grass, confident that other magical entities were prowling nearby. It didn’t take long before she spotted a group of brown jarveys scurrying through.

“Here we are,” Bellatrix announced as they stood between the two hills, with no forest in sight yet, only a solitary tree standing forlornly.

'A door…' Hermione deduced.

Her mentor’s demeanor turned serious and focused. “Put on your mask, girl,” she instructed, pulling out a pair of gloves to wear.

The young Death Eater followed the command, allowing the mask to secure itself over her face, and observed as Lestrange walked forward into the tree’s trunk without hesitation.

The transition was seamless, yet the change in the scenery was nothing short of drastic. “Now, this is a proper forest,” Hermione murmured in appreciation as she took in the sight. Tall pine trees towered above them, mist weaving its way among the branches, the distant sound of running water adding to the ambiance. The stones were draped in vibrant green moss, and the sunlight struggled to filter through the dense canopy. The terrain was uneven, requiring careful steps to avoid tripping or slipping.

If a moment ago Hermione could taste it. Here, she could almost touch it. “Bellatrix, what is this place?”

“The crossing. It’s the only path to the camp on the west,” she answered matter-of-factly, moving forward.

“That’s not what I meant. What I’m asking is why is magic so alive here?” She spoke with the delight of a cat caressed by its master’s hand, reveling in the sensations that tingled through her.

“It happens at the end of the Sunstone year; it’s the constellations granting us a few days of heightened power every seven years—”

“—yes,” the witch interrupted her. “I learned about it in astronomy class, but I thought it was just a legend. Another invented story to explain an undocumented phenomenon.”

“Well, it isn’t just a story as you can see.” The dark witch took a deep breath, clearly enjoying the feeling as well. “Though, I sense this time has been particularly unique. And before you ask, no, I don’t know why that is. Usually, it’s so inconspicuous that few wizards can feel it, while the majority don’t get to feel it once in their lifetimes.” As Bellatrix turned to face Hermione, a brief smile graced her lips, and a glint of satisfaction shimmered in her dark eyes. “But I knew you could. I knew you would feel it as much as I do.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, feeling a warm energy spreading through her chest.

Their walk led them across a wooden bridge that spanned a river flowing beneath, nestled between two rugged cliffs. As they ventured further along the winding path, Hermione noticed a subtle shift in the natural soundscape around them. The melodious chirping of birds had faded into silence, leaving only the occasional rustle of branches and the soft crunch of leaves under their feet to break the tranquility. The new hush that enveloped them heightened her senses. She began scanning their surroundings more intently, her eyes searching for any sign of movement or life amidst the mist.

Her instincts had struck true once again.

“Bellatrix,” the young Death Eater warned, pulling out her wand.

Her nerves turned cold but hard as obsidian as she saw the dozens of Centaurs flanking them, staring at them, bows and spears in their hands. Hermione, charged and intoxicated with borrowed magic, positioned herself protectively in front of her mentor, counting the many ways and manners in which she would kill them all.

“Really?” Bellatrix snorted, unimpressed yet somewhat amused by the protective motion. “It’s fine, pup,” she assured, signaling for her to lower her weapon. “They mean us no harm.” The Centaurs began to walk toward their position. The ex-lieutenant smiled and cast a meaningful look at a Centaur standing taller among them. “Isn’t that right, Apeon?”

Apeon nodded, his expression severe. “May the stars smile upon you, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

His greetings appeared insincere to Hermione; his gaze held a spark of hostility, casting a shadow over the brief exchange.

“I hope you and your tribe had a bountiful harvest this year,” her mentor added in the sweetest notes. “And may the earth yield for you a hundred times more next year.”

The centaur said nothing else and passed beside them, followed by the rest of the tribe. Hermione observed that behind the male warriors came the females and their young, carrying woven baskets brimming with fish and pelts on their backs.

“As long as we hold to our part of the deal, and they theirs, there’s going to be peace,” Bellatrix commented, turning to the young witch. In a barely audible whisper, she added, “Not that we can’t take them all out if they decide to go rogue.” A smirk appeared on her lips as she gestured for Hermione to keep walking.

For a few centaurs, the witches appeared as an oddity, curiosity evident on their faces. But the rest, especially the older-looking ones, carried an aura of distrust, fear, and even disdain.

“There’s another reason the others call this path ‘the crossing,’” Bellatrix said after noticing Hermione staring back at the beasts. “You must endure their judgmental stares as we reach the camp.”

“Why are they here?” the young Death Eater asked, knowing very well that the Death Eaters wouldn’t tolerate them near if they didn’t have something to gain from their presence. “What purpose do they serve? And how do they know your name?”

“Because I told them my name,” the dark witch replied as though it was obvious. “They don’t know who I am. And they wouldn’t care if they knew. As for what they do for us, they keep the Lethifolds away from the forest—nasty f*cking creatures. In turn, we provide them with goods, food, and sometimes tools. But more importantly, our presence keeps the dwarves from occupying this land. As I see it, the Centaurs need us more than we need them.”

Lethifolds, the notorious man-eating cloaks; it was often said that they were even worse than Dementors. A Patronus charm was the only defense wizards had against them. As for the dwarves, if left unchecked, they would plunder and devour the forest’s resources without a second thought for the creatures living there. The balance between give and take seemed pretty even to the brunette.

“How can they walk on two legs? Why don’t they fall?”

Hermione overheard a young centaur asking, too curious for his own good.

“Wizards are gross,” said another juvenile, a female. “Bald and small; easy to stomp on them like bugs. Look, the smaller one is just another dog.”

‘Another dog?’ The young Death Eater swirled around, her expression hardening as she fixed her glare on the centaurs talking behind her. ‘Is she talking about—’

The juveniles giggled after seeing the reaction they had caused, then rushed toward their mothers’ side.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” said a raspy voice.

An old centaur stood before the two Death Eaters, his expression carrying an air of wisdom and authority. “Bringing a child of the moon back to its kind?” He studied Hermione intently before turning his attention to Bellatrix. “Hmm, this one is different,” he remarked, somewhat surprised. “I can see you hold an ancient bond of great but unequal power.”

Bellatrix presented a mordacious expression. “I like to grab them young, so they don’t run away when older,” she replied in a facetious tone, dismissing the centaur as she walked past him. “Come on, pup. We have tarried too long.”

Hermione gave one last hard look at the old Centaur before catching up with her mentor’s pace.

“H-how? How do they know?” the young woman asked, her voice slightly shaky. Anticipating that her mentor would chastise her for her ignorance, she added, “And don’t mock me. I can’t know everything, especially about magical beasts.”

“On the contrary, this is one of the few things I’d be surprised if you knew,” Bellatrix responded. “Centaurs are very secretive; they keep their ways to themselves. Yet they have failed to disguise how sensitive they are to shifts in the power balance. They can see a few things we can’t. For example, they can detect the flow of magic running through a wizard’s body, gauge their magical capabilities, and assess the danger they represent. It’s the main reason they never wish to interact with us—not even after the Ministry built that pretty statue on the ground floor meant to show them how harmless and friendly we are; how we are all magical brethren and should hold hands together. The truth is that they fear our power because they think us too unstable to handle it.”

‘If they can see our magic, they can see our connections,’ the brunette realized with a sinking feeling.

“They aren’t wrong though,” the woman chuckled.

For the past half hour, Hermione had been begrudging Bellatrix for bringing her to this place for the first time after months of working together. The lingering feeling that the ex-lieutenant hadn’t fully trusted her until she received the Dark Mark from Voldemort and the bond from House Black had been gnawing at her. It felt like an insult, the idea that her mentor might have withheld this experience simply because she hadn’t been marked or bonded earlier.

Nonetheless, as Bellatrix explained the centaurs’ abilities, the young witch felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. If Lestrange had brought her here last summer and a centaur had called her a ‘child of the moon’ in front of her, revealing her lycanthropy infection, Hermione couldn’t even begin to imagine her mentor’s murderous reaction.

“The Ministry built the statue of brethren but never stopped categorizing them as beasts,” the young witch commented. “They are beasts, and deserve their fate, I know. But once we’re in power, let’s not repeat the same foolish mistakes as past ministers. We need to be more farsighted.”

A few moments later, the camp unfolded before Hermione. It was just as Scabior had described it—penurious, yes, yet well organized, with a constant buzz of activity from the infected individuals going about their day. Each person bore the burden of lycanthropy, a few reflecting the misery of their condition. After witnessing it for herself, it came as no surprise that Scabior had often remarked on Hermione’s comparatively healthy and well-off appearance.

As they arrived, those who noticed their presence paused to greet Bellatrix, still addressing her by her former title. And to Hermione’s relief, Scabior was nowhere to be seen—granted, the man was in charge of the southern camps, but one could never be sure he wouldn’t visit here.

A few meters ahead, she spotted another masked man who appeared to be giving instructions to a group of wizards. In the next instant, he halted the proceedings, dismissed the men, and began striding purposefully toward them.

“I wasn’t informed that you were coming here today, Madame,” Macnair greeted them, his manner somewhat reserved yet polite. “Miss, it’s always a pleasure. Let’s speak further in my tent, shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Bellatrix responded curtly, wasting no time on pleasantries.

Navigating through the scattered green tents that blended seamlessly into the camp’s surroundings, they entered one of the larger ones. Despite the overall modesty of the exterior, signs of comfort and opulence were evident within—a stark contrast to the rugged environment outside. Once again, it was no wonder Scabior sought to enjoy the same luxuries.

“Really, Lestrange, what are you doing here?” Macnair removed his mask, showing naked irritation on his features. “This isn’t your area, not anymore.”

“Everything is my area, Walden,” Bellatrix asserted with a touch of arrogance. “Where there’s progress, there’s always room for my scrutiny. I’ve come to observe your beasts.”

He sneered with skepticism. “Did Yaxley send you?”

“The Dark Lord sent me,” the dark witch clarified, relishing in the man’s doubt.

“Such trollsh*t!” he retorted bluntly, not buying into the claim. “The Dark Lord has you seated at the end of the gathering table, Lestrange. He isn’t talking to you.”

“Why is it so hard to believe?” Bellatrix challenged, her tone sharpening. “You underestimate my importance in his eyes. He doesn’t trust you, Macnair, plain and simple. My past actions aren’t comparable to the contempt he feels for you. And you know this, so let’s get to the point: you advertised this as our main form of attack; we want to see how safe it is. Show me.”

Proving to be an objective and dispassionate man, Macnair shifted his focus to the maps on the wooden board. “Let’s see then, where do you want to start? What would you like to know?”

Meanwhile, without skipping a beat, Bellatrix turned to Hermione and issued a command, “Girl, go to the keeping grounds, see the wyverns.”

The young witch glanced at Bellatrix, hoping to discern a valid reason for her exclusion from the conversation, but her mentor’s face revealed nothing. This was the ex-lieutenant asserting her authority again.

“To the left,” Macnair instructed as the young Death Eater stepped out of the tent. “At the very end. You’ll hear their screeches.”

Following Macnair’s directions, Hermione made her way toward the keeping grounds, her senses on high alert. Her gaze darted to every face across the camp, hoping she would recognize the three wizards from that night at Amelia Bones’ house. ‘There’s a chance that they are in the camp of the south too.’

All she saw in turn were curious stares following her stride. Did these werewolves suspect her true identity? She began to wonder. Or were they simply intrigued by the presence of a new Death Eater in their midst? The uncertainty added an edge to her steps, driving her toward the source of the screeches that the wizard had mentioned.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension as she approached the keeping area.

The book’s descriptions had done no justice to the creature she beheld. Its sleek body was a tapestry of shimmering scales, ranging from emerald greens to iridescent reds and blues that seemed to shift with every movement. Long, sinuous tails bristled with wicked spikes and barbs, poised as lethal weapons. Its wings, spanning larger than the length of its body, were delicate yet intimidating, membranous like a bat’s wing and translucent as if woven from spider’s silk.

Sharp horns curved menacingly back from its skull, framing predatory snake-like eyes that seemed too alert, waiting for their handlers to make a mistake. Its snout bore an avian resemblance rather than a reptilian one, with rows of serrated teeth lining a powerful jaw capable of crushing bones with ease. The witch shuddered at the thought of those jaws snapping shut.

But it was the creature’s feet that truly unnerved her. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than being caught by those claws, each one a deadly weapon in its own right.

Hermione decided right there that no matter what, she wouldn’t be anywhere near one of those beasts once they were released.

Three wizards stood in the middle of the keeping grounds. The wyvern was chained by the neck and tail while the other end was securely attached to the ground. The creature appeared more scared than ferocious, lashing out with occasional bites at its trainers. Hermione stood, observing their work. Soon, she learned that the overall process to break the beast was simple: each time it heard the ringing bell in one wizard’s hand, another would torture it. The torture would end once the bell stopped. Sometimes the third wizard would give it food as part of the conditioning.

“Formidable animals, aren’t they?” Macnair asked, walking beside Hermione. “Their bite is so strong it can break down an erumpent’s horn or lift a graphorn all by itself.”

The first claim was hard to believe; their horns usually exploded at the slightest disturbance. “Are these all?”

“There are eight near Appleby, and the south has twelve; all trained,” he responded. “These are the ones that are proving to be more challenging.”

“Will the bells be enough to keep them off us?” Hermione was sure they would bite her head off if she dared to sneeze near them. “With so many spells flying so close to them, they’re bound to become more agitated than usual.”

Macnair laughed lightly, his voice turning a bit deeper behind his mask. “You needn’t worry, my dear. We have everything under control. Allow me to demonstrate.” He extended an arm towards Hermione, inviting her to join him. “Come, let me show you how it works while we wait for your Master to join us. When I left her, she was busy with the maps of Carlotta.” Noticing her hesitation, the man mellowed his mannerisms to reassure her: “Fret not, pretty bird, you’re in safe hands with me. Imagine the disgrace if I ever let our newest sister suffer any form of harm under my watch. Come.”

Despite Bellatrix’s warnings about Walden Macnair reverberating in her mind like a persistent echo, Hermione made a calculated decision to accept his offered arm, acknowledging the virtue of not being alone. “How did you manage to capture so many of them?” she asked, curiosity bubbling forth as they walked, the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot punctuating their conversation. The three trainers, shadows trailing behind them like loyal sentinels, added a formal backdrop to their exchange.

“The north of Ukraine is full of these beasts,” Macnair explained. “The villages nearby see them as a perpetual nuisance, wreaking havoc on their streets and livelihoods. By capturing them, we certainly saved these communities from more peril; a big favor to them. Most wizards there don’t have the required training to kill them, much less to capture one alive, move it across the country, and sell it to collectors or harvesters.”

Intrigued, the witch asked, “Are there any significant differences between a male and a female?”

“Yes, there are. The females possess a leaner physique coupled with agility, their claws elongated and curved for swift strikes. The males exhibit larger proportions, with robust bodies, strong jaws, and heads that command attention. As they mature, their scales take on a striking deep orange hue around the neck. However, when it comes to temper, females are much more fierce and harder to control, especially during their first five years of life—that’s why I’m focusing on training males only. And you don’t want to meet a female who has just laid eggs and is guarding her nest. They aim for the head; you won’t see or hear them diving toward you before it already tears your head off.”

Hermione shuddered at the mental image painted by Macnair’s description. “Merlin, I’m grateful I don’t live any closer to Ukraine or Romania.”

“Your sentiment is well expressed, my dear,” Macnair laughed, tapping the witch’s hand affectionately.

After a thoughtful pause, he shifted the conversation. “Forgive my indiscretion, but if you don’t mind me asking, how are you faring as the new Warden of House Black? All in all, I’d say you must be excited.”

‘…These f*cking snakes,’ Hermione thought, recognizing the delicate dance of diplomacy and deception she was about to engage in. She ran through her mental archives to find the best answer, only to realize a second later that there wasn’t anything close to an ideal answer. What she needed was a reply that would reveal nothing of her true feelings, a facade of neutrality and compliance.

“More than excited, I must confess I’m also very nervous,” she replied. “I don’t know if I can measure up to my Master; her power and intelligence are awe-inducing, and, between you and me, she’s quite intimidating. I worry that I may not reach her expectations.”

“Do you truly think that?” Macnair asked, mirth in his eyes. “You’ve already reached our Lord’s expectations, pretty bird. Our brothers also speak of your exceptional intelligence and diligence. What makes you doubt your abilities to meet Madame Lestrange’s standards?”

These hounds could smell a lie like sharks smelled blood in the water…

Hermione managed a tight smile. “It’s not a matter of doubting my abilities, but rather recognizing Madame Bellatrix’s perfectionism. She demands nothing short of excellence in all endeavors.”

Macnair’s nod seemed contemplative, his eyes, bright within those shadowed sockets, assessed her with a knowing glint. “You see, if I were you, I’d be more worried that Madame Bellatrix is a Lestrange, not a Black.” His next words were delivered with a gruff chuckle and an unsettling intensity. “Pretty bird, an exquisite creature like you shouldn’t live in such a small cage.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It wasn’t the suggestive tone or the lasciviousness in his gaze that bothered her deeply, but rather the cryptic warning about Bellatrix’s allegiance to House Lestrange.

“I’ll decide in which cage I want to live, Macnair.”

“Ah,” the man nodded, growing reserved. “I see I spoke too much. Please, forgive my indiscretion, my dear.”

Today everyone wanted a peek at the affairs between Hermione and Bellatrix. ‘…Really, this is bloody ridiculous. Even the bloody centaurs in this forest know about our bond!’ Suddenly, it occurred to Hermione that the old Centaur mentioned their bond being one of great power. ‘I wonder what exactly he saw…’

“We’ve arrived,” he announced as they reached a large clearing, where two additional wyverns were chained to the ground. “This one on the right is almost ready to be released. Over there, the handlers will wear vests soaked in cattle blood; wyverns can’t resist the scent.”

Macnair’s whistle pierced through the expectant silence, signaling the commencement of the demonstration. The handlers approached the beast, their movements deliberate and calculated. With practiced precision, they released the creature from its restraints, coaxing it to the center of the clearing. “They’re going to provoke it; observe,” he instructed.

Her gaze locked onto the unfolding scene, observing with a critical eye. The trained handlers moved with a confidence born of experience, their movements fluid yet cautious, aware of the volatile nature of the creature before them.

The wyvern, sensing the subtle shift in its environment and catching the smell of food, began to exhibit signs of agitation. Its massive wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the clearing as its eyes fixated on the provocateurs. With a sudden burst of speed, the wyvern launched itself towards the nearest trainer, jaws wide open in a menacing display of ferocity. However, just as the first piercing ring of the bell echoed through the air, the creature recoiled in fear, its screech of defiance turning into a retreat.

Macnair leaned closer to Hermione, sounding much too satisfied. “See that?” he remarked. “Even when famished and angered, the wyvern refuses to approach when it knows pain awaits. Nobody likes pain, Granger. Not even ruthless beasts like these.”

“Impressive,” the young Death Eater said, looking anything but impressed. “Now I’d like to see that with so many noises that the bells won’t be heard over the explosion of a Bombarda spell, amidst darkness and light orbs.”

“Their ears are more acute than ours. They will hear the bell. And their eyes can see in the darkness. Worry not, Granger. You’re in good hands.”

As the wyvern emitted another screech, this time more ferocious, indicating its growing agitation, Macnair excused himself. “Stay here for a moment, it seems they need me there,” he said, striding toward the trainers and the restless wyvern.

Hermione stood there, unmoving; her mind running with countless ideas about how Macnair’s plan could go so, so wrong. What stopped the Aurors from neutralizing the wyverns with a coordinated attack of Stupefy or Incarcerous spells? And that was nothing compared to what these beasts could do to them if for some reason they didn’t hear the bell in time. ‘Acute hearing, right. I’ll need to speak with Yaxley about this, or Voldemort, whoever is more willing to listen.’

The sound of quick footsteps crunching on leaves announced Bellatrix’s arrival; her presence cast a stygian shadow over the scene unfolding in the clearing. Standing beside Hermione, their eyes locked on the rebellious wyvern as Macnair lectured his apprentices on his ruthless methods.

“You don’t approve of this idea,” Hermione ventured, noting the disapproving stare in her mentor. Cold anger, the witch often called it, when Bellatrix wore a stoic expression but her jaw was as tense as her shoulders.

“Are you deaf or just plain stupid?” Her voice erupted in a hiss of heated fury; an intensity burning in the empty void of her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to be alone with him?”

The young Death Eater turned to face the clearing, her voice steady despite the mounting tension. “We weren’t alone, and you’re right here—”

“Quiet!” Bellatrix’s hiss cut through the air like a lash. “Your naiveté is f*cking nauseating.”

Her eyes darted to her right, watching her mentor seethe.

‘How much you underestimate me is what is truly nauseating!’

Hermione took a deep breath, a surge of defiance mingling with the sting of Lestrange’s accusations. “It won’t happen again, Master,” she gritted.

The two Death Eaters stood in tense silence, their attention fixed on Macnair as he continued giving instructions to the handlers. Hermione expected the silence to linger until the demonstration concluded, but her mentor’s demeanor soon shifted, turning restless.

After a few moments of surveying their surroundings, Bellatrix’s features contorted into a disdainful sneer. “Oh, look at that,” she said, nodding to their left. “Nagini, the devoted girlfriend, has graced us with her presence. How blessed you must feel that she’s come all this way to see you.”

Perhaps Bellatrix was right; Hermione’s naiveté was absolutely ridiculous because the witch’s heart leaped at the mention of her friend. And for one second, as she followed the woman’s eyes, she truly thought that Nagini might have come here…somehow, someway, for some reason.

Her face fell and regained a new tightness as soon as she noticed what Bellatrix was nodding at.

Of course, it wasn’t Nagini.

It was just Bellatrix being a complete moron.

“Go on, say hi, and give her a welcome kiss while you’re at it,” the dark witch snickered. “Explain something to me, Granger.” Her last name was spat out, hitting like a punch on the chest; Hermione would have preferred Bellatrix to stick with the many other derogatory names she had for her. “Doesn’t the Ministry have laws against this? I mean, seeing that you and Nagini are different species, surely one of you should be taken straight to Azkaban on charges of deviancy and perversion, or at the very least, for lacking decency and morality. The Aurors should be looking for being a nasty little pervert, not a follower of the Dark Lord.” With a final and spiteful hiss, Lestrange ended the conversation abruptly. “Our tent is the one in blue. Do not delay.”

Hermione stood rooted in place, listening to Bellatrix’s retreating steps; her mask concealed the turmoil beneath—anger, hurt, and a rising sense of injustice. “What the hell?” she muttered. Everything was going so well, why did Lestrange have to ruin it with her spiteful comments? “What did I do?” It couldn’t only be because she accompanied Macnair!

“I’d swear she is an—Hey, you!” The brunette’s voice cut through the air as she addressed the approaching wizard. “Tell Macnair that he needs to deworm his bloody wyverns! We want to kill our enemies by cutting off their heads, not to disgust them to death!” Her finger pointed furiously at the tapeworm hanging like a grotesque streamer right out of the wyvern’s—

“Arsehole,” she muttered under her breath. With a determined stride, she turned around and began walking along the worn-down path back towards the camp. “You’re a f*cking arsehole, Bellatrix.”

Any wizard who had devoted years to studying the intricacies of the wizard’s soul and mind would surely covet the chance to examine someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, the brunette concluded. Her mentor was the epitome of hypocrisy, yet she seemed entirely unaware of the blatant contradictions in her everyday behavior. What kind of ill mind could navigate through such a distorted reality and yet remain incredibly functional within the objective one? Bellatrix ought to have choked to death with her own tongue as soon as she uttered the words ‘morality and decency.’

Feeling too insulted to let it slide, the young witch stormed into the tent, finding Bellatrix standing before the table with tomes and potion-making instruments scattered through it.

“I’m the one who’s dating Nagini, Bellatrix, yet it seems you think about her more often than I do. How is it possible that she permanently lives in your mind?”

The woman turned her head, her response eerily calm and composed as if the cold anger that had taken hold of her moments ago had never existed. “Permanently? No, you exaggerate, little mudblood,” she retorted, indifferent. “Nagini only comes to my mind whenever I encounter disgusting things, like animal droppings, feeble minds, or, as you just saw, parasites.”

“If only that were true,” Hermione shot back, her eyes narrowing. “Why do you hate Nagini so much? What did she do to you?”

The quill on the table left its inkwell to scratch something across the parchment, drawing Bellatrix’s attention back to the books. “Why do you care?” she asked, distractedly. “Are you hoping I’ll tell you so you may share it with her later, to have a good laugh at my expense? Hmm?”

“Stop accusing me of things you know I wouldn’t do!” Hermione snapped, growing more incensed by the woman’s sudden indifference. “We hardly talk about you, and whatever conversations we’ve had are not worth repeating. You’re not as interesting as you may think you are, Bellatrix.” She took two steps forward, attempting to grab the woman’s attention. “I can’t understand you! You knew I talked to Nagini early in the morning, yet you still asked, which means you don’t trust me. After binding me to your House; after demanding my loyalty; you still don’t trust me. Why bother binding me if you still think I’m out to get you?”

The magic around them permeated her body; the subtle itch on her skin was increasing, growing even within her mouth. Rather than pleasant, this feeling was becoming irritating. It was like being wrapped in a cocoon of electrified air, every molecule charged with an intensity that was too annoying to endure.

“Stop what you are doing and look at me, Bellatrix!” Hermione demanded, her command thundering through the tent like a sudden storm.

In the next instant, the dark witch placed the quill in the ink bottle and turned around; her glare fixed on Hermione with an intensity that bordered on murder, carmine lips turning into a thin line.

“If you aren’t going to answer my questions,” she continued, “then at least answer this one: what did Narcissa mean when she said I have responsibilities I shouldn’t have? And why did she feel compelled to apologize to me?”

Her red mouth parted slowly, revealing teeth that appeared to gleam with a predatory edge. “I told you before, you don’t have any new responsibilities other than the ones you already have. Whatever Narcissa thinks you have, you don’t. And as for the reason she apologized to you, I have no idea—”

“—You promised you’d be more honest with me!” the young witch cut her sharply.

In a single, fluid stride, Bellatrix lunged towards Hermione, her face resembling a nundu poised to strike. “Don’t get confused about who I am,” she growled, the space around them crackling with magic. Hermione noticed the chairs, tables, and other objects in the tent shifted away, almost as if recoiling in fear from the dark witch. “I’ll do and say whatever the f*ck I want! I’m not that tapeworm you have for a girlfriend who is at the ready to do your bidding.”

Hermione stood her ground, impervious to her imprint’s intimidation tactics. However, knowing that both of them needed to take a step back or otherwise, Bellatrix would blow the tent up with another burst of raw magic, she consciously softened her demeanor. The young witch breathed in, searching for the pleasant airs and warmth surrounding her difficult mate to calm her beating heart and ease her thoughts while hoping that Bellatrix would pick up on it and ease off the aggression as well. But her imprint’s aromatic qualities Hermione once furiously rebuked and now wanted to experience had vanished without an explanation.

“You say that, yet you behave as if you wish you were Nagini, Bellatrix,” the witch declared.

The words were uttered with utmost objectivity, handing with reverence a chance for an honest conversation.

‘Here it comes,’ the young witch thought after watching that crimson mouth curl into a derisive smirk. She braced herself for the incoming onslaught of absolute denial about something already proven, and maybe even experienced. Bellatrix was about to mock her, accusing her of seeing shadows where there were none.

“Oh, but I don’t need to be Nagini for you to welcome me into your space, into your arms, into your skin,” Lestrange retorted with a venomous hiss, surprising the brunette with the unexpected twist in her response, “You seem to welcome anyone who smiles sweetly at you, like my sister, Dolohov, that f*cking worm, now Macnair, and those are the ones I know only because I haven’t been paying attention to your dalliances; who knows how long the list goes on at this point!”

Damn her! Bellatrix could blow up the entire camp for all she cared!

“You— you can’t be serious!” she felt the sharp stab of disbelief at the woman’s crass insinuations. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I’m involved with all those people! You’re just twisting things to suit your own narrative, Bellatrix. It’s beyond absurd!”

“Absurd, is it?” Lestrange taunted, her eyes narrowing as she took a step closer. “Or perhaps it’s uncomfortable for you to face the truth: that you’re too quick to trust, too eager to let others into your life. Even those who don’t deserve it!”

She shook her head, having difficulty understanding the nuance of Bellatrix’s feelings. “I can’t believe you! Are you that mad with jealousy?”

Tar-like eyes narrowed, and fury and scorn marked her alabaster features. “Jealousy?” she spat. “I am not jealous, you fool. I’m simply wary of those who seek to undermine my influence, those who would dare to encroach upon what is rightfully mine.”

“Your influence on me, you mean.” Hermione scowled. “You think me so weak-minded that a handful of smiles and courtesy displays would lower my defenses?”

Bellatrix paused, losing the hard edges around her features. “No,” she responded with a firmness that undercut her earlier provocations, “not weak-minded, just too noble; too fair.”

Her statement hung in the air, a bridge waiting to be crossed.

Once more, her mentor had opened a door for understanding, a path Hermione knew how to tread. They were closer now to stepping onto something solid.

“You say you want everything that is me—but I still can’t fathom what the hell does that entails; I fear it, just like I sometimes fear you. I never know when your statements are empty threats and when they are barrels full of daggers. You turn me into a bundle of nerves more often than not.” Her imprint’s tar-like eyes remained ruthless, unyielding as they absorbed the witch’s laments. “But you already know all that, and it seems to me that you enjoy seeing me suffering like that— you had rarely tried to put my mind at ease before. I guess, what I’m trying to say here is, why don’t you save me the time and uncertainty by finishing what you started? Cast Imperious on me, right here and now, and you’ll never hear me protest, you’ll never hear me contradict you in any way. You’ll have everything of me, whatever grand plans you have for me, I’ll never complain.”

This was everything, not buts in between, no doubts, no ramification of conditions. No resistance in any form. The puppet had offered herself to the puppeteer. What else could this wicked witch ask from her?

And more importantly, what else could Hermione offer when she had so little to lose and too much to win if things went her way?

She was playing a dangerous game with her last chips.

Bellatrix appeared to mull over the proposal, her gaze disconnecting from Hermione’s as she searched for an answer. The ensuing silence stretched on, each second an eternity. Agony began to permeate the oxygen Hermione breathed, experiencing the first specks of fear landing on her heart.

“I can’t…” the woman said; her whisper was a breath laced with mild regret. “…As you can see, my right hand hasn’t healed yet.”

…

A mix of emotions surged within Hermione—disbelief, amusem*nt, and relief. A loud chuckle escaped her throat followed by a release of her fears in the face of unexpected humor. “As if that could ever stop you.” Unsure whether to keep laughing or express how infuriating the dark witch was, she looked down at her hands, trying to regain her composure.

“Look at me, little mudblood.”

Their eyes met once more, her mentor’s features were softer now yet still carrying an enigmatic resolve. “You would sacrifice your freedom of thought for certainty? How very... pragmatic of you,” she whispered. “So pragmatic indeed that I know you could never want that, much less willingly submit to it. Really, my pretty wolf? You think I don’t know what you are trying to do?” Not allowing the brunette to feign ignorance, Bellatrix pressed on, “Yes, the Imperious curse would render me an obedient thrall…”

Hermione’s heart sank deeper while Lestrange delineated every good quality the young witch appeared not to possess.

“…I’ll hear no more excuses or mistakes; I’ll have someone who listens and is quiet when required; someone who doesn’t question me or defies me; someone who follows my instructions to the last letter and doesn’t improvise or add anything they consider relevant; someone who doesn’t ask questions about anything because they understand that they have enough knowledge to complete their task; someone who doesn’t feel she would die if she doesn’t rush to correct others after seeing their mistakes.” Her eyes flickered with something unreadable, hesitating to speak before she finally uttered, “It does sound dreadfully dull, wouldn’t you think so?”

If Bellatrix hadn’t given her the mask and uttered the confession that night in the kitchen, Hermione would’ve assumed this was all a game for the wicked woman— her life, her sanity, they were all just toys for Lestrange’s entertainment.

A faint blush appeared on the brunette’s cheeks, adding a touch of warmth to her hardened demeanor. “Well,” she breathed, swallowing the heaviness of her feelings, “you did say once you liked me much more when I’m untamable.” A daring smirk curled her lips. “Do you find me interesting, Lestrange?”

The dark witch tilted her head, resembling a curious crow. “More like I find you amusing,” she quipped, a pinch of nostalgia in her voice. “Like a drunk pixie trying to fly with broken wings. No matter how hard they try, they always end-up crashing into a tree.”

“You know,” Hermione reached out and clasped the woman’s gloved hand in hers, her touch gentle but firm. “I believed you the first time you said that. But now, I’m beginning to think it’s much more than that.”

Nagini was right. For a while now, it had been much more than what appeared at first sight.

‘If we were…How would it look like?’

At this moment the answer was: full of conflicts and disagreements, sometimes intertwined with resolutions too.

“You can’t be so possessive of me.”

A request cloaked in softness.

“And why not?”

A question laced with challenge.

Yes, why not? What compelling reason could she share with the woman who already had her leashed? What stopped Bellatrix Lestrange from behaving like a tyrant? What moral barrier deterred her from ever abusing her power? Before Yule’s Eve, the answer had been Voldemort. But now? Was it the imprint that acted as the deterrent? Hermione wasn’t sure that was the case.

It would be long before Hermione discovered the raw emotions that lurked in Bellatrix’s dark heart and surrendered to her desires.

But today, all the inexperienced witch wanted was her imprint to understand they were nothing less than equals.

A faint, wistful smile danced on Hermione’s lips as she gazed into Bellatrix’s abyss-like eyes. “Because a pretty bird like me grows restless when it’s caged, Madame Lestrange.”

Their exchange should have ended there, with a sweet and tender note flowing through the tent’s atmosphere. However, emboldened by her convictions, Hermione decided to impale her imprint with a question that would only put them back on the edge of the precipice.

“I have another question for you. Two, actually,” she announced, her demeanor solemn and determined. “Tell me, do you still believe that I somehow gave you Amortentia to drink? At what point did you realize that it was all about you?”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally, a fleeting flicker of vulnerability passing through her gaze before she veiled it with a mask of stoicism. Then, as a storm unleashed, hostility surged within her irises, casting dark shadows across her features.

A line had been crossed. The unspoken boundaries of their conversation shattered like fragile glass, leaving behind a growing sense of discord.

“I see. I’ll leave you to it then,” the young witch declared. With a decisive turn, she left the tent, the fabric rustling softly in her wake.

This was the last push forward Hermione would take for the next weeks perhaps even months. Another spoken word and all the progress they had made today would’ve crumbled under that baleful glare.

“As I’ve told you earlier, it was a side project I decided to do myself. Nobody else knows about this except you,” Gawain explained, his voice a low rumble of secrecy.

He sat at his desk with his fingers absently tracing the intricate twists of his beard—a new habit born of unease during these sleepless weeks. His attention darted behind his subordinate’s shoulder; despite only the two of them in the office, the walls around them seemed to lean in, absorbing his confession.

“Listen, we both know that the fire in that building wasn’t due to mismanagement; fire doesn’t spread as fast as it did unless it’s being deliberately guided—Fawley wasn’t even involved in the fireworks trade! Then there were those charred, dismembered bodies and that dead nymph in the basem*nt.” His hands turned into fists as his urgency surged forth. “Granger and Lestrange were Hugo’s only suspects. He sent me a message detailing a singer, one of his employees, who mentioned the two witches were in his tavern on the day his wife had ‘coincidentally’ died in a fire as well—they were the only ones that went upstairs and never came down, all this according to his employee. And if you remember, our report points out that Agatha Fawley’s office was upstairs and the first room to catch fire was that office.” A little more than a month had passed since he had contacted Hugo. His next of kin, an uncle, had disappeared as well. It might be safe to say that the Fawley family had perished in that last blaze. “We can speculate all night about their motives and not be any closer to the truth. But one undeniable fact remains: Granger and Lestrange are working together. While I don’t have clear evidence, I do believe that Granger isn’t under the Imperious curse. That’s why I’m telling you all this. You’re the one who wrote her profile. You met her before; you understand her nuances better than anyone else. I need you to help me make sense of it.”

It wasn’t genuine trust that motivated Gawain to confide in her. It was more a result of his desperation. This Auror had shown a tendency to be graceless in her actions; her clumsiness was irritating, an undeniable sign of lacking methodical thinking. Gawain didn’t expect much from her, which in itself highlighted his dire situation. His speech seeped slowly into the woman’s features; her usual vibrancy dimmed under the gravity of the situation. Her expression that showed deep concern soon shifted to a trace of shock, and soon, a hand instinctively found refuge over her mouth with a hissing curse coming out of it.

“What is it?” he prodded, noticing her sudden change in demeanor.

“Curses…” Nymphadora Tonks reached forward for the calendar on his cluttered desk. The pages fluttered under her quick thumb as she scanned through them, her expression tense with urgency and dread. “The markings on the bodies we discovered...” Her voice trailed off as if lost in the whirlwind of her thoughts. “It could be; it would explain the gnashes. I just need to see if that night—” Then, she stopped. Her complexion drained of color. “The night Fawley’s warehouse burned down was a full moon.”

“A full moon?” he interjected, trying to make sense of the Auror’s ramblings. “What does that have to do with—”

“Listen, Chief, please don’t be angry with me, but…” Tonks begged, looking pained. “Hermione is infected with lycanthropy.” The words hung heavily in that brief pause. “Believe me, Chief, I didn’t mean—I didn’t know about your involvement with Hugo Fawley and his wife, and I didn’t know Hermione was a suspect in Agatha Fawley’s case—”

Her confession struck him like a physical blow, causing Gawain to react instinctively. Before he could register his actions, he found himself gripping Auror Tonks by the lapels of her coat, forcefully pulling her across the desk. “Why am I hearing about this now, Nymphadora!” His voice sliced through the air, laced with the sharpness of his vein-popping frustration. “How long have you been withholding information from the investigation? What else have you been hiding?” He released her abruptly, aware that another moment’s hold and he might have resorted to something regrettable. “Why didn’t you say anything? I should have you demoted right f*cking now!”

“Chief, I swear by Merlin that I wasn’t aware of Hermione’s sickness until a few weeks ago!” Tonks’ words sounded regretful, her posture shrinking under the burden of Gawain’s glare.

“Weeks! f*cking hell, Tonks!” he snapped.

“I—I have not much more to say other than Granger is infected with the curse—look, the man who infected her, I know him, alright? Re—this man shared this with me in confidence, and it’s only because I forced him. He said this was a secret he had planned to take to his grave. He has been living in shame for years—three years exactly—since he infected her. As for Hermione, from what I understand from his recounting, she had been very cautious about her transformation; she was diligent and drank wolfsbane whenever the full moon approached. As for learning to live with it, the girl adapted very quickly to her new circ*mstances without much protest. He says she didn’t seem bitter about her condition, and took it easily. That’s all I know, I swear.” She raked a hand through her cropped hair. “Look, Chief,” her voice dropped to a whisper, betraying her unease. “I didn’t want to reveal this information given that werewolves are not…well, you know, accepted. If some of the Aurors here were to know, they wouldn’t be so keen on helping her and would rather send the werewolf unit to capture her instead.”

His face grew more severe. “Who else knows that she’s infected? Does Kingsley know? Does Dumbledore? What about their friends—the Potter boy and the other one?”

“Uh—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I don’t know; we have never discussed it.”

“I’ll summon Kingsley tomorrow; we three will have a long chat about your deliberate obstruction.” Gaining a moment of clarity, Robards decided to set aside his anger and inquire about what Tonks had suggested earlier. “You think Granger was there, in that building with Hugo.”

She nodded, hesitant. “If we follow your hypothesis that Lestrange and Granger are working together—which I would rephrase as Bellatrix using Hermione—then Bellatrix might have orchestrated an ambush on Hugo Fawley. The injuries on the victims would match those of a werewolf attack; slashing hexes and curses aren’t that chaotic. I’d say she put Hermione in that building, maybe as bait, or dropped her there right before she transformed,” Tonks theorized. “Bellatrix might’ve seen the Fawley family as a nuisance to be eliminated and decided to execute them, using this as a message to pureblood wizard families who sympathize with muggleborns.”

“And in this theory of yours, the werewolf is under the Imperius curse?” Robards asked sardonically. “Forget about throwing that Lestrange c*nt back into Azkaban! We must immediately enlist her into the werewolf division!” His attempt at sarcasm faltered in the face of his disbelief. “Are you serious, Nymphadora? Control over a werewolf? With an Imperius curse! Bloody mad! Who is she, f*cking Morgana?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange is a powerful witch and an incredibly resourceful one at that,” Tonks pushed back, her belief in Hermione’s innocence a steady flame. “If Granger did indeed kill those individuals, it means she hadn’t taken the Wolfsbane potion. But the rest—murdering Fawley’s wife and the other allegations—Hermione couldn’t have committed those crimes willingly without being controlled by the Imperius curse.”

Robards scoffed. “Then, explain to me why was she at the cemetery?” He challenged her, his question a hammer seeking cracks in her delusion. “If Granger doesn’t have any will, as you say, how did going to the cemetery where Granger’s parents are buried benefit Lestrange?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” the Auror admitted, understanding this was a puzzle difficult to solve. “But that doesn’t mean Hermione cooperates willingly with the Death Eaters!” The scoff that followed was a strong sound of disbelief and a clear sign that she couldn’t be convinced otherwise. “Merlin’s beard, can you imagine? Hermione, a Muggle-born, joining You-Know-Who! It simply can’t happen! It’s impossible!” Her eyes met his, presenting a clear window to her soul. “I know Hermione Granger, Chief. She’s the sweetest and kindest girl you could ever meet. She’s the embodiment of integrity, justice, fairness...and, and an incomparable loyalty to her peers above everything. She could never betray her friends.” Her posture slumped, a sense of dejection enveloping her. “It’s not the first time I’ve considered the possibility of someone using Polyjuice Potion to impersonate her—”

“—the hair we discovered at the clearing proved it was her—”

“—Yes! But we haven’t come across any new evidence in the last seven months. Maybe she was alive at that time—and, and now she’s dead! They could be exploiting her likeness to mislead us!”

“Tonks, listen to me,” Robards’ face was a blend of stern command and pleading, tired of this Auror’s shortsightedness. “Forget about the eyewitnesses, who swear they have seen Granger and Lestrange together. Forget about the crimes, forget about everything. The only truth you and I know is this: Granger is operating under the Imperius Curse for You-Know-Who, right? Hell, let’s even go with your theory. Hermione is dead, and they are using her likeness, okay?” He waited for her to nod, then continued, “So, answer me this: why Granger? A Hogwarts student whose merits are just getting good notes. Why wouldn’t the Death Eaters rely on someone who actually can benefit them?” His frustrations spilled forth in a torrent. “f*cking hell, I would’ve been a much better target! Any ministry clerk would’ve been more useful to them, don’t you think? Yet they haven’t tried to go after any of us! So, why this child? What’s so special about her? What is it that Granger can do that your aunt, who reviles you for being a half-blood and wishes you dead, is willing to be associated with a Muggle-born?”

Gawain watched the cogs turn in Nymphadora’s mind as they grappled with the conundrum, and for a moment right there, he thought a breakthrough had been made…

“I don’t know,” she finally confessed, her voice soft but resolute. “We don’t have all the answers, yet. We’ll figure it out, sooner or later.” Her next words were a solemn oath, a declaration made with the fire of absolute certainty. “But I’d swear to you this, Chief, as I’m sure that I know the difference between day and night: Hermione Granger isn’t a dark witch. She doesn’t have an ounce of evil in her body. That, I swear on my life.”

The conviction in her voice was the final note in their tense exchange.

Disappointed, yet curious to see her next reaction, Gawain asked, “Do you remember the student’s testimony at Hogwarts? The one with the brand on her forehead.”

Tonks let out a heavy sigh, feeling empathy for the student but harboring even greater compassion for her werewolf friend. “They’re just teenagers, Chief. Sometimes they can be a bit forceful or intense.”

Yes, because Hermione Granger could do no f*cking wrong!

Hermione’s eyes were fixed on an empty spot on the ground, lost within her mind, envisioning a series of dark fantasies about how she would kill Albus Dumbledore…

…If only she were capable of such a feat.

She wasn’t deluding herself—Bellatrix, with her caustic statements, had ensured she didn’t. Dumbledore had decades of experience under his belt, not to mention much greater power.

The only advantage she once had, the element of surprise, had vanished in a single night. How could she possibly fight someone who anticipated her arrival? The risk was much greater now with a single avenue remaining open to her. But still, despite the terrible odds, she decided that when the time came, she would walk through the main door, facing whatever awaited her on the other side.

The gates of Hogwarts closed in her mind; her gaze drifted to the diary resting on her lap.

‘Mom and Dad are alive—where are they?’ read the first line.

The words in her journal taunted her with the same intensity as that night at the cemetery, regardless of the passing time. There weren’t many theories to consider, only two hypotheses about their whereabouts occupied Hermione’s restless mind. The first was that Dumbledore had them hidden somewhere, not against their will but ensnared in a haze of confusion, perhaps enchanted or kept in a peaceful slumber. She was certain that the wizard would use them as leverage in some way at some point in the future.

But, when she dared to voice these conjectures to Bellatrix, the woman scoffed, deriding her theories as overwrought and unrealistic. Instead, Bellatrix offered another chilling possibility: the Grangers had been obliviated and relocated elsewhere. They were living a different life without the memory of their daughter to hinder them.

Hermione dreaded the notion that her mentor could be right, for it was the equivalent of death as far as she was concerned.

The second line in the diary posed another complex question: ‘Does Voldemort know? Does it matter if he does?’ She struggled to find an answer to the latter question. Every time she contemplated it, she felt strangely detached, as if the answer, whether it was positive or negative, held no emotional weight for her. This lack of reaction unsettled her, leaving her questioning her own feelings.

One thing was certain: if Voldemort knew, then Nagini knew as well. It was the reason Bellatrix warned Hermione against breathing a word to Nagini. With some reluctance, the young witch acquiesced, although her curiosity and anger continued to reside in her mind, tempting her to act imprudently.

Then there was Severus, the other object of her scorn. She had sent him a letter the very next day after her discovery, asking him if he knew her parents were alive. The Potions Master had yet to reply. Of course, she didn’t expect him to tell her the truth. She merely wanted him to tell Dumbledore that she knew and that it changed nothing. ‘I’m sure they were expecting it…’ After all, Dumbledore’s greatest flaw, Severus said, was that he insisted on seeing the goodness within those he knew. What he had been trying to tell her that night was: ‘Dumbledore should’ve killed you years ago.’

Turning the page, Hermione decided to leave that topic aside for now. Despite racking her brain to come up with new hypotheses about her parents’ whereabouts and insights about her associates’ next move, she realized she didn’t have enough information to go on. Rather, she turned the pages and began jotting down notes about today’s occurrences, focusing on the peculiarities she had witnessed.

She started with Nagini and her interest in the imprint; the snake’s insistence over the matter and occasional probing gaze, wanting to take a scoop of the brunette’s thoughts. She thought about what other truths Nagini could be hiding from her, how many lies the woman had told her, and this new rift between them, and how to navigate her interactions with the woman moving forward.

Next, she detailed Narcissa and Bellatrix’s confrontation, highlighting the hostility and plausible reasons for it, and how their mutual disdain could affect Hermione’s plans with Narcissa. She wrote about her conversation with Yaxley, noting the subtle inquiries and observations that hinted his interest in working with her hadn’t exactly waned. And in turn, how her interest in him was growing too. Lastly, her thoughts turned to Macnair and what he said about Bellatrix being Lestrange in name instead of Black.

Each encounter would have warranted more precise analysis if not for the distracting stares from a group of lycanthropy-infected wizards. Their persistent scrutiny grated on her nerves, disrupting her concentration.

“Is there a problem?” Hermione asked, raising her voice slightly to draw their attention.

Deep down, she hoped for a positive response. She wanted them to taunt her about something trivial, like her height or the half-mask she wore. Perhaps they would jest about her being a half-Death Eater, given that only the upper half of her face was hidden. The surge of extra energy coursing through her veins fueled a desire for confrontation, a longing to unleash her magic, if only a fraction, and wipe any trace of insolence from their expressions.

“Oh, no, Miss, not at all,” replied a woman with a demure smile. “We were just wondering if you’d care for a bowl of stew; the cooks have just started serving.”

A contemptuous smirk appeared on Hermione’s lips; she knew well that wasn’t what they were talking about moments ago. “What kind of meat is in it?” she asked, remembering what Rodolphus had mentioned earlier.

‘Better not be something weird like—’

“Kelpie’s” the woman answered.

‘—f*ck.’

Why these wizards couldn’t eat normal things?

Still, her stomach growled at the prospect of food; she hadn’t eaten anything since early morning. “Right, yes,” she replied diplomatically, deciding not to dwell on the peculiarities of wizard cuisine. “And please, send another bowl to Madame Lestrange’s tent. Announce yourself before stepping in and state that the Warden sends her food.”

One of the men acknowledged her instructions and gestured for the young woman to follow the Death Eater’s orders. He then indicated the communal dining area, alternatively, he offered to have her meal taken to her accommodations. The young witch doubted that Bellatrix would like to see her right now.

The stew, though somewhat unusual in flavor, was surprisingly palatable. The spices had probably masked most of the gamey taste of the beast.

Seated amidst dozens of individuals afflicted with lycanthropy, Hermione found the experience less discomforting than anticipated. However, she couldn’t ignore the unease of potentially encountering someone sharing Scabior’s abilities—someone with a ‘good nose’. A few exhibited visible signs of the condition, such as paleness and muscle weakness. Others were more obvious with their overgrown nails and sharp teeth; a few women displayed excess facial hair. Another individual appeared frozen in a midway transformation, evident from his hunched posture and cranial deformations. But overall, the physical signs for the majority here were not quite obvious. The young Death Eater released a disdainful chuckle, thinking that signs of lycanthropy on them were almost not quite obvious. Most of them ate like animals; their table manners reminded her very much of Ronald Weasley.

The grime on their clothes and manners was enough to put her off their shared malady. Throughout the dinner, her priority remained to keep a safe distance from the infected wizards. However, her fascination overcame her caution when she noticed a man with bandaged eyes being helped by two others. Her gaze fixed on his anguished expression and the network of crimson veins creeping from under the bandages toward his eyebrows and cheekbones.

“What happened to him?” Hermione asked the woman serving dinner.

“A golden fwooper attacked him when he was attempting to poach its eggs from their nest,” she answered. “Dreadful business, I tell ye. Poor lad, it was spread all over him when we stumbled upon him.”

The witch blinked, trying to process the information. “…spread all over him?” she questioned. fwoopers weren’t that big, what exactly was he spread with? She was on the verge of seeking clarification when a hand landed on her shoulder, interrupting her thoughts.

Looking up, she met Bellatrix’s gaze, holding a serious expression, and a flicker of something secretive lurking over. “Follow me,” the dark witch beckoned; the warm glow of the oil lamp softened her dark eyes. “I have something to show you.”

They walked through the bustling camp, weaving their way past tents and groups of chatting witches and wizards until they reached the edge of the forest. “Where are we going?” she asked, her gaze darting back to the fading lights of the camp behind them.

“You’ll see,” the woman replied, her steps purposeful as they delved deeper into the woods; the lamp’s light blinked every few seconds, creating a rhythmic pattern that matched the cadence of their footsteps.

Sensing an opening for conversation, Hermione brought up a topic that had been lingering in her mind. “How’s your hand?” she inquired, her concern genuine but also a subtle attempt to gauge the current state of their relationship.

“It’s fine,” Bellatrix responded curtly, her voice betraying a note of irritation. “I can flex my fingers now, not fully, but I’m getting there.”

A slight frown appeared on the brunette, ‘…that fast?’ No potion she knew could heal that fast, it took days for the nerves and muscles to heal fully. ‘Maybe the injuries weren’t as severe as we initially thought,’ she reasoned, ‘No, no, I saw her wounds—’

“I don’t like Kelpie,” the dark witch stated, carrying a bit of petulance in her words.

Her inner musings ground to a halt at the woman’s quiet implication. “I- I understand,” Hermione responded with a nod. “Next time, I’ll make sure they prepare something else. But you still need to eat tonight.”

Bellatrix’s retort was unexpectedly honest. “I didn’t say I didn’t eat it,” she admitted. Then, her gaze flickered over Hermione’s form, assessing her. “And look who’s talking! You’ve lost a few pounds only this week.”

The observation caught Hermione off guard, her hand instinctively going to her stomach as if to shield the subtle changes in her physique. She glanced down, realizing that the stresses and grief of the past week had indeed taken a toll on her body. “I suppose I have,” she acknowledged with a small shrug.

The lamp’s light suddenly dimmed, as if on the verge of dying, but Bellatrix’s quick shake brought it back to life with renewed brightness. A muttered curse slipped from her lips, directed toward Macnair, probably due to the faulty lamp.

“Did you find what you were looking for among the werewolves?” the dark witch inquired, curiosity in her voice. “Everyone in that camp is infected; I can only imagine you bombarded them with questions until their ears bled and their brains melted.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Did you see their faces? Any question with more depth than a puddle is bound to give them a headache,” she remarked with a wry smile. The small chuckle from her mentor managed to tug at something within her chest. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted after a moment of contemplation. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t have many questions. And I know they don’t have the answers I’d like to hear to the few I have.” Then, curious to understand the motive behind Lestrange’s line of questioning, the witch ventured, “Is this one of the reasons you brought us here?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Bellatrix replied, casting a meaningful glance at the witch. “We came to see the wyverns.”

The witch scoffed out loud at such a blatant lie.

“No, that’s not true,” she stated with a strong conviction.

Lestrange turned to face her fully, raising her eyebrows. “Oh?” she prompted, inviting the young Death Eater to elaborate.

“Yaxley didn’t send you, and our Lord, well, he’s preoccupied at the moment with other matters,” Hermione explained. “He doesn’t even have time to send someone to micromanage. And you, you’re not one to take the initiative unless it benefits you, Bellatrix. There’s nothing here that would benefit you— unless you have a grudge against Macnair and you wish to see him fail. As far as I know, that’s not the case. We didn’t have to come here and observe. Macnair is obligated to introduce the wyverns to the Lord and us in the coming days anyway. Our Lord will weigh in and decide whether or not to move with this strategy.” She paused for a moment, imagining what her mentor had said to Macnair after she sent her off to see the wyverns. “You know, I’m guessing you added to your case by telling Macnair something along the lines that the Dark Lord won’t bother even with the exposition if it’s not worth his time, and that was why we came here.”

Bellatrix’s soft laughter never failed to draw a short smile from Hermione.

Her dark eyes glimmered like polished onyx stones, full of mirth in the pupils but soft around the corners. It took a long time for the young witch to decipher its meaning. This was how pride looked on her mentor’s face. “Good, little pup. You’re paying attention,” she acknowledged, a hint of a smile lingering at the corners of her lips. “No, I didn’t bring you here to interview the werewolves. However, I thought it was something you might enjoy, if not enjoy, at least find practical,” she added before her tone shifted to a more serious note. “We came here because I need your help. More precisely, I need the pup’s help.”

This didn’t sound right; Bellatrix didn’t like to explain herself. And she never failed to demand aid with an air of entitlement. “For what?” Hermione inquired, holding her breath.

The dark witch fixed her with a knowing look, conveying the message for Hermione’s interpretation. The witch felt all her good mood drain away as her features hardened after she realized the implications. “I won’t be another dagger for you to wield,” she stated, shaking her head.

Bellatrix pivoted on her feet, fixing Hermione with a conceited glare that seemed to have sucked the light from the lamp, slowly descending them into darkness. “Why not? Hmm?” she retorted. “What are you going to do? What can you do to deny me? If you refuse, I’ll pull; you keep refusing, and I’ll find creative ways to make you do my bidding. You are all mine, girl. You can bark all you want, say that you won’t do it, but it doesn’t change the case that you will kneel and do it.”

The young witch was about to retort with a rhetorical question, pondering sarcastically if they hadn’t settled that score back at the tent. However, she then understood that this was a different layer. This was a warning, a test; the first tug of the leash. Her jaw clenched, her mind racing as she considered her response. “It’s true,” she admitted, her voice soft yet resolute. “I can’t fight you; I can only resist you— and trust me, Lestrange, I will resist you. But what you fail to see is that with such an approach, you’ll only provoke me to seek help from others,” she reasoned. “Is that really what you want?”

“Oh, but that’s why I made sure you took a vow, remember?” the dark witch countered sharply. “You can’t turn your back on me.”

“Nothing lasts forever, Bellatrix,” Hermione said in turn, still determined to fight back. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Ever since Hermione had independence of thought, she had held a firm belief that everything that happened was the result of chance and chaos, and not some sort of magical entity defining the human experience. However, if there had been a moment that she could say was too significant to be a coincidence—forces beyond her comprehension—it had to be this one. Hidden under the tall canopy of trees, they stood in a narrow space where the moon shed its unobstructed light as it emerged from behind the clouds.

It was almost as if fate truly existed beyond the young witch’s imaginary object of disdain. A sentient entity was orchestrating this tableau, allowing the moon to cast its luminescence as a warning of their proximity, of their breaths almost mingling with each other, of each other’s expressions, inviting both witches to see beyond their masks. Hermione noticed that the air between them was charged with something new, something soft and inviting. Fate was urging them to explore the depths of their connection.

The moonlight highlighted their features, casting shadows that accentuated their emotions. For a fleeting moment, Hermione glimpsed a new fragility in Bellatrix’s eyes, a glimpse of the gentle woman beneath the intimidating exterior. Likewise, she felt her defenses falter, the layers of pretense thinning in the gentle silver glow.

Each exhalation was a whispered promise of what could be.

The overwhelming urge to bridge the gap, to reach out and touch, to lay down their weapons and walls, enveloped them. It was as if they were held captive by each other’s spell, the need between them tangible yet feeble.

What both witches failed to understand was that moments like these were elusive, fleeting, to be grasped like catching a bird in flight. The spell was broken by hesitation itself, for both women still didn’t know what they wanted or how to want it.

Bellatrix was the first to move, her expression shifting back to its usual guarded demeanor as she resumed their walk with a last pained look exchanged between them.

Emerging from the dense forest, they stepped onto the edge where tall grass covered the vast expanse ahead. Bellatrix’s voice cut through the silence, dispelling the echoes of their shared vulnerability. “There’s a type of mushroom that grows beyond those mountains,” she began, her tone practical and businesslike. “It’s difficult to find, as it only grows at night and shrinks at dawn. You can’t use light orbs to find them or they’ll shrink as well. The only way to locate them is to use a pig to pick up the scent, or a little mole-like creature called a sniffer—I would’ve bought one, but my supplier is forever indisposed. Anyway, these mushrooms emit a peculiar cinnamon-like aroma, quite pleasant from what I’ve been told.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the young witch. “I don’t need your claws, little wolf. I need your nose.”

The witch’s attention was fixed on the distant mountains; their outlines were barely distinguishable in the haze.

“I see, and you just couldn’t say that instead of seeking to provoke me?” she muttered curtly, finding it difficult to hide her exasperation. Wait, was this woman serious? They had trekked all this distance only to lay eyes on what seemed like nothing of great consequence. “You know, you could’ve simply pointed out the location of the mountains on the map. We didn’t have to come all this way just to catch a glimpse of faraway shadows.”

“I didn’t bring you here for that,” Bellatrix clarified, standing at the grass’ edge. “What I wanted to show you is this.” With a swift motion, she tossed the oil lamp ahead. The glass shattered on impact, igniting a sudden burst of flames that sent dozens of creatures spiraling into the night sky.

At first glance, they appeared to be luna moths, but as Hermione observed more closely, she realized they were something far more extraordinary. Their wingspans were larger, and the light emanating from their bodies was their own, not merely a reflection of the fire. “What are they?” she asked, her eyes widening in awe as the creatures emitted a dazzling array of multicolored lights, creating a mesmerizing display.

“They are known as Circe tears,” Bellatrix explained. “The males spend their lives collecting specks of magic, feeding on them to enhance their brightness and size.”

“Why?” the young witch questioned, attempting to catch one of the creatures mid-flight.

“To attract the females,” Bellatrix answered, her gaze fixed on the swirling lights. “The brighter and larger they are, the more alluring they become to potential mates. It’s not their beauty that makes them relevant to us, but their capacity for creating magic. Here, let me show you.” She deftly caught one of the Circe tears Hermione had been trying to capture. With a practiced motion, she assumed a dueling stance and twisted her left hand as if preparing to cast a spell. “Ventus!” she incanted, and in an instant, the magical insect exploded in her fist in a burst of colors, leaving a shimmering trail of multicolored specks hanging in the air, attracting more insects around her to collect the traces of fey magic.

Concerned, Hermione asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But it seems I need to use my right hand if I want to cast,” she explained, annoyed with the result. “Try it yourself. You have to mimic the wrist movement as if you were holding your wand, then cast a spell; choose something simple.”

Catching one of the creatures, the brunette readied herself to cast. She aimed at a rock and said, “Alerte Ascendare!”

The magical insect exploded in her hand, and the rock didn’t quite ascend as intended. Instead, it abruptly jumped towards Hermione’s knees, hitting her with unexpected force. “Ouch!” she yelped, clutching her leg. “I guess it’s not as simple as it seems. I’m so accustomed to the weight and balance of my wand; this is much lighter and throws off my aim.”

“Try again,” Bellatrix encouraged, her smile revealing enjoyment at the witch’s discomfort. “Complex spells require much more magic than they have in them, so keep it simple; otherwise, it might not work.”

Gathering her focus, Hermione posed to cast again. “Avis,” she uttered, envisioning a graceful flock of birds materializing from her spell. However, instead of birds, a peculiar sight greeted them.

“What in Morgana’s tit* are those?” Bellatrix asked, her expression souring as they observed the strange creatures before them.

“I... I don’t know,” she stammered, her eyes wide with bewilderment. The creatures’ wings stuck out at odd angles. Their eyes, which were too large for their faces, blinked erratically, giving the impression they were about to pop out or slide off. “I started with birds in mind, but I think my thoughts got sidetracked by those pigs you mentioned earlier.” One of the creatures snorted loudly, flapping its single wing in a feeble attempt to take off, only to tumble back onto the ground in a puff of feathers and dirt.

“But then why do they look like hairy, malformed nightmares!” Lestrange exclaimed, perturbed at the sight. “Wait, is that one over there sh*tting an egg?—no, don’t bother answering. Obliterate them, now,” she commanded. “This is an affront to nature and magic, maybe sanity itself.”

Hermione took her wand out, aiming to undo her creation. The creatures, sensing impending doom, tried to scatter in a display of uncoordinated panic, but they couldn’t even walk in a straight line; they tumbled sideways or ran in circles with their uneven legs.

With a flick of her wand, the witch erased the deformations of her creation in a puff of smoke. Their odd antics left an awkward silence hanging in the air.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Hermione chuckled nervously. “I suppose magic can have a sense of humor too.”

“You call that sense of humor?” Bellatrix scoffed and began to walk ahead. “I sometimes wondered what went through that obsessive mind of yours. I shall wonder no more.”

The night seemed to hold its breath; the bizarre creatures forgotten in the amusem*nt of the magical mishap. As Hermione watched her mentor step further into the tall grass, a sense of fascination and intrigue stirred within her. Despite the shadows surrounding them, there was a lightness in the air, a playful energy that danced between them like the Circe tears were doing just now.

“Magic can be unpredictable at times, reminding us not to take ourselves too seriously. I assure you, it has nothing to do with the nature of my thoughts.”

The dark witch glanced behind her shoulder, acknowledging Hermione’s reply, a glimmer of innocent delight and half smile adorned her sharp features like a devilish black fox. And then, right there, the young witch felt her heartstrings being tugged by Madame Bellatrix’s perpetual allure, a magnetic pull that sometimes she found difficult to resist.

Despite the dark cloak hanging from her shoulders, it did a poor job of concealing the taut curves of Bellatrix’s body. The well-archived memories in Hermione’s mind filled in the gaps with vivid details, tracing the contours of her hips and the way her slim waist seemed to defy gravity under the weight of her bosom.

“There used to be so many of them close to Black Manor,” Bellatrix reminisced, staring at the magical insects. “My sisters and I would watch them in early spring and play with them as soon as we learned to cast spells. But they’ve been disappearing through the decades; now I rarely see them.”

“It must have been lovely,” Hermione remarked empathetically, her eyes reflecting a touch of longing. “You and your sisters sharing memories like these, cherishing the simplicities of life.” Her gaze drifted into the distance for a moment before turning to her companion. “I always wished for a sibling; someone to share such moments with. I once thought I had found this close relationship between Weasley and Potter. They were like family to me, for a while. But things changed after...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Do you know that feeling when you’re in a familiar place, yet something feels off? The air smells different, and the food and water you’ve been consuming every day suddenly taste different. The change is subtle at first, something you ignore—”

“—until it accumulates, and suddenly you can’t ignore it anymore. And you are left all by yourself wondering if it is you who had changed or them,” Bellatrix finished her sentence, seeming to understand the sentiment all too well.

“Yes,” Hermione nodded solemnly, feeling happy they were connecting on a deeper level. “I envy you, you know; at least you have a sibling with whom to weather the silent evils,” the young witch confessed, managing a wan smile despite the weight of her words. “Thank you for showing me this; it’s been quite a treat.” The moment carried a warmth that belied their usual exchanges, signaling a rare instant of understanding and appreciation between them.

A rather fat circe tear landed on her arm as if it were prompting her to use it. “Third time’s the charm,” Hermione muttered to herself, determined to try something new. With her body pulsing with energy and the very round and fat insect in her fist, she knew she could produce a bigger and more powerful spell.

“Aguamenti!” she incanted, twisting her wrist with a sharp turn and upward motion.

Water did emerge from her hand, but instead of a sharp jet, a powerful geyser surged forth, sending Hermione sprawling onto her back as it drenched the area around them. “Oh no,” she gasped, realizing her spell had soaked Bellatrix. “I’m so sorry; let me dry you off.”

The dark witch was shooting her a glare that could have melted steel. Not waiting for the woman to retaliate with a caustic remark, the brunette quickly pulled out her wand and cast a drying charm on her mentor.

“Of all the lessons and methods I've taught you, this is one mistake you keep repeating occasionally,” Bellatrix admonished her in a low voice. “Tell me, how must I expel this bad habit from you? And don’t use the insect as an excuse; most of that spell came from your own magic. You keep forgetting that controlled magic is—”

“—the needle piercing through the enemy's heart, sharp and true; brute force is the weapon of fools, wild and crude as a troll attempting to break a rock with its club,” Hermione recited, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Controlled magic wins battles; brute force loses the wizard, leaving them vulnerable, lost in despair. I know. I'll be more precise next time, I promise.”

Her dark eyes slowly softened, a sign that the witch’s earnestness had not gone unnoticed. “See that you do, little pup. Precision and control are the tools that make a true wizard formidable; no matter the occasion.”

Dozens of Circe tears broke their attention on each other as the little creatures began to hover around them, drawn by the spells the witch had cast. “Well, aren’t we tonight’s banquet,” she observed, a little amused by the unexpected turn of events.

Bellatrix didn’t seem surprised by their behavior, “Cast a light orb over there,” she instructed, nodding ahead.

A bright light orb manifested a few feet from them. The insects that were hovering near them suddenly flocked towards the light orb. “That’s why I didn’t ask you to conjure one before, and brought the oil lamp instead,” the woman explained. “They take every bit of magic they can. They’ll extinguish the orb before the magic runs out naturally.”

In the last few minutes, Hermione had almost forgotten that Bellatrix’s injury made her unable to summon magic. Her attention shifted to her mentor’s hand; the wounds hidden under a fine, black leather glove. “How do you do it?” she asked, unable to hold back her admiration. “How aren’t you afraid? I would’ve never dared to leave the manor if I knew I wasn’t capable of casting magic. I’d feel so exposed and vulnerable without my wand.”

Bellatrix met her gaze, wearing pride on her face. “Weakness only holds power if we grant it to our enemies,” she replied, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “True strength lies in mastering your vulnerabilities and never showing them to those who seek to exploit them.”

Many aspects of Bellatrix’s character were unsettling or plain hateful. Yet amidst those traits, there were hidden gems adding layers of complexity and nuance to her personality. Bellatrix possessed a temerity that knew no limits; she was never intimidated by her limitations. It wasn’t just bravery or arrogance that flowed in her veins but something more, perhaps intrepidness was the correct description. It was this fearless audacity that set her apart, making her both mighty and unpredictable.

This, and a few other things, Hermione liked seeing in Bellatrix, such as her wit and dark sense of humor; diligence, and focus. No one could deny that the woman was ferociously loyal too.

Touched by everything that had transpired tonight, Hermione reached for Bellatrix’s injured right hand.

‘No scent; no warmth… Where are they?’

“What are you doing?” her mentor asked, though she didn't resist the gentle touch.

“Tonight, we’re at our most powerful,” Hermione began softly. “This should’ve been a night for duels, for war, for potion making, for the creation of new spells; a night to test our limits until every last drop of magic fades from our beings.” The tip of her wand pressed against Bellatrix's palm. “But for once, you have chosen peace and beauty. For that, I’m grateful,” Hermione whispered.

The woman warned with a wry smile, “You’re going to cut my hand off.”

“I won’t. I am your student, after all,” the witch countered with a smirk.

“That's exactly why!” she exclaimed, half in jest.

“Hush. I need to focus.”

Her previous magical mishaps had given her a far-fetched idea. Perhaps, just perhaps, thoughts played a larger role in overall magic than just being contained in single spells like Crucio or Patronus.

“Episkey.”

No seasoned witch or wizard could ever deny that spells held a certain magnitude of power—an amateur wizard could raise a feather with his wand, while an experienced and powerful wizard could make a castle float. But other spells, such as jinxes, curses, and a few charms were created with a specific purpose. No matter how powerful Avada Kedavra was cast; the power level wouldn’t change the outcome once it hit its intended target. The same could be said about a Glamour charm or a Stupefy, one can only be so beautiful or be knocked out for so long.

Episkey was designed to heal superficial, and only, superficial injuries.

The charm wasn’t known to emit any light, but as Hermione cast it, blue tendrils of brightness enveloped Bellatrix’s hand. The spell pulsed gently, their light growing brighter with each passing second.

The decision to try healing Bellatrix’s wound was driven by goodwill and a selfish desire to quell the itch that magic was causing her. Later, Hermione would admit that it was also a one-of-a-kind opportunity— the year, the position of the moon, and, more importantly, the imprint curse created the perfect moment— to put months of private research to the test.

Bellatrix stared at her hand, twisting her wrist and curling her fingers. She then removed her glove, revealing a hand that looked perfectly healthy, as though no damage had ever been done.

“I honestly didn’t expect it to work,” Hermione confessed.

It wasn’t supposed to work, that was what the young witch wanted to say. And it seemed that Bellatrix was thinking along those lines as well.

This was the problem with goodwill and positive results: when the outcome was too good to be true, questions were bound to arise.

“I’m glad it did, however,” Hermione added, attempting a smile, though only a nervous grimace emerged.

Bellatrix’s gaze locked onto her, unreadable but intense, as though she was scrutinizing every breath, blink, and twitch the young witch made.

“I read this theory in an ancient tome I have, ‘The Unbreakable Boundaries of Magic’ by Franz Dubois.” The tome was actually in her satchel; Hermione kept it always close to her despite it belonging to the Malfoys. “One chapter mentions that with the right environment and expertise, the caster can expand the spell's power and intended purpose. I thought it was rubbish, until now.”

Her explanation seemed to appease Bellatrix, who now looked thoughtful. “You won’t tell anyone what you did here, do you understand?” she said. To emphasize the severity of her demand, a silver thread materialized, glowing brightly between them.

Secrecy, that was all Lestrange wanted—no further explanations.

A quiet breath escaped Hermione's lips as she nodded. “I swear I’ll never share this with anyone else,” she agreed, feeling too relieved to challenge her mentor’s demand.

The thread connecting vanished in specks that soon the insects around them took with gusto.

The quiet rustle of grass took their attention from one another and directed them to the origin of the sound. There, under the moonlight and the faint glow of circe tears, a group of mooncalves emerged, their grey fur and big blue eyes gleaming like crystal balls.

“They’ve come to feed,” Bellatrix remarked. “We should leave, there might be some Herbologist trailing after them to collect their dung.” Hermione made a questioning expression, prompting further explanation. “It’s known as the best fertilizer for magical plants.”

…

For someone who often mocked Hermione for having a mental encyclopedia, Bellatrix seemed to possess one of her own.

The next morning didn’t start well for Hermione. She woke up to the overwhelming scent of her imprint, which seemed to be compensating for yesterday’s absence. Every air molecule within the tent carried the unmistakable essence of Bellatrix. While the intensity of the aroma wasn’t entirely unwelcome, it was undeniably distracting, almost like a haze clouding her mind. She felt compelled to leave the tent until the air had dissipated, but not before she and her mentor had a brief exchange about breakfast and the procurement of facilities for personal hygiene.

Never before in their time together had she smelled Bellatrix’s scent so strongly as she did that morning. Once outside the tent, it lingered in her nostrils as though it had stuck in her lungs. But even stranger was the sudden disappearance of the same scent when she returned to the tent an hour later, despite Lestrange still standing inside.

Hermione was at a loss for words, too perplexed by it to do anything but ruminate over possible explanations. But no sensible answer came to her. Tired of staring at an empty spot, she moved on, preferring to observe from afar the telltale signs of how lycanthropy affected the witches and wizards with the full moon only a few hours away. The range of symptoms, although not drastic, was evident. Their faces displayed anger, anxiety, and hostility. Others looked sickly, shivering with fever as if they were suffering a terrible flu. A few faced their disgrace with good humor, stopping to howl and bark at the sky before resuming their chores. Then, there were the ones like herself, who sat and observed, their expressions blank, as if they too saw the vileness in their infection.

What further piqued her interest were the few couples holding hands, kissing, seemingly blissful amidst their disgrace. Hermione pondered whether they chose their partners or if the imprint curse forced them together. ‘No one that is forced to be together could look that happy.’ Riona had said the imprinting phenomenon was very rare, yet not so rare that someone living among werewolves could miss witnessing it at least once during their lifetime. ‘My situation is far rarer than that. Not only do I carry the capacity for imprinting, but I imprinted on the woman with the worst reputation in the entire country. What are the odds of that, I wonder?’

The rest of the morning passed in near silence between the two witches, at some point, Hermione offered to help with whatever potion Bellatrix was concocting. Her offer was met with a ‘sod off, mudblood, I don’t need you,’ and little eye contact. Harshly rebuffed and with little else to occupy her, Hermione immersed herself in her books. Midway through her readings, she glanced up from the pages to notice that Bellatrix’s cot remained untouched—a silent proof of her mentor's sleepless night. She looked around the tent, trying to figure out what kept Bellatrix busy the entire night.

In her fruitless search, she stared at the woman in question as she knelt in front of a cabinet beside the table becoming increasingly cluttered with scrolls, vials, and potion ingredients. A disapproving look appeared on Hermione’s features the moment Lestrange pulled out a bottle of spiced rum and poured copiously into a goblet. It was unsettling to witness how, with the first sip of rum, the woman’s features mellowed, almost making her look ‘happy’; the tension cramped on her shoulders melted away. It was as though only alcohol could cleanse her bad mood and worries.

“Is that really necessary?” Hermione asked, unable to keep the judgment from her tone. It wasn’t the first time she thought her mentor indulged too much and too often with wine and spiced rum; and just two days ago, she saw her drinking half a bottle of hellebore-gin during dinner.

Bellatrix glanced at her over the rim of the goblet, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Necessary? Perhaps not. Effective? Absolutely.” She took another gulp, savoring the drink before setting the goblet down. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

If only Hermione had been able to keep her emotions in check during this brief exchange, she would have drawn a minimal but crucial parallel. But she bristled at the condescension, stung that the camaraderie of the previous night hadn’t followed them into this day.

When late afternoon arrived, Bellatrix decided it was time to Apparate to the mushroom sites, bringing the tent with them. The change of scenery did nothing to shift the quiet and morose atmosphere surrounding them. Lestrange continued dividing her attention between tinkering with potions and drinking herself stupid. Meanwhile, Hermione settled into her cot, nibbling a piece of cheese, and jotting down thoughts in her journal whenever inspiration struck.

‘You should tell her…’ The always untimely, antagonistic voice made its appearance. ‘It’ll help you avoid future misunderstandings.’

Bellatrix had no right to know, Hermione thought, staring at the writing in her journal. Moreover, after what she had said yesterday, telling Lestrange now would only make her look more suspicious in the woman’s eyes.

‘What’s this?’ the voice chided. ‘You worry she might think of you as a compulsive liar? You shouldn’t worry, dear! She’s thought that for a long time now.’

Her grip tightened on her quill, discomfort bubbling up inside her. She glanced at the dark witch, who was about to finish the bottle.

‘You created this problem. The least you can do is move your first chess piece before Nagini does. And if she doesn’t, not harm done then.’

Taking a deep breath to steady her thoughts, Hermione acknowledged that however irritating the voice in her head was, it wasn’t wrong. She did need to broach the topic with Bellatrix before they returned to the manor.

Another furtive look at the dark witch showed her gulping the rum from her goblet as though she were in competition with herself. ‘I’d rather have this conversation when she’s sober.’ Nonetheless, the sooner she could get through it, the better. Summoning her courage, she sealed her journal, vanished it, and approached the dark witch.

“Lestrange,” Hermione called with a firm voice, “there’s something I want to tell you.”

The dark witch turned around, slightly bleary-eyed but still focused. “What is it?” she asked with good articulation.

“Nagini offered me a solution; a way to undo the silver thread on my arm. She said I only need to ask.” She paused, gauging the woman’s expression. “I’m telling you this because—”

“—Let her try,” Bellatrix interrupted with a contemptuous smile and cold, hard eyes.

In the short pause that followed, Hermione understood that Lestrange would relish the challenge if Nagini did try to break their connection, showing the confidence that the dark witch had in her hold over the brunette.

“I won’t,” she stated. “I’m not stupid, Bellatrix. I know that Nagini can’t do it; not without our Lord’s help. And that’s a hefty price to pay for everyone involved. This is why I didn’t tell you anything yesterday. But, well, today I’ve thought better of it. I think that once we return to the manor, she might approach you alone and lie to you, claiming that I was interested in the offer with the intention to sow suspicion or discord.”

Bellatrix’s sharp eyes narrowed as if wondering why Nagini would seek to do that. But very soon, an edge of bitterness pursed her lips. “That snake is in love with you,” she claimed, “At the very least, infatuated with you.”

There was nothing she would like to do more right now than to refute that statement. “I know,” the witch whispered, feeling guilt for Nagini’s feelings.

It would be easy to place all the blame on Nagini. It was her fault for falling in love with Hermione knowing well that she couldn’t reciprocate with equal measure. Not to mention, she was reminded of it once more before proceeding. Nagini herself said it didn’t matter. Yet still, the witch thought it wouldn’t be fair because she had led the woman on despite knowing her friend’s growing affection.

“Don’t make that face; you shouldn’t judge me,” Hermione chastised the dark witch, who wasn’t making it easier to digest her guilt. “You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that at some point in your life you wouldn’t have done something similar— no, wait, stop, and listen to me!” she requested, watching the onset of Bellatrix’s snarl. “You at the very least should understand me better; you were at Azkaban. You were in a cell for fourteen years with nothing else to do but stare at the wall, with no one to talk to, nothing to distract you away from your thoughts and the moans of tormented souls as the Dementors sucked whatever will to live they had left. You know very well that loneliness is one hell of a circ*mstance, Bellatrix. If Nagini had been in that cell with you, both of you would’ve—”

“Am I understanding this right, mudblood?” Bellatrix snapped. “Are you trying to draw a correlation between me locked at Azkaban and you, what? You, living the comfortable life in the manor, tended by dozens of f*cking elves, ready to serve your every need. Are you saying that the comfort and mental stimulation brought by everything around you were so unbearable to you, that you had to run into the arms of that vapid c*nt?”

“No, not at all! I’m drawing the similarities between our little hells. The ones that live in our minds; the incessant torture of our thoughts driving us mad as there’s nothing there to shut them up. You know what I’m talking about. Loneliness permeated with helplessness, fear, uncertainty, anger, pain. I know, at least now, that you aren’t made of stone. At some point, you must’ve felt that.” A hint of admission flickered across the woman’s stern expression. “Do you see? That’s why you can’t resent me for choosing her when— well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Say what you want to say,” Bellatrix demanded, her voice still edged with irritation. “When what?”

“When I had no one else,” Hermione finished softly. “When I was drowning in my thoughts, my fears, Nagini was there, offering a way out, a momentary escape. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t fully regret it either.”

Lestrange puckered her nose. “Then you’re a sentimental fool.”

The witch’s gaze didn’t waver. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But sometimes, sentimentality is the price we pay for understanding ourselves.”

“You truly believe that’ll be the only price?”

The fact her mentor seemed to share her train of thought led to Hermione disclosing the other half of the truth. “I know you don’t like anything resembling muggle origins, but there’s a phrase that muggles often say which matches with your insinuations very well, it goes: heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “I’m hoping that won’t be the case, however. But if it is, now you know where’s coming from.”

The implications dawned on Bellatrix in a second, easing her anger. “You’re playing with dangerous emotions, little wolf. Don’t think for a moment that poetic wisdom will protect you from the consequences.”

“I’m not asking for protection,” Hermione replied, earnestly. “I’m asking for understanding and for you not to use this knowledge against me, much less against her. Please, don’t make me regret this conversation only because you couldn’t resist prodding her.”

The dark witch scoffed at the request, but then, with a reluctant grunt, she signaled her acquiescence.

Turning her attention back to the matter at hand, Bellatrix glanced at the time and declared, “It’s been five hours since sunset.”

That meant it was time.

“Alright, turn around then,” Hermione requested.

“For what reason?” the woman asked, puzzled.

“You said it yourself; my transformation is getting closer.” She crossed her arms, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. “I need to remove my clothes. I’d rather not tear them apart in the process.” She gestured for her mentor to comply. “So, please, turn around.”

Bellatrix frowned, not seeming to understand the purpose of the request. “Why are you getting shy all of a sudden? You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“And how would you know that?” she retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“I saw you, remember? After you turned back during the last full moon,” her casual tone carried a pinch of amusem*nt. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to hide—” Bellatrix released a throaty laugh, dark eyes assessing the young witch’s chest. “Really, girl, I’ve seen larger mosquito bites than whatever you have under your shirt.”

Hermione’s gasp was audible, her arms instinctively moving to cover her chest as she looked insulted. “We-well! That’s none of your business! Not everyone can be as well-endowed as you, with those bloody—” Her words faltered as she struggled to find a suitable retort; her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and indignation.

“—Oh, you like them,” Bellatrix stated, her voice dripping with arrogant certainty. She laughed a little more at the witch’s expression. “You oblivious little wolf; do you think that after all this time together, I wouldn’t notice how at times your eyes tend to gravitate towards me?” Her steps were deliberate, each one adding an element of intrigue. “At the beginning, I thought it was just typical witch envy—the poor mudblood resented not having the qualities that only centuries of good breeding can bestow; coveting what only beautifying charms can achieve for a short period!” She paused for effect, her features glimmering with mirth and satisfaction at her playful jab. Approaching closer to the flustered witch, she whispered, “But then I learned of your preference for witches and thought to myself, ah, it isn’t envy. It is lust; this adorable pup is experiencing the same strong desire wizards feel when they see them…”

Hermione lifted her chin defiantly, determined not to let this woman embarrass her any longer. “Then you know as well that your attributes have never been enough to sway me,” she stated, meeting the woman’s eyes head-on.

The dark witch’s fair features smoothed; a hint of understanding in her black eyes. “I know well, pup,” she responded quietly, the playful tone dissipating for an instant. Something in her expression made Hermione feel as though she was missing a significant part of the plot. The woman then walked past her; her steps purposeful yet measured. “I’m going out. I’ll give you a few minutes to prepare and return before the moon rises.”

The tent soon fell into silence, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside and the dimming crunch of leaves under her mentor’s retiring steps. Hermione let out a heavy groan, feeling her face growing warm again. “It’s not true…” She began to unbutton her blouse. ‘Right, well, maybe I did look once or twice. But how could I not? They are always there! They’re almost on full display with those dresses she sometimes wears! Only a blind man could ignore them.’

After shedding the rest of her clothes and folding them neatly before putting them into her satchel, Hermione glanced at the small mirror hanging from one of the tent’s poles. “Curse you, Lestrange. They’re not that small,” she muttered, watching her upper reflection. After lingering for a few more seconds of critical observation and concluding that she was indeed of average size, thank you very much, she moved on to pick up the quilt from her cot and drape herself with it.

Not knowing what to do with herself but standing there and waiting, the witch kept the banter alive, musing in her mind. ‘Her attributes not being enough to sway me? Merlin’s beard, Why did I say that? I should’ve stayed quiet instead of stupidly admitting she was right.’

In the past, Hermione would’ve jumped to blame that slip of the tongue on the curse, specifically the sentient wolf inside her, for the emotions she sometimes felt whenever Lestrange was close, were something beside her. But then, Riona told her that ‘the wolf’ wasn’t sentient and much less existed; it was all a creation of the young witch’s imagination as a way to cope with what had happened to her ever since she imprinted. She had no one else to blame for these indiscretions but herself.

“Are you ready?” Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying a newfound seriousness as she slid open the tent’s flap.

“Yes, now we wait,” Hermione replied, feeling a tingling on her skin the second she saw the woman entering. ‘…The imprint feels like it is connecting us further. We’re destined to be together. What agency I have left is bound to disappear eventually.’ What a sad future awaited her.

Without saying anything else, Lestrange walked to her working area and served herself another goblet with the last remains of the bottle.

‘…Oh joy, I’m destined to be with an alcoholic witch.’ half a mind to ask Lestrange if she would be capable of walking straight while gathering the mushrooms. ‘Considering that she didn’t sleep last night, she’d probably pass out halfway, and I’ll have to carry her back.’

“Your endurance, your resistance to pain,” Bellatrix began, her eyes narrowing as she regarded the witch. “It surprised me. It continued to surprise me during those first months. I burned you, flayed your skin, broke your bones, yet not once did you wail like the world was ending. Only one time you passed out, and that was due more to exhaustion than pain.” She paused, her voice dropping. “It impressed me. But it seems that the pain I caused you is nothing compared to the years of what you’ve endured every full moon.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’,” Hermione replied with a steady stare. “The transformation has made me more tolerant to other forms of pain, true. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t wishing for the pain to end every second I was feeling it. You were ruthless.”

“Don’t expect an apology,” the dark witch said, remorseless.

“I would never, Lestrange,” she shot back. “I knew what you were trying to do. You wanted me to run the other way, to give up.”

“I learned very early that you wouldn’t give up.” The woman’s admission was laced with appreciation. “Though it changed nothing. You still needed to learn how to endure—the dangers and consequences of battle. That stubborn temper of yours has served you well, along with the fact that your spellcraft wasn’t entirely flawed.”

Well, that was a surprise.

“Wasn’t entirely flawed? Madame Lestrange, is that a compliment I hear?” Hermione asked, a smirk playing on her lips, eyes gleaming between curiosity and challenge.

“Not at all,” she retorted with a grimace. “It’s merely an observation.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Bellatrix picked up her drink; the brown liquid touching her lips every few seconds. Unable to stay still, she paced around the tent, her eyes flitting from one object to another—books, trinkets, maps, even the furniture seemed to hold her interest— while she continued nursing the rum in her hand. The firelight cast flickering shadows on the tent walls, adding to the feeling of unease. Hermione guessed the anticipation of her transformation causing her mentor to be so restless; the very thought of it gnawing at her composure.

But the next instant, the brunette learned not to try to guess the obnoxious witch’s thoughts whenever she was drunk.

“A compliment…” Bellatrix spoke, barely glancing at Hermione, her voice softer but no less grave. “A compliment would be—a hypothetical one, mind you—that despite everything I’ve said earlier, I’m still trying to recall how you look under that quilt.”

The statement created an almost deafening silence.

It would fall short of saying that Hermione despised the woman’s ‘compliment’. It was hard to explain what exactly made her angrier. Maybe it was because Bellatrix didn’t have the nerve to look her in the eye, her gaze flitting away as if the words were inconsequential. Maybe it was because Bellatrix didn’t say it like she meant it, her tone void of genuine feeling. Maybe it was because of Bellatrix’s cold indifference toward the unresolved emotions Hermione still had for Nagini, emotions that had lingered like a ghost between them not an hour ago. Maybe it was because Bellatrix was bloody drunk and the alcohol had softened her mouth, making her say things she would come to regret the next day. Or just f*cking maybe it was the simple fact that the ‘compliment’ wasn’t a compliment at all! As always, Bellatrix didn’t fail to make it about herself!

“It’s like you said, absolutely hypothetical,” Hermione replied, her tone cold but her eyes blazing with unspoken emotions.

For a change, the young witch welcomed the arrival of her transformation with open arms, a sense of anticipation tingling in her veins. “Anyway, it’s here,” she claimed, kneeling.

It began with her spine splitting in two, stretching as if it were a bowstring drawn taut, each vertebra elongating and shifting painfully into place. The muscles tore apart as easily as thin paper, each movement accompanied by a symphony of agonizing sensations. That was how it always felt, just not this time. The pain was absent, masked by a numbing spell Bellatrix was casting on her. Hermione’s lips moved, wanting to express gratitude, but all that emerged was a low growl, raw and primal.

As the transformation reached its climax, the young werewolf opened her eyes, meeting Bellatrix’s analytical gaze. “Stand up, let me see you,” she commanded, her expression a composition of curiosity and calculation.

Hermione rose from the ground, her body tumbling sideways as she tried to regain her balance; her pointy ears grazing the tent’s ceiling. “Hmm, not so much of a little pup anymore, hmm?” the woman observed with a smirk playing on her lips, acknowledging the noticeable change in the witch’s height.

If the werewolf could smile, she would have. Bellatrix, who had always towered over her, now barely reached below Hermione’s chest.

Her nose quivered, taking sharp intakes of air. The familiar scents surrounding the dark witch were pulsing, drawing the werewolf closer, though now they were covered under the fumes of her drunkenness. Lestrange’s breath held the taste of clove, nutmeg, and anise; a light taste of oak too mingled with the flavors. Another sharp inhale and the werewolf noticed the last traces of that peach lotion lingering on the woman’s neck and wrists.

A low pleasant growl erupted from her strong mandibles when the woman reached out to touch her fur, her fingers tracing the thickness and texture thoughtfully. “Your fur is far thicker than the few werewolves I’ve seen before; they never failed to have bald spots here and there,” she remarked, her tone betraying fascination and approval.

Bellatrix digging into her sternum caused short shivers to run through the brunette’s body. Right there, she made a discovery: her skin was rather sensitive to contact.

“Stretch your right arm forward; then rotate your wrist, slowly,” the dark witch requested, feeling the tendons under the werewolf’s taut muscles. “Your muscle structure is robust— nothing close to a male shape, but that’s to be expected. While you seem to possess great strength, you lack the muscle coordination for subtle movements,” she mused. “It is as I thought, you can’t cast wandless magic in this shape. You can only rely on your claws as a defense.” She took the werewolf’s paw and squeezed hard over the fingertips, causing her claws to extend fully. “But my, what a pair of fine weapons you do have here. Maybe next time we put them to use, yes?”

The werewolf bared her sharp fangs at Bellatrix in defiance, eliciting a throaty laugh from the woman. “Ah, why must you resist, my little wolf?” she purred, circling Hermione with predatory grace. “You are already mine.”

Suddenly, the fur around her neck and back bristled. Hermione pivoted on her paws, producing a grave growl and snatching her tail back from Bellatrix’s hold.

A sharp smile formed on her red lips as she watched the werewolf tuck her tail between her legs. “No need to make a fuss! I just wanted to see its length,” she said, her voice full of mocking amusem*nt. “I already know you’re a girl anyway.”

Deciding that it was enough fun, Bellatrix went to the desk and reached for a leather sack. “Here let me give you a sample of what we are looking for.” Her hand unfurled to show a white mushroom; the werewolf reclined to sniff it. “You got it?”

Yes, she did, but she wouldn’t say it smelled anything close to cinnamon.

“Good,” Bellatrix muttered.

Hermione took a step back, ready to begin the search.

“Wait a moment,” the woman called. Presently, she reached for the werewolf’s long arms, tracing the contours of her muscles, traveling up to her biceps, and giving them a light squeeze before grasping her shoulders. The werewolf, stood still, perturbed by the action but too curious to see what was the woman going with it. Her heart rate spiked when the dark witch caressed her neck, delving her hands into her mane.

The sensations were so pleasant and distractive that Hermione had forgotten that Bellatrix Lestrange was the scorpion sitting under the rock.

When would she ever learn?

The werewolf felt a heavy weight bearing down on her neck, holding her captive in Bellatrix's piercing gaze. “This right here, pup; this is your secret!” she hissed into Hermione’s ear, clutching the silver thread tightly in her right hand. “You have no f*cking right to ask me for honesty when you have yet to explain to me why I feel as if your magic feeds into mine each time we touch each other! Or why the f*ck your magic carries a distinct scent. It’s been utterly maddening. And yet, I find myself—” She paused, refusing to divulge more about her unsettling experiences with the magical connection they shared. Her eyes closed briefly, and she took a deep breath before reopening them. “You’re like a lightning bolt feeding my power. For months, I believed it was something else giving an extra jolt; that is until I realized it had always been you.”

Her black eyes narrowed, absorbing the whiteness surrounding them. “But you already knew all that, didn’t you? All this time together, you've gone to great lengths to avoid physical contact because you knew this would happen! For months, you got away with it, until that night in Fawley’s basem*nt. I can still recall the fear on your face, how even then, with your fingers broken and face bruised, you were hesitant to be touched. I too remember that very same look of fear the day at your home, after I made a comment about how you smelled. And yesterday, I don’t know whether to believe you that you read it in a book or if that neat trick was part of those particular abilities of yours. Though I must say, you certainly looked a little nervous. Of course, that is nothing compared to the fact that you’re the cause my magic seems to come alive every time you f*cking make me angry!”

She took another deep breath; the frustration looking to wane in her. “I wouldn’t have mentioned any of this if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve been extremely distracted these last three days. Today was the worst day of all; I’ve hardly made any progress. I’d ask you, if you have control over it, to stop it. But, somehow, I doubt you can.” Her nails raked behind the werewolf’s ears to show that Bellatrix had sharp claws of her own too. “But then, you must be wondering why I waited until now to tell you. Hmm? Well, that’s because now you can’t talk; you can only listen. It spares me your pathetic displays as you try to come up with more lies! And your f*cking lies would’ve made me angrier; I might’ve resorted to—” She stopped, rather leaving the sentence for Hermione to complete. “The other reason is, you see, that I made you a promise a while ago. A promise I’ll continue to uphold: I won’t force you to tell me what exactly you are. The truth has to come from your mouth, because I know one day you’ll tell me everything of your own volition. As for now, until that day arrives, I don’t want to hear you making demands you don’t deserve and scowling at me in return whenever I decide to be honest with you! Is that clear?”

Yes, yes, now the situation was crystal clear to Hermione: all these days, perhaps weeks, months, Bellatrix had been numbing the symptoms with whatever alcoholic concoctions she could find.

The hold on the werewolf’s mane tightened. “Is that clear? I asked,” her mentor pressed, demanding a response.

Hermione was too unsettled to do anything more than nod.

It turned out, Bellatrix had been feeling their shared connection far longer than the werewolf had estimated.

“Very well. Let’s go now, the moon won’t wait for us,” her mentor announced. “And hopefully, it won’t be a long night.”

Her mind was racing as the werewolf took the first step, trying to tie the dates and instances where Bellatrix had been behaving oddly. She was so focused on her thoughts that she didn’t even protest when she noticed the woman had collared her; she was too numb to keep her word and prove that a leash could be pulled from either end.