Chapter Text
18 June 1996
Bellatrix Black woke before the house did. That alone should have been a warning that today would not be like the others that had come before it.
She laid still beneath silk sheets, eyes fixed on the carved canopy above her while Black Manor breathed around her. The ancient clock on the east wall ticked on, steady and patient. Her heart did not match it.
Something restless stirred under her skin, even more so than usual. She exhaled and then slowly, deliberately, she turned her wrist.
The numbers glowed faintly against her pale skin.
11:00
‘Eleven hours.’
Her breath hitched. After a lifetime of knowing this day would come, of pretending she wasn’t counting down to it, it was finally here. Her soulmate. Her intended. The witch fate had decided would be impossible to walk away from. And yes, she knew it was a witch, and an extraordinary one if they could handle her. She wasn’t easy to love, even she knew that.
Bellatrix smiled, sharp and unapologetic. Ever since she was a young girl she’d been told not to interfere. No plans. No manipulation. No subtle nudging of destiny, however tempting that might be for a Black.
“Live the day as normal,” her mother had said. “Magic knows where it’s taking you.”
Bellatrix had despised that advice. She asked and the world said yes without blinking. She didn’t answer to anyone, not even her sister, but apparently she answered to destiny, like a bloody commoner.
Still, despite her annoyance, energy buzzed through her veins as she swung her legs out of bed. If this was the last morning she woke alone, she would meet it upright and moving.
She dressed quickly in tailored black trousers and a crisp blouse, her hair pulled back with surgical precision. No softness. No indulgence. Whoever fate had chosen would meet Bellatrix Black exactly as she was.
The corridors echoed as she made her way down, the scent of strong tea and parchment curling through the air long before she reached the dining room.
Narcissa sat at the head of the table, immaculate as ever, pale fingers sorting through a neat stack of reports. Bellatrix watched two nervous runners come in and place documents beside her and then flee like prey sensing teeth.
Bellatrix moved to the opposite side of the long table and threw herself into a chair, boots slamming onto the table, before she pulled her dagger out to spin lazily between her fingers.
“You’re up early,” Narcissa said without looking up.
“Big day,” she said lightly. “It’s the day I meet them. Well—her. Definitely her.”
Narcissa hummed, distracted, eyes scanning figures and names. Another messenger slipped in, whispered something, and vanished.
Bellatrix’s dagger stilled mid-spin.
“How long?” Narcissa asked.
Bellatrix lifted her wrist, looking at the numbers like she hadn’t already looked at them twenty times and knew exactly how long.
“Ten hours.”
“That explains the bounce then. You look like you’re about to set something on fire.”
“I’m just… excited,” Bellatrix said, quieter than she meant to.
Narcissa finally looked up. Her eyes flicked from the glowing numbers to Bellatrix’s face, assessing as always.
“Another month for me,” she said calmly. “Plenty of time for fate to regret its decision.”
Bellatrix snorted. “Oh, I can’t wait. Maybe then you won’t be so insufferably superior.”
“No need to be dramatic,” Narcissa replied smoothly. “Bellatrix, what are your plans for today?”
“Lucius. Dolohov.” Bellatrix grinned, teeth sharp. “They still owe us five thousand galleons.”
The air cooled a degree.
“What did they want the money for again?” Narcissa asked.
“Some ritual to bring their lord back to full strength, and to restore his family home.”
“And we gave them money for that?”
“They only mentioned the renovation when they asked,” Bellatrix said breezily. “I learned the rest because Rabastan talks when he’s not screaming.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
She shrugged. “We’d already handed it over. I didn’t see the point.”
“Did the ritual work?”
“I assume so. The death eaters have been quiet since the tournament at the school, though, so they’re either planning or pouting. I can always torture someone to confirm.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Narcissa said coolly. “We’ll just start vetting our loans more carefully. If he’s truly returning, I won’t be seen choosing sides. In fact, stop by the Ministry today, and donate the same amount. Then at least it’s an even playing field.”
Bellatrix rolled her shoulders. “Anything else?”
“Tell them it’s their final chance. If they fail to pay in full—”
“They disappear,” Bellatrix finished, leaning forward with a grin. “I’ll handle it if needed.”
“They’ve forgotten who actually owns them,” Narcissa said. “Remind them.”
Bellatrix stood, stretching. “Gladly.”
“Do what you want with them,” Narcissa added mildly. “Then check on the Knockturn shops. Rent is due.”
Bellatrix paused, eyes flaring.
“I’m not your assistant. I’m Head of House Black same as you. I just enjoy getting my hands dirty, while you prefer ordering everyone around.”
“And Andromeda?” Narcissa asked, unfazed.
“She keeps us from killing each other. Where is she anyway?”
“Visiting the Tonks.”
“That muggleborn family she pulled out of the first war? The ones Voldemort nearly slaughtered.”
“Yes. She still feels responsible.”
“It wasn’t our fault,” Bellatrix muttered. “Father had just died. We hadn’t even taken over yet. It wouldn’t happen now.”
“I know,” Narcissa said softly. “She’s always had a kind heart.”
Bellatrix’s expression darkened. “And one day, it’ll get her killed if we’re not careful.”
Bellatrix rose, smoothing her sleeves.
“Anything else? Or may I get on with pretending today is normal?”
Narcissa waved her off. “Just try to keep us out of the papers.”
Bellatrix smiled.
“No promises,” Bellatrix said as she left, summoning a handful of junior members who’d been hovering nervously near the doors.
“Diagon Alley,” she said, brisk and decisive.
O – o – o - o
Bellatrix stepped into Diagon Alley with an ease that surprised even her, glancing at her wrist the moment she arrived.
‘Nine hours.’
She moved through Diagon Alley like a blade being drawn, slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore. People felt her before they saw her. Conversations faltered. Shop doors closed a touch too quickly. Eyes dropped to cobblestones, to ledgers, to literally anything that wasn’t her face.
They knew who she was.
One of the three richest witches in Britain, sure. But that wasn’t what mattered. Gold could be stolen, power could be challenged, but Bellatrix Black’s attention, once earned, was a death sentence.
If she was looking for you, you just hadn’t caught up to the fact you were already finished.
She smiled faintly as fear rippled outward.
‘Good,’ she thought. ‘Fear keeps them honest.’
“Find them,” she said, voice calm, almost bored.
Half the men behind her vanished instantly, slipping into side streets and shadows without a word. The rest stayed close, trained well enough to know when distance was needed and when it was a mistake.
While they worked, Bellatrix entertained herself.
Lunch came first. Her favourite obscenely expensive café that prided itself on discretion and absolutely did not notice the bloodstains on its regulars. She ate slowly, corrected the owner’s books while she chewed, purely out of spite, and left without paying.
Bellatrix Black didn’t pay with currency, she preferred to make deals.
Then she went to Knockturn Alley and collected rent, quickly and efficiently. Not because Narcissa had told her to. Bellatrix wasn’t an assistant. She was just bored. Two shopkeepers trembled, one quietly sobbing into his till.
‘Not bad for a few hours of effort,’ she thought.
By the time she emerged from Gringotts, vaults noticeably heavier, the men had returned, flushed and eager.
“Found them,” one said. “Lucius is at the Ministry.”
Bellatrix stopped mid-step.
“Of course he is,” she muttered.
“Dolohov’s meeting him there tonight. A few other Death Eaters too.”
Her lip curled. “And what idiocy are they attempting now?”
“They’re after something in the Department of Mysteries.”
Bellatrix bit back a curse.
The Ministry was… inconvenient.
The House of Black stayed neutral on purpose. Politics were a game for idiots and martyrs. The arrangement had always been simple: the House of Black didn’t meddle, and the Ministry pretended not to notice the underworld breathing beneath its feet.
Upsetting that balance got messy.
‘But if I’m subtle,’ she thought, ‘no one will know I was there.’
And if things went wrong—well. Death Eaters had an impressive history of unfortunate accidents.
She turned sharply. “Which of you have access to the Ministry without needing to sign in?”
Three hands shot up.
She pointed. “You. You. And you.”
They stiffened.
“You’re with me. We’re interrupting their little gathering.”
Then, to the rest, a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Go back. Narcissa may need you.”
No arguments, no hesitation, they just scattered like smoke, leaving Bellatrix with the three she’d chosen.
Bellatrix adjusted her gloves as they apparated, separately of course, never together, never traceable.
O – o – o – o
Bellatrix walked into the Ministry atrium and immediately checked her wrist.
The numbers glowed. She could have sworn they were brighter than the last time she’d looked.
03:00
‘Three hours.’
She stared at the timer longer than she meant to. Long enough for something unreadable to flicker across her face. Then she turned away and made the House of Black’s donation, just generous enough to buy silence.
Two hours later, the corridors had thinned. Bellatrix hadn’t managed to find Lucius. He was clearly avoiding her. But, she knew where he was meant to meet Dolohov and the others. So, she waited in the shadows near the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, patient as a spider.
Bellatrix heard him before she saw him. Lucius Malfoy’s footsteps were unmistakable. Measured. Confident. A man who believed titles and silk-lined pockets still made him untouchable.
‘How quaint,’ she thought.
Bellatrix stepped out as he rounded the corner.
“Lucius,” she said pleasantly. “It’s been a while.”
He froze.
The colour drained from his face so fast it was almost impressive. If translucence were possible, he’d have managed it.
“Madam Black,” he stammered, pulling himself together just enough to incline his head. “I—this is rather an inconvenient time.”
She smiled.
“Is there ever a convenient time to see me?”
Her heels clicked softly as she closed the distance. “My sister would like her money. She sent me to collect.”
Lucius swallowed.
“Yes—of course. I have it. Every galleon.” He offered a thin, brittle smile. “Meet me at Gringotts tomorrow morning. I’ll transfer it personally.”
Bellatrix tilted her head, studying him.
“Very well.”
Relief flickered across his face, until she raised her wand. The corridor shuddered as invisible force slammed Lucius into the stone wall. He gasped, feet lifting off the floor as bands of magic snapped tight around his throat and chest, pinning him there like a specimen.
Bellatrix stepped closer, voice dropping. It was intimate now, almost gentle.
“Don’t play games with me, Lucius.”
His hands clawed uselessly at the air.
“Today is a very big day for me,” she continued calmly, eyes glittering. “I’m feeling generous, that is the only reason you’ll leave this corridor conscious.”
She leaned in, close enough for him to see his terror reflected back at him.
“That—and I’m curious why you’re skulking around the Department of Mysteries.”
Her smile sharpened.
“If you aren’t at Gringotts tomorrow morning, I will destroy you. Ex-husbands don’t get free passes.”
A thoughtful hum.
“If you don’t believe me ask Rodolphus.”
Lucius nodded frantically, magic still crushing the breath from his lungs. Bellatrix flicked her wrist, and the pressure vanished. Lucius collapsed, coughing, shaking as he dragged air back into his chest.
“Good,” she said lightly. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Before he could speak, before he could even straighten his robes, she melted back into the shadows, magic folding around her like silk.
She followed him silently as he continued down the corridor, fear now dictating his pace. Bellatrix smiled to herself, already weighing how much blood she’d be willing to spill before the night was done.
Then Dolohov arrived. He moved like the corridor owed him room, flanked by two Death Eaters who laughed too loudly, wands already loose in their hands.
‘Right on schedule.’
They slipped through the wards with half-raised masks and full confidence, arrogance blazing bright enough to be seen from orbit. Bellatrix continued to follow without a sound.
She watched as their plan unraveled almost immediately, as Death Eater plans so often did. Bellatrix wasn’t at all surprised. Potter and his friends burst into the chamber and the boy hurled the prophecy to the floor, and the world seemed to tear itself apart. Glass detonated, orbs exploded into shrieking fragments of stolen futures. Shelves collapsed as spells ricocheted wildly, lighting the room in violent flashes.
Aurors poured in from the side corridors. Chaos bloomed. And then….Bellatrix saw her.
A young witch stood near the heart of it all. Curls wild, eyes bright with focus, wand steady despite the madness crashing around her. One of Potter’s friends, but she wasn’t scrambling for cover or reacting on instinct like the rest of them. She was directing the fight. Shouting orders to Aurors twice her age, recasting shields as they fell, countering curses with terrifying precision.
Bellatrix forgot to breathe.
The girl moved like she belonged there, like the Department of Mysteries had been built around her spine. Every spell was clean, efficient, impeccable.
Then everything went wrong.
A curse tore through the smoke, vicious and green-edged, but to her surprise it wasn’t aimed at Potter. It was aimed at Sirius.
Bellatrix’s heart stopped. She watched Sirius laugh, reckless as ever, wand about to be a second too slow. The curse would go straight through him.
She moved without thinking, her magic snapping out violent and absolute. The curse shattered inches from Sirius’s chest, exploding into sparks against the ceiling. She followed through instinctively, an invisible force wrenching him sideways into cover hard enough to bruise.
“Sirius, you idiot,” she hissed under her breath, though he never heard her.
He staggered, confused but alive. Bellatrix slipped back into the shadows without waiting for thanks. She didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want questions.
She watched Dolohov bark an order and lunge again, this time straight for the girl. Bellatrix’s magic surged again, lethal and ready, but she didn’t need it. The girl moved first. A nonverbal spell slammed Dolohov into a bank of shelves, pinning him there long enough for the fight to fold in on itself. The Death Eaters began to retreat, bravado bleeding into panic as they dragged their wounded away. Potter and his friends chased after them, shouting, reckless and victorious.
The room emptied almost as quickly as it had exploded. Bellatrix stayed hidden, pulse still hammering, eyes fixed on the space where the girl had stood.
Eventually, Dolohov dragged himself upright. Blood streaked his temple, and rage burned brighter than sense. The movement snapped Bellatrix out of her trance just in time for him to turn straight into her shadow. Her magic surged up around him, solidifying like a vice.
Bellatrix stepped out of it, wand resting lightly beneath his chin.
“Antonin,” she purred. “Running errands for Voldemort now? How very predictable. Tell me, what were you after?”
Dolohov scoffed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She leaned in. His scream echoed softly as her magic tightened.
“Try me.”
He broke fast. Plans spilled out in gasps and half-pleas—prophecies, artefacts, purifying the bloodlines. A future scrubbed clean of muggleborns and a leader that couldn’t be destroyed. Bellatrix listened, something cold and furious coiling tighter with every word.
Then, she felt nothing but warmth. A sudden, unmistakable pulse raced up her arm. She looked down.
00:00
The numbers vanished in a rush of heat, magic flooding her veins, her skin left bare and burning.
‘Now.’
A sharp gasp cut through the silence. Bellatrix turned, and saw the witch with the wild curls stood in the doorway. The light from the corridor framed her like a spell, dust and magic drifting around her, eyes wide, breath shallow. She’d clearly followed the noise and found something far worse than she’d expected.
Their gazes locked, and for one suspended heartbeat, the world stopped. Bellatrix felt it then. The click. The certainty.
‘Mine.’
The younger witch swallowed, grip tightening on her wand. “I—”
Bellatrix released Dolohov without looking. He hit the floor in a boneless heap at her feet, instantly forgotten. She stepped forward, voice quieter than it had been in years.
“Hello.”
The word came out softer than intended. Her attention never left the girl, she saw the way her fingers tightened, the brief hitch in her breath before she steadied herself.
“Who are you?” the girl demanded. “And why are you here?”
Bellatrix tilted her head, studying her openly now. There was no fear there. Just calculation, and intelligence sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t fragile. She was radiant in the way lightning was radiant; bright, dangerous, alive. Bellatrix was in awe.
“I’m Bellatrix Black,” she said smoothly. “We were having a… conversation.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to Dolohov on the floor, then back. “And you are?”
“Hermione Granger.”
The name settled into Bellatrix’s chest like it had always belonged there.
“Granger,” she repeated. “Muggleborn then.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened. “Not that it should matter, but yes.”
Bellatrix smiled. Not cruel, not mocking, but something close to pleased.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hermione.”
Bellatrix crossed the space between them in three quiet steps and extended her hand before she could overthink it. Up close, the pull was undeniable, it felt like heat under her skin, winding itself tight around her ribs.
‘Surely she feels it too?’
Hermione hesitated, just long enough to show her distrust, and then she took Bellatrix’s hand. The contact was brief, but Bellatrix felt it slam through her like a struck nerve and had to school her face not to react.
Hermione pulled away first.
Bellatrix drew a slow breath, grounding herself.
‘Young, brilliant, clearly not of age, so timer of her own yet.’
Fate, apparently, had jokes.
“Would you do me a favour,” Bellatrix said quietly, “and not mention that I was here?”
Hermione frowned. “Why?”
“Because the Ministry and I,” Bellatrix replied lightly, “have a complicated relationship.”
Hermione studied her, really studied her, like she was peeling back layers, weighing truth against instinct. Bellatrix held still beneath her gaze.
“Are you a criminal?” Hermione asked bluntly.
Bellatrix huffed a short laugh. “It’s… a bit of a grey area.”
That earned her a look so sharp it almost hurt.
The silence stretched until, finally, Hermione nodded once.
“Fine.”
Relief flared then was immediately swallowed by something warmer and far more dangerous. Before Bellatrix could respond, Hermione turned and walked away, steps quick and decisive, vanishing into the corridor’s light. Bellatrix stayed where she was long after, her hand still tingling from Hermione’s touch, and her wrist still burning.
Fate had spoken, and Hermione Granger, underage and timeless, had already proven one thing. She wouldn’t be easy to catch.
Bellatrix smiled slowly.
‘Good.’
She’d never backed down from a challenge, and she had a feeling this one would be her favourite yet.
O – o – o – o
Narcissa arrived home just after dusk, silk sleeves pristine, posture flawless, her latest escort murmuring something flattering far too close to her ear.
The moment the manor doors swung open, heat hit her. She walked into the sitting room to see smoke curling lazily along the ceiling. One of the ancestral tapestries, three centuries old and threaded with protective runes, was actively on fire.
Bellatrix stood in the middle of it all. Bottle in one hand, wand in the other, swaying slightly as she set another embroidered sigil alight.
Narcissa stopped dead.
“What in Salazar’s name has gotten into you?”
Bellatrix laughed. Not the sharp, delighted sound she was known for, this one was wild and broken. She took another drink.
Narcissa’s eyes swept the room, sharp and automatic, searching for Bella’s intended. Finding no one else there, surprise flickered briefly before discipline snapped back into place.
She turned on her heel.
“Everyone out,” she said coolly. The guards, the runners, the servants, her escort — they all froze.
“Family business.”
No one hesitated, they just left. Narcissa shut the doors swiftly, then layered Notice-Me-Not charms, and anti-eavesdropping wards with practiced ease. Only then did she turn back to Bellatrix.
“What happened?”
Bellatrix collapsed onto the sofa, glass sloshing dangerously. “I saw her.”
Narcissa went very still, as if moving might cause another eruption.
“She’s exquisite,” Bellatrix slurred, staring into the flames like they might answer her. “Brilliant. Terrifying. Exactly how I knew she’d be.”
Narcissa exhaled slowly. “Then why,” she asked evenly, “are you attempting to burn down the sitting room?”
Bellatrix’s laugh cracked. “Because she’s underage, so she doesn’t even have a timer yet. And she’s that Harry Potter boy’s best friend.”
Narcissa winced
“Ah,” she said after a moment. “Yes, that does complicate things.”
“Complicate things?” Bellatrix snapped. “It’s a bloody disaster. There’s no legitimate reason for me to go near her. She’s still at Hogwarts, so I can’t even fabricate a position and insert myself into her life. The bond can’t grow if we never even talk to each other.”
Narcissa moved closer, flicking her wand to extinguish the burning tapestry. “She won’t be at Hogwarts forever.”
“She’s in Draco’s year isn’t she?” Bellatrix hissed. “So that’s what? Two more years? can’t wait that long just to know her.”
“She should’ve felt something. I know she should have,” replied Narcissa.
“I thought so too,” Bellatrix said, voice dropping, raw now. “But she looked at me like I was a threat. There was nothing in her eyes but suspicion, distrust.”
Her voice cracked. “Not even a flicker of recognition.”
Bellatrix finally looked at her sister, eyes glassy.
“What do I do, Cissy?”
It wasn’t a question Bellatrix Black asked often.
“How do I win her?”
Narcissa studied her for a long moment. Then she conjured a small vial of shimmering blue liquid and pressed it into Bellatrix’s hand.
“Drink.”
Bellatrix grimaced but did as she was told. Colour crept back into her face as the fog cleared from her eyes, the frantic edge dulling into something manageable.
Moments later, Andromeda arrived, perfectly timed, as if she’d felt the universe winding up for drama and refused to miss it. The first thing she noticed was Bellatrix standing near the hearth, restless energy coiled tight beneath her skin, while Narcissa sat rigidly upright, hands folded in her lap. The next thing she noticed was that the sitting room was scorched. She eyed her sisters wary in the doorway.
“…I leave for one day,” she said dryly, “and you two redecorate with fire?”
Narcissa closed her eyes for a brief moment. Bellatrix turned, startled, and then visibly relieved.
“Andi,” Bellatrix said. “You’re back.”
“I am,” Andromeda replied, gaze flicking between them. “And judging by this mess, I’m guessing fate finally decided to entertain itself.”
Narcissa gestured to the chair opposite her. “Sit. We need to talk.”
Andromeda did, slowly, carefully, like she was sitting on a grenade. “All right. Go on.”
Bellatrix spoke first, the words tumbling out sharp and breathless. “I met her.”
Andromeda’s brows rose. “Her.”
“Hermione Granger,” Narcissa said quietly. “Her soulmate.”
That earned Andromeda’s full attention.
“The muggleborn friend of Harry Potter?” she said thoughtfully. “Dora’s mentioned her. Apparently she has an excellent sense of humour, and has single-handedly kept those boys alive for the last five years.”
Bellatrix let out a short, rough laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Well,” Andromeda said mildly, “soulmate magic has always had atrocious timing, nothing new with that.”
Bellatrix dragged a hand through her hair. “She’s brilliant, suspicious, moral. Everything we’re not supposed to want.”
“Everything you do want,” Andromeda corrected gently.
Narcissa straightened. “Which is why we need a plan.”
Andromeda leaned back, folding her arms. “I was wondering when that word would show up.”
Narcissa’s voice was calm and precise as she laid out the details.
“You cannot approach her directly,” she said, looking at Bellatrix. “That would frighten her. And frankly, she’d be right. Any overt pursuit will send her running.”
Bellatrix clenched her jaw but nodded.
“So instead,” Narcissa continued, “you protect her. From a distance. Make threats near her disappear. Make her life easier where you can.”
Bellatrix frowned. “Without her knowing?”
“Not entirely,” Narcissa said. “She should know it’s you—eventually. Give Hermione Granger reasons to see you as an ally, to seek you out if she ever needs… assistance.”
Andromeda tilted her head. “Subtlety. A bold choice for you, Bella.”
Bellatrix shot her a look. “I can learn.”
“And Potter?” Bellatrix asked darkly.
“A complication,” Narcissa admitted. “But not an insurmountable one. The boy attracts danger. We can use that.”
Andromeda’s gaze sharpened. “Carefully.”
Bellatrix’s smile returned, feral, but focused now. “And step three?”
Narcissa met her eyes without blinking. “Patience. You let her come to you.”
Bellatrix leaned back, exhaling slowly. “She won’t come easily.”
Narcissa’s lips curved faintly. “She shouldn’t. We’re the Blacks. I’d question her intelligence if she came running.”
Andromeda smiled at that. “But she will,” she said. “One careful step at a time. We always get what we want.”
Around them, the last of the flames guttered out, and the smoke thinned. And for the first time since fate had struck, since obsession had burned too hot, too fast, Bellatrix Black felt something steadier take hold. Not hunger or desperation. Strategy.
O – o – o – o
The next morning Hermione woke with a sharp gasp, sheets twisted around her legs, skin damp with sweat, and what she suspected was arousal. For one disorienting moment, she had no idea where she was. Only that her heart was racing like she’d been running, or hiding, or caught.
‘Bellatrix Black.’
The name slammed into her all at once, vivid and unwanted.
In the dream, Bellatrix had found her. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just… inevitably. Hogwarts had fallen away, corridors stretching and warping until Hermione had been alone in a room that felt too quiet, too warm. Then Bellatrix had stepped through the door…..
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, jaw tight.
The worst part wasn’t the pursuit. It was that she hadn’t run, that some traitorous part of her hadn’t wanted to.
There had been a spark low in her stomach when Bellatrix appeared. A strange warmth under her ribs. Her pulse was too loud, her breath came too fast, and the room shrank until there was only the two of them.
‘Fear,’ she told herself firmly.
Of course it was fear. Bellatrix Black was dangerous. A criminal. A killer. Anyone would react like that.
‘It couldn’t possibly be attraction.’
Hermione rolled onto her side, scowling into her pillow. She wasn’t even attracted to women.
‘…or am I?’
She shoved the thought away and got up, refusing to let it linger.
By midmorning, she’d barricaded herself in the library at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by teetering stacks of books and yellowed wizarding journals. If there was one thing Hermione trusted, it was information.
The House of Black was everywhere and nowhere. Their name threaded through centuries of wizarding history like a dark current just beneath the surface. There were financial ledgers, property records, anonymous endowments, suspicious accidents and disappearances.
So much documentation. And yet nothing solid. Crimes were mentioned without details. Power acknowledged without explanation. Even their most illegal dealings were written about with a strange sort of reverence.
Maintainers of balance.
Necessary evil.
The shadow that keeps worse things at bay.
Hermione chewed on the end of her quill, unsettled. They were dark, yes, but clearly respected. They were feared, but never quite condemned. They never held Wizengamot seats, never openly backed either side in a war. And yet things shifted when they moved.
“They don’t pick sides,” Hermione muttered, scanning another passage. “They decide when the scales tip.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Frustration mounted as she searched for something concrete. An address. A headquarters. Anything resembling a base of operations.
Nothing.
“No one even knows where they’re based,” she whispered incredulously. “And yet they own Knockturn Alley, and probably half the wizarding world.”
Her grip tightened on the book.
“How do you even find people like that?” she murmured. “Not that I want to—definitely not—but—”
Suddenly, a soft sound cut through the silence. The faint whisper of fabric. A breath that wasn’t hers. Hermione froze. Slowly, she lowered the book and reached for her wand, heart leaping painfully into her throat.
She turned in one smooth motion, wand raised. “Who’s…”
Hermione gasped when she saw Bellatrix Black standing in the shadows between the shelves. No dream this time.
Bellatrix didn’t move. She didn’t smile. She just watched Hermione quietly, like she’d been there far longer than she had any right to be.
The room felt suddenly, impossibly warm.
Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears. And for reasons she absolutely refused to examine, her first thought wasn’t ‘How did you get in here?’
It was ‘I’d hoped I’d see you again.’
Which—
‘No. Absolutely not.’
Hermione slammed her mental shields into place and shoved that thought into a locked box marked Deal With Never.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, wand steady despite the way her heartbeat skidded under her skin.
Bellatrix glanced at the wand in her hand with something like mild amusement.
“That’s… a difficult question,” she said lightly. “I’m not sure you’d believe the answer.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Try me.”
Bellatrix hummed, then turned away as if the matter were already settled, fingers trailing along the spines of ancient books.
“Well,” she said lazily, “the simplest answer is that I own this house. And it told me you were looking for me.”
“I was not,” Hermione said far too quickly.
Bellatrix glanced back, one brow lifting in an infuriating smirk.
“You weren’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hm. Then the house must be mistaken.”
Hermione stared at her. “That’s not how houses work. I’ve been reading, you own lots of properties. That doesn’t mean you can just appear wherever you like.”
Bellatrix’s smile widened. “True. Excellent point.”
Then her eyes sharpened. “You’ve been reading about me?”
Hermione didn’t answer. Bellatrix, infuriatingly, didn’t press.
“You’re right,” she continued smoothly. “I do own many houses. But this one is different. It’s my ancestral home. The house recognises my blood. I can enter freely, no matter who lives here.”
Her gaze softened, just a fraction.
“Though this is the first time I have done so in many years.”
“But I thought Sirius owns this house? Harry said he invited him to come live here after he comes of age,” Hermione shot back. “The Order’s been using it as Headquarters.”
Bellatrix waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about the Order. Sirius was disowned, officially. That meant when our father and uncle died, ownership reverted to my sisters and me. We gave him the house last year when he needed somewhere to live.”
There was no cruelty in her tone. Just fact. It surprised Hermione, and made her stomach flip unexpectedly.
“He’s still family,” Bellatrix added after a moment. “Or close enough. We couldn’t undo what our uncle did, but we could give him a home. We chose this one because none of us wanted it. We have no fond memories here.”
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, unease curling in her chest.
‘Why is she being so open? Adults never talk to me like this, like an equal.’
“So you can just come here whenever you want?” Hermione pressed. “You could’ve been spying on us this whole time.”
“I could have,” Bellatrix agreed calmly. “But I wasn’t.”
She turned fully now, dark brown eyes locking onto Hermione’s.
“I’ve told you, I don’t care about Order business. Why don’t you believe me?”
Hermione hesitated.
‘Because you terrify me,’ she thought.
‘Because you’re standing too close and making me feel things I don’t understand.’
“Why are you here now?” she asked instead.
Bellatrix smiled, slow and knowing.
“Ah. Now that’s the interesting question.”
Heat crept up Hermione’s neck, infuriating and entirely unwelcome. She hated that Bellatrix noticed. Hated the way her gaze lingered like she’d won something.
“Like I said, the house is bound to my blood,” Bellatrix continued, voice lowering. “I knew you were here. And then I sensed you were… interested in my whereabouts. I almost didn’t come.”
She paused.
“But I wanted to speak with you properly.”
“Why?” Hermione demanded.
Bellatrix didn’t answer immediately. She studied Hermione with an intensity that felt far too personal, like she was memorising her in case she never saw her again.
“You intrigue me,” she said finally. “Very few people do.”
Hermione scoffed, too fast. “Well, it’s incredibly rude to appear unannounced in the middle of a library.”
A quiet laugh escaped Bellatrix.
“I’ve never been good with manners. That’s Andromeda’s strength.”
Her expression shifted, sincere now.
“But I can see I startled you, and for that, I apologise.”
She stepped closer. Just one step. Not enough to touch, but enough to almost.
Hermione’s breath caught despite herself. The space between them felt charged, alive, like magic stretched too tight. She refused to step back. Absolutely refused.
Bellatrix noticed, and her smile softened into something dangerously gentle.
“If you ever need anything,” she said, extending a small card, “don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Hermione took it automatically. Their fingers brushed. It was brief, accidental, but a spark jumped none the less.
Bellatrix’s eyes darkened.
“The first favour,” she murmured, “is always free with the House of Black.”
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, refuse, demand answers, but Bellatrix was already gone, shadows folding around her as if the house itself had swallowed her whole.
Hermione stood there, card clenched tight in her hand, heart racing.
She told herself it was anger, that it was fear. She absolutely did not tell herself the truth.