Chapter Text
The French countryside passes by the passenger window in a blur of deep green and brilliant blue. Hermione watches it, pretending she doesn’t notice Andromeda sneaking glances at her more frequently as they approach their destination.
They went over the plan a thousand times before they left London, and a thousand more on the flight over. Hermione isn’t even nervous about it anymore. She’s rehearsed so much she’s almost fooled herself into thinking that Andromeda actually is her girlfriend of one year.
Girlfriend.
Hermione covers her smirk with her hand at the word. To think of someone more than a decade older than her as her girlfriend is uncomfortable enough on its own, but to think it of Andromeda, who has been a close friend, confidant, and role model of hers for years adds a level of absurdity that’s difficult not to laugh at.
Their long term friendship is the only reason Hermione agreed to partake in such a reckless, harebrained scheme in the first place. She wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, but she loves Andromeda and knows all of the intimate details of her familial struggles. If Hermione can help her, she’ll do it, no matter how absurdly risky it may be.
Besides, a free vacation in a remote town in France doesn’t hurt.
“Bella will be the hardest to convince,” Andromeda says, “she’s just naturally suspicious. It’s her nature.”
“I know. Don’t worry, Andy, she’s not going to figure it out.”
Andromeda bites her lip, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Right. It’s just…she’s like a dog with a bone. If she gets so much as a whiff that something is amiss, she will not drop it.”
“I can handle your sister.”
“I don’t know if anyone can handle Bellatrix.”
Andromeda's tone is enough to unsettle Hermione for the remainder of their drive. Hermione rehearses the story of how they fell in love a few more times, visualizing it as though it actually happened. She quizzes herself on the details of Andromeda that a lover would know, some of which she knew from years of friendship, and some that Andromeda told her to prepare her.
She likes her eggs over easy, sunny side up. She sleeps on the right side of the bed. She wants a spring wedding. She has a beauty mark in the dip of her right hipbone.
Her husband died when he was 30, and Andromeda thought she would never find love again.
That much, Andromeda is convinced is true. It’s a huge reason why Hermione is here. Ted Tonks passed away in a car accident on his way home from a late night at the office. Hit by a drunk driver, both of them dying on impact.
Andromeda established the Tonks Project, a nonprofit that helps disadvantaged families, youth, and orphaned children. Hermione started working there part time while she still attended University, where she and Andromeda quickly developed a friendship that transcended their professional relationship.
Hermione has heard all about Andromeda's toxic family. They never approved of Ted while he was alive, and a month after he died they began trying to find another, more suitable match for the widow. Andromeda didn’t care to move on, confiding in Hermione that she’s certain that we only get one true love a lifetime, and that she’d already found hers.
The subject of Andromeda’s sexuality came up when Hermione informed her of her own, now ex, girlfriend. Hermione has known she’s a lesbian since her first failed relationship with a man, while Andromeda has never had a preference when it comes to gender. For her, she knew that no matter who she picked her family wasn’t likely to approve regardless.
The idea to make Hermione her girlfriend for the duration of the trip came about after a particularly grueling week of fending off her family's choice of suitors, and the coincidental fact that Hermione had racked up nearly a month of vacation time in her years of working beneath Andromeda. With all of the facts stacked up, all it took was a bottle of wine split between the two friends for the plan to be born.
It’s more Andy’s plan than Hermione’s, but Hermione loves her, and has grown to despise Andromeda’s family by proxy simply from watching the way they’ve tortured the woman through her grief and beyond. They deserve to be put in their place, and Andromeda deserves a bloody break.
They turn a corner, a break in the trees revealing the Black family Château. The extravagant, cream brick building is topped with a pointed gray roof that reaches to puncture the sky above, and before it, a perfectly manicured garden that stretches all the way to the end of the long driveway. Trimmed bushes, trees, and rose bushes compliment the castle in all of its dramatic glory, rendering Hermione so shocked that she can no longer rehearse their impending lie.
“This is your family’s holiday home?” Hermione asks, her unspoken question of what their main house must look like not lost on Andromeda.
“It’s a lot more affordable than something of this size would be in Britain,” Andromeda explains, a pink blush dusting her cheeks, “Not that I’m downplaying it or anything. I know it’s…a lot.”
Hermione can only gape as the castle stretches higher above them the closer they get. It’s three stories of tall, arching glass windows and old brick, kept to its glory with what is undoubtedly a year round effort.
Andromeda parks the car beside two other vehicles. It’s obvious that the two of them have chosen the most…cost effective of rentals, as they park their Volkswagen in between an Audi and a Mercedes.
Andromeda hops out of the drivers seat to retrieve their luggage from the trunk of the car. Hermione steps out slowly, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and the winter wind strips her of the warmth built up inside the car in an instant. Her heart is hammering with the worst wave of nerves she’s experienced yet. She’s beginning to think this is a horrible mistake, for a cause that is not nearly worth the risk if they get caught.
Andromeda smiles at her, her brown eyes crinkling in the corners as Hermione walks beside her. Hermione takes a deep steadying breath, reminding herself of all the mornings Andromeda came into work with bloodshot eyes, or the times she’s caught the tail end of a phone argument. She’s been struggling with this for years, and if Hermione can do this one thing for her, it can provide some relief.
She can do this.
They will not be found out.
The wood and steel door towers ominously above them, but Andromeda opens it without preamble. It swings inward to reveal pristine, shining wood floors and a long red run drawing them deeper into the Château. Lining the entryway are side tables adorned with crystal vases, family photographs, and glass figurines. The walls are decorated with landscape portraits of the French countryside and its oceans. They walk further down the hall, until the room opens up to twin staircases on either side of a massive Christmas tree in the center of the room. Tall windows flood the open space with cold winter light.
Hermione slows to a stop, craning her neck to take it all in. A silver and crystal chandelier hangs above them, the light dancing off its crystalline edges and casting tiny rainbow patterns on the warm wooden walls. French doors are propped open just behind the tree, framed by windows on either side.
“They must be outside, enjoying the garden,” Andromeda concludes.
She deposits their suitcases beside the staircase on their left, and Hermione sets her bag down beside them. Andromeda waits for her beside the open doors, offering a hand for Hermione to take. Hermione does, and they walk together back into the cool air and sunlight.
Hermione hears the muffled voices of the Black family up ahead. They follow the cobblestone path through the thicket of bushes and trees until the yard opens up to a stone patio overlooking the ocean. The sound of the wind and distant crashing waves should’ve been soothing, but all Hermione can feel are her mounting nerves and doubts.
Sitting at an iron patio set, sipping on white wine that glints in the sunlight, are the sources of the murmuring. A man and a woman, who’s greying hair makes them easy to identify as Andy’s parents, are similarly dressed just well enough to make Hermione feel underdressed in her sundress and cardigan. The woman, Druella Black, has short black hair with grey winding through it, ending at her shoulders in elegant waves. The man, Cygnus Black, has dark hair that is greying along his sideburns, and a hard, dark stare that has Hermione wondering where Andy inherited her kindness.
A woman who’s distinct blonde hair is enough for Hermione to identify her as Narcissa Malfoy stands beside her son, Draco, at the edge of the patio. The two of them are facing away, looking out at the ocean while having their own private conversation.
Druella sees them first, rising to her feet with a cool smile. Her eyes dart to wearily to Hermione as she opens her arms to greet her daughter with a hug. Cygnus stands to pat Andromeda on the back, ignoring Hermione entirely.
Narcissa and Draco join their group at the sound of their arrival, and Hermione tries to take solace in the fact that Draco, at least, is her age. Although any feeling of comfort is chased away in the light of his blue eyes, running over her body with obvious judgement.
Druella shades her eyes, squinting at Hermione with the sunlight behind her. “Darling, is this your…girlfriend…or has Dora changed her hair again since I saw you last?”
The nerves in Hermione’s stomach burn with acid at the words. She clenches her jaw, forcing her polite smile to remain plastered on her face despite the rude greeting. Cygnus barks out a jarring laugh at the joke as Narcissa crinkles her nose with distaste.
“Mother, Hermione doesn’t look anything like Nymphadora,” Andromeda says with a tight, forced smile. Through gritted teeth she adds, “Please be civil.”
“My apologies,” Druella says, reaching out a hand for Hermione to shake. With a flick of her fingers, she moves her sunglasses down from the top of her head to shield her eyes. “Lovely to meet you, dear.”
Hermione bares her teeth in what she hopes resembles a smile, and shakes her hand. Cygnus is next, capturing her hand in a crushing grip.
“Well, at least I don’t have to have the ‘if you hurt my daughter’ speech with this one,” he says, chuckling at his own joke as Hermione eyes him with trepidation.
Hermione’s smile is frozen on her face as she tries to understand his joke, “Um, why is that?”
“Well, I can’t threaten to harm a lady, now can I?” He laughs again.
With a long, withering sigh, Narcissa cuts in front of her parents to shake her hand. The youngest Black sister’s hand is cool in Hermione’s own, a welcome relief from the hot, hard grip of Cygnus’.
“Narcissa Malfoy. Please excuse our parents. They haven’t met a significant other in quite some time, and considering Andromeda just informed them of her interest in women along with your existence a week ago, they’re bound to be a bit…”
“Rude?” Andromeda finishes, “Abrasive? Unwelcoming?”
“Darling, please,” Druella says, rolling her eyes hard enough for it to be obvious beneath her tinted lenses.
Draco slinks back to the railing to watch the ocean without introducing himself. Narcissa watches him go, turning back to Hermione with a frown. She glances at the doorway behind them before fixing her unsettling gaze on Andromeda.
“Where is your daughter? Draco could use someone to sulk with. He’s been moping since he found out that Lucius is staying behind.”
“Her flight was delayed. She should be here this evening. Where’s Bella?” Andromeda answers, placing a hand on the small of Hermione’s back.
“She got caught up at work and will be in tonight as well,” Druella answers. She returns to the garden table to refill her wine, and the rest of them follow. “You know her and how it pains her to leave Tom and the office to spend some time with her family. I mean, she’s an architect for God’s sake. What could be so urgent about sketching buildings that she has to miss a flight?”
Hermione takes a seat beside Andromeda, who sets a glass of Chardonnay in front of her. Hermione accepts it with a nervous smile, all too aware of Druella’s subtle, prying glances.
“Well, work is Bella’s one true love, after all,” Andromeda comments.
Cygnus sets his mouth in a hard line, turning his attention to the ocean rather than responding. Narcissa takes a long sip of wine and Druella rubs her temples with manicured fingertips.
“I hoped she would grow out of that and see that family is the most important thing in life. It pains me to think that she’ll never start one of her own. All alone in the world…”
“She likes it that way,” Narcissa responds with a shrug. She turns her face away from the table to check on her son, her noble profile a sharp silhouette against the sunset.
Hermione does her best to actively participate in the conversation, but Druella and Cygnus are nothing less than chillingly polite to her attempts at engagement. Hermione resolves to be nothing less than perfect. If she can accomplish one thing, it will be to pave the rough terrain that lies ahead for the day that Andromeda brings home an actual romantic partner to meet her family.
When the sun sets over the horizon, the conversation draws to a close. Andromeda leads her to her room, and Hermione welcomes the relief of her own space to get away from the lies. The Blacks didn’t think it proper for her to share a room with Andromeda, and the two women were not going to argue the matter.
The room is on the third floor, and the moment Andromeda opens the door for her, she loses her breath.
The ceiling vaults above her, with mahogany beams following the slope, making the room feel impossibly large. Large, peaked windows overlook the ocean and the rolling green fields that preceded it, and wash the room in the blue light of the evening.
The decor is all natural woods, white cottons, and silk. She has everything she could need for the following month, including a writing desk, a window bench to read at, and a wall of books adoring the built-in shelves on her right. Andromeda flicks the light on, a warm glow that sets her at ease.
“Make yourself at home,” Andromeda says, “There’s a bathroom adjoining your room through that door there. I’ll be in the room across the hall from you if you need anything, alright?”
Hermione nods, a grateful smile at her lips, “Thank you.”
She wants to say more, but it feels like anyone could come down the hall or hear them from just around a corner. Andromeda seems to agree, pressing a finger to her own lips in a silent shushing motion and winking before departing to her own chambers.
Hermione unpacks her belongings, folding her clothes for the month neatly in the armoire and stacking the books she brought on the desk. Beside them, she lays out her knitting supplies and the half-done sweater she’s working on for Andromeda’s Christmas present. She feels exhausted and grimey after her long day of traveling, and nothing sounds more appealing to her than a hot shower.
She enters through the door that Andromeda indicated, and finds herself in a modestly sized bathroom with an antique, claw foot tub, marble flooring and huge mirrors. The entire room is stark white aside from the bronze of the bathtub. One small, frosted window is the only thing adorning the stark walls. The warm yellow light from the ceiling light is the only thing that softens the crisp room.
There’s a matching wooden door on the opposite wall from the one she entered through, and she assumes there’s another bedroom on the other side. The thought makes her a bit uncomfortable, but she brushes it off and locks the door. Besides, Andromeda probably would’ve mentioned it if she was sharing the bathroom with someone.
She’s thankful for the shower built into the clawfoot tub, drawing the white curtain closed and stepping beneath the warm spray.
Thirty minutes later, she’s curled up in bed with her favorite Austin novel and a towel in her hair. She’s wearing only boy shorts and a tank top, the feeling of the expensive sheets cool and soft on her bare skin. She falls asleep with the book on her chest, sinking into the pillows and the fluffy comforter.
She wakes up hours later, shooting straight up in bed, the book falling off of her chest, the towel tumbling out of her hair, and the blankets tangled around her legs. Her heart races in her ears, slowing down gradually as she remembers where she is and why. She hasn’t woken up anywhere other than her own bed in years. Not since her last relationship.
She taps her phone, and the time reads 2:32am.
With a sigh, Hermione climbs out of bed and peeks out her door into the dark, empty hallway. Her throat is burning and she’s desperate for some ice water, but she’s fairly certain she’ll be attacked by ghosts if she ventures out in the dark Château.
She rolls her eyes at herself and decides that the burn in her throat is worth the risk.
Her anxiety only grows as she pads through the silent castle, through dark hallways and down two flights of creaking stairs. She’s less afraid of ghosts and more worried that a member of the Black family will pop out from behind a corner and judge her for her nighties.
She breathes a sigh of relief when she reaches the kitchen undetected. Nymphadora and Bellatrix must have arrived while she slept, and at the late hour she doubts she runs a risk of running into anyone. It’s a small measure of relief to save what she assumes will be the most difficult introduction for the following morning, and by then she’ll have Dora’s familiar presence around to soften the blow.
The details of the kitchen are shrouded in darkness, but the light from the moon outside is just enough for her to find her bearings without needing to turn on a light.
She checks the refrigerator for bottled water first, but finds only beer and wine. With a sigh, she begins to rifle through the cabinets for a glass. When she finds it, she fills it with ice from the freezer and water from the tap.
Her throat sings with relief when the cold water runs down it. She downs half the glass in one go, pausing when she hears a clatter followed by a whispered curse. She turns around, watching the two different entrances to the kitchen, searching for a sign of life.
Both passageways stand empty, dark, and silent. Maybe Hermione had imagined the noise—or maybe it was someone in their room upstairs. Either way, it’s enough to have her panicking. She dumps the ice out of her cup and washes it, not wanting to leave any evidence of her early morning adventure out for the Blacks to see.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The sharp voice has Hermione jumping out of her skin, the glass slipping from her hand and shattering on the ground. She whirls around to see a woman with wild, black hair glowering at her from the entryway. She’s dressed all in black, almost lost in the darkness around her if not for her pale skin glowing in the moonlight.
She’s wearing heels, and the bag slung over her shoulder makes it obvious she’s just gotten in. How had she managed to sneak up on her?
Hermione stares at the woman, feeling remarkably exposed in her boy shorts and tank top.
“I’m-I’m Hermione Granger. Who are you?”
The woman’s eyes drop away from her face and run down her body, over her exposed skin down to her bare feet. Hermione shivers beneath the appraisal, crossing her arms over herself. She’s glued to the spot—one wrong step and she’ll cut herself on the glass.
“You’re the girl my sister is shagging?” The woman’s dark eyes drag back up her body to find her own.
“You must be Bellatrix,” Hermione says.
A smile creeps onto her face, her red lips a spot of color on her pale face, “What do you think you're doing rummaging around in my kitchen, Granger?”
Hermione presses her lips together, her brow furrowing. Who does this woman think she is? “I was getting a glass of water. Is that a crime? What do you think you’re doing getting in at two in the morning?”
Bellatrix walks farther into the kitchen and Hermione resists the urge to move away and keep the same distance between them. She shivers, sorely regretting her choice in bedclothes.
“My flight got in late, so I stopped at the pub for a drink. Is that a crime?”
She’s close enough for Hermione to make out the smaller details of her face, unnerved by the resemblance to her sister. Bellatrix is sharper around the edges, though, her cheekbones defined, the arch of her brows sharp, and her heavy-lidded eyes are searching, calculating. She walks right up to her, heels crunching over the glass beneath her, until Hermione can smell the whiskey on her breath.
“And you stayed until last call? Everyone was waiting around for you, you know.”
Bellatrix narrows her eyes, looking at her as though to ask where she gets the nerve, and Hermione is wondering the same. She knows that Bellatrix is the most difficult to gain approval from, she really ought to be more careful with how she talks to her.
“That’s really none of your business,” Bellatrix says, drawing nearer until Hermione can feel the heat of her body.
Hermione can’t take the proximity. She takes an automatic step back, and Bellatrix catches her by the wrist, her gaze darkening with annoyance.
“Don’t,” Bellatrix hisses, “You’ll hurt yourself. Sit on the counter while I clean this mess up.”
Heat climbs up Hermione’s neck, embarrassed at being treated like a child and surprised at Bellatrix’s touch. She does what she’s told, glancing down and seeing that she would’ve had a shard embedded in her heel without Bellatrix’s intervention.
Bellatrix retrieves a broom and dustpan from the cupboard with the familiarity that can only come from the countless holidays that were undoubtedly spent here. She casts another irritated glance at Hermione, and she shifts uncomfortably on the hard, cold surface.
“Thank you,” Hermione says with some effort.
A muscle in Bellatrix’s jaw jumps, but she doesn’t respond. The moment the glass is swept up, Hermione hops down while Bellatrix deposits it in the bin. She’s clearly done with their little conversation, walking towards the exit and pausing when she reaches the passageway.
“You’d better get some sleep, Granger. Tomorrow will only be harder.”
Hermione opens her mouth to ask how she would know that today was difficult, but Bellatrix departs without giving her the chance. Hermione stands in the kitchen, alone, reeling from the strange intensity of their conversation.
The following morning finds Hermione alone on the patio, feeling remarkably like a child forgotten by her parents at home. The thought and care put into her choice of jeans and sweater is wasted on the ocean air and an empty Château.
She watches the dark clouds creep in over the horizon, refusing to shiver against the December morning chill, cursing Andromeda for leaving her trapped and without transportation. The easy solution would be to read in the sitting room until her faux lover returns, but she knows she won’t be able to quiet her mind long enough to focus.
She pads back inside when the cold becomes too much, shutting the French doors behind her and blocking out the cold. The massive brick fireplace in the sitting room is roaring with warmth, and within minutes Hermione forgets all about the bite of the winter air. She eyes the built in bookshelves framing the fire with trepidation, dreading the thought of trying to force herself to focus on a stream of words other than her own thoughts.
She nearly resigns herself to a quiet morning of pretending to read when she hears the trickle of a voice and soft footsteps on the old staircase. She freezes with her fingers on the spine of a book, struggling to identify the voice.
“…you hear me now? The reception in this place is god awful.”
Bellatrix.
A rush of anxiety washes over Hermione. She snatches the first book off of the shelf and rushes silently to the armchair closest to the room's entrance as the voice grows louder.
“I just got in last night, Tom. I was stuck at the airport all bloody day waiting for my flight out. You’re just going to have to wait for the updated plans until I can find the time for it.”
Hermione reads the same sentence over and over, not absorbing a single word as Bellatrix’s voice creeps into the room like ivy. Any moment now Bellatrix will see her, and for the life of her Hermione can’t figure out why every hair on her body rises with anticipation at the thought.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get to it as soon as I can,” Bellatrix says, and the sound of her footsteps halts at the entrance to the sitting room.
Hermione’s fingers tighten on the edge of the book, her breath trapped in her throat. She knows Bellatrix is standing only a few feet away, presumably staring at her, as the person on the other end of the call talks to her.
“It will be done this week. Talk soon.” Bellatrix says, her voice ice.
Hermione hears the beep of the call coming to an end, but Bellatrix doesn’t move. Slowly, Hermione drags her eyes away from the page and finds Bellatrix’s black eyes settled on her, unmoving.
Hermione stares at her, taking in her appearance for the first time in the morning light. She’s every bit as striking in the daylight, every bit as unsettlingly intense in a way that puts Hermione immediately on edge. Her form fitting slacks and black, silk button up leave her feeling underdressed, despite them being the only two people in the house.
Her anxiety climbs the longer they stare at one another in silence. Why on earth does she have to be the one to break it? Bellatrix walked in on her, she’s the one staring at her. Would it kill her to say good morning?
The corner of Bellatrix’s mouth twitches as if Hermione has spoken her thoughts aloud. With the way the dark haired woman has been watching her, she wouldn’t be surprised if she simply plucked the thoughts straight from Hermione’s face alone.
“Good morning,” Hermione greets, finally ending the silence with a forced, saccharine smile, “Sleep well?”
Bellatrix’s expression flattens. She tucks her phone into her pocket and walks further into the room, behind Hermione and out of her line of sight.
“No. You?”
Hermione swallows, turning her head and listening to the soft sound of Bellatrix’s steps until she reappears on Hermione’s left. Bellatrix stands behind the couch in the center of the room, the daylight behind her and the fire in front of her as she watches Hermione beneath heavy eyelashes.
“No,” Hermione says, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Bellatrix’s eyes track the small movement, and Hermione’s heart jumps into her throat. She continues, the words tumbling out of her in a rush, “It’s funny. I’m so used to London that it’s too quiet here. Apart from the ocean there’s just nothing.”
Bellatrix’s smiles almost as if she can’t help it, “Sets my fucking teeth on edge, this silence.”
Hermione smiles back on her as the conversation lapses, the very silence they speak of settling around them. The sound of wood burning is the only solace as Hermione grasps at straws in her mind for something to say.
Before she has the chance, Bellatrix’s eyes drop to the book in her hand.
“La Bête Humaine?”
Hermione looks down at the open book in her lap, registering for the first time that it’s written in French. A blush creeps up her throat at the realization, and she snaps the book closed, the cover reflecting the title that Bellatrix asked about.
“…Yes.”
“Tu parles français?” Bellatrix asks, her lips curving effortlessly around each syllable with practiced ease.
Hermione doesn’t speak or understand a lick of the language, but she can infer that Bellatrix is asking if she does. Her blush only darkens as she slowly shakes her head.
“Um, no. Honestly, it was just the first thing I picked off the shelf.”
“Ah. While you were eavesdropping?” Bellatrix asks with an arched brow.
“No! I wasn’t…I mean, not intentionally. It’s just…it sounded intense. It was impossible not to overhear.”
Bellatrix smirks as Hermione flounders in her embarrassment. She rounds the edge of the couch perpendicular to Hermione and sits on the arm.
“Tom is always intense.”
“Is that why you work for him? You admire that about him?”
Bellatrix’s eyebrow twitches, dark eyes examining Hermione closely. “‘Dromeda has done a fine job filling you in about me, hasn’t she?”
Hermione stiffens beneath the appraisal, her grip flexing on the closed book in her lap. “Andromeda doesn’t talk about you much, honestly. I heard about your…work ethic from your parents. They weren’t happy that you missed yesterday. ”
A muscle in Bellatrix’s jaw twitches, and Hermione finds her eyes drawn to the movement and lingering on the sharpness of it. She can’t help but wonder if the defined jaw is as sharp to the touch as it looks, before shaking herself from the train of thought.
“I’m aware. I received an earful this morning.”
Hermione’s brow furrows. Even Bellatrix was up before her, after being out drinking all night. She can’t help but feel left out of the events of the morning as she wonders what was talked about, if she was talked about, and where everyone else went.
“My parents and Cissy are at the country club catching up with all of their old friends, and Andromeda is at the store with Dora shopping for dinner tonight,” Bellatrix says, again able to correctly guess Hermione’s thoughts.
Hermione stares at her, her face creasing with annoyance. “How do you keep doing that? Answering questions I haven’t asked.”
Bellatrix’s smile is slow and unnerving. “You're easy to read, Granger. Your little thoughts are painted all over your pretty face. So you’d better not lie to me.”
The front door slams open, saving Hermione from needing to think of an eloquent response amidst her nerves. She and Bellatrix stare at one another until Andromeda joins them in the sitting room, her arms full with paper bags of groceries. She freezes when she sees the two of them, her eyes darting between them.
“Oh. Good morning, darling,” Andromeda says, smiling genuinely at Hermione before shooting a cautious glance at her sister, “Care to help me bring in the groceries?”
“Sure,” Hermione springs to her feet, all too happy to follow her out of the room, “Happy to.”
Bellatrix’s eyes follow her until she’s out of sight.
Andromeda and Hermione are out of the house together for the first time shortly after, the Château disappearing in the rear view mirror of the Volkswagen. Now that Andy has done the shopping for the required ingredients, the Black’s staff would be taking care of the rest. Hermione can only be grateful that Chef Moulin doesn’t live at the Château, that the family can fend for themselves for the other two meals of the day, but she still can’t wrap her mind around having a chef preparing her dinners five nights a week for the next month.
It’s a relief to be alone in the company of the one person she doesn’t have to be on guard around. She glances over at Andromeda, at the way her hands are tight on the steering wheel, her posture straight, her eyes never faltering from the road.
“How do you think it’s going?” Hermione asks.
Andromeda sighs, “About as well as it can be. Although it feels as if I should be the one asking you. How has it gone with Bella? I was shocked to see the two of you carrying on a civil conversation so soon.”
Hermione narrows her eyes at the blur of passing scenery as she considers the question, Bellatrix’s black, prying gaze flickering in her mind. “I think there was more to it than that. She was just trying to…figure me out. There were no good intentions there, not from her.”
Andromeda snorts, “Good. Had you not said it first, I would be warning you not to lower your guard around her. If I know my sister, she’ll be saving her true nature for dinner tonight. She likes to wait until her prey feels cornered by societal expectations to go for the throat. You’ll feel an unspoken pressure to stay at the dinner table regardless of how badly you’re treated, but if they cross a line, please feel free to leave. You have no obligation to withstand the verbal abuse my family, particularly Bella, is capable of subjecting you to.”
Hermione takes in the words in silence, mulling them over for the rest of the drive. She can handle anything the Black’s throw at her, even Bellatrix. Her skin prickles with anticipation at the idea of seeing Bellatrix as she truly is once she drops the facade of civility.
The storefronts in the town of Blouin are only a fifteen minute drive from the Château, and once they arrive at their destination, Andromeda hops out of the driver's side to jog around the car and open the passenger door. Hermione takes the hand offered to her with a smile, thinking of how wonderful a girlfriend Andromeda will make for someone someday.
The storefront is blocks away from the ocean, the sound of the waves muffled by the shops and cafes separating them. The glass door that Andromeda opens for her reads Apolline Delacour, the name of the woman who serves as the Black’s personal tailor, and according to Andromeda is also an extremely talented fashion designer. What a woman like this is doing tucked away in the countryside, Hermione doesn’t know.
Warmth and classical music greet them at the entrance. The shop is intimate, with racks of color coordinated clothing lining the walls. Handbags, hair clips and jewelry adorn delicate silver displays that point towards the antique wooden counter. Behind the counter is a green curtain on either side of which are two doors.
Moments after they enter, a woman pushes through the green curtain with a flourish and a smile. Her silver-blonde hair frames her face in straight curtains on either side of her pointed face, fluttering in the air as she bustles around the counter to greet them. She reaches for Andromeda’s hand and grasps it with a delighted squeal.
“Madam Tonks! I wasn’t expecting to see you this year! Your mama tells me that you are always threatening to never return.”
Hermione chuckles, drawing the woman’s piercing blue gaze. Her smile grows when she sees Hermione.
“Ah, I have also heard much about your young amour. You are Hermione, the one who is causing quite a fuss in the Black family?”
“That’s me,” Hermione says, taking the designer’s offered hand, her smile turning tight. Andromeda catches her eye, her expression soft and warm in a way that puts Hermione immediately at ease. If Andromeda trusts Apolline, then Hermione can, too. She softens, adding, “Lovely to meet you, Madame Delacour.”
Apolline squeezes Hermione’s hand before shooting Andy a look and lowering her voice, “If you had told me of your interest in the fairer sex sooner, I’d have introduced you to my daughter. The girl has terrible taste in women.”
Andromeda laughs awkwardly, widening her eyes at Hermione in a way she knows means help. Hermione steps closer to her friend, wrapping an arm around her waist.
“And thank goodness she didn’t. I would hate to have to compete with your daughter,” Hermione says, a wry smile on her face, “I’m sure she’s every bit as beautiful as her mother.”
Apolline erupts with laughter, delighted at the words. “You are silver tongued, Hermione Granger! Now, shall we get you fitted? If I know anything about the sort of parties the Black’s throw, we’ll want to dress you in the best I have.”
Hermione can only pray that her smile disguises her grimace. Andromeda has warned her about the Christmas party her family throws, and she’s yet to wrap her mind around the sort of extravagance that was described to her. One of the many ways her friend plans to thank her is by purchasing the appropriate outfit for her, and Hermione isn’t keen to fight her on that point.
After Andromeda and Apolline catch up, the designer whisks Hermione through one of the wooden doors, down a short hallway and into a fitting room. After taking her measurements, she brings appropriate options chosen by Andromeda.
Hermione rifles through the dresses in her fitting room while Andromeda waits on the other side. Silk, satin, and velvet slip over her hands like water as she tries to narrow down her options. She settles on three dresses; one periwinkle blue, another deep red, and a third of pure white.
“Thank you for doing this,” Andromeda says, the repetitive words forcing a laugh out of Hermione.
“You know I’m happy to do it,” Hermione reassures, choosing her words carefully in the presence of the designer.
Andromeda chuckles mirthlessly, “Hopefully you feel the same by the end of our trip.”
Hermione cracks open the door, dressed in the floor length, flowing periwinkle dress, the back unzipped. Apolline anticipates her wishes immediately, moving behind her to zip her up while Andromeda appraises her.
“You look lovely, darling,” she says, a small, familiar smile on her face, “What do you think?”
Hermione steps into the hall, where three mirrors allow her to appraise herself from every angle. She twists and turns, watching as the satin floats and flows with each movement. It’s beautiful, but the high neckline and long, flowing sleeves just feel…too innocent. It doesn’t match her.
“Don’t decide until you try the others!” Apolline says, propping open the fitting room door and waving her back inside.
Hermione dutifully returns. She opts for the red next, certain that the white will only present her as even more demure than the periwinkle had. The deep red dress is deceptively simple, but once it’s on, Hermione is stunned at the way it hugs her curves. Curves she didn’t even know she has.
Andromeda is silent when she exits the fitting room this time, and if Hermione didn’t know better, she could swear she’s blushing. Apolline’s eyebrows raise, and when Hermione sees herself in the floor length mirrors, she sees why.
With each step she takes, her leg peeks out from the long slit in the silk. The simple fabric hangs off of her effortlessly, gleaming like fresh blood in the light. Hermione has never been one to want to show off her skin, but even she can’t deny the way her eyes are drawn to the hint of exposed cleavage, down to the modest curve of her breasts.
“With some red heels and lipstick, you’ll have the eye of everyone in the room,” Apolline says.
“You’ll have everyone talking,” Andromeda says, her eyes glued respectfully to Hermione’s face when she turns back around, “That much is certain.”
“It’s the one,” Hermione says.
Apolline beams, springing forward to inspect the way the dress fits her, “I agree. It’s almost a perfect fit, but I’ll need the week to make the appropriate adjustments.”
Andromeda nods in easy agreement. “Run the card on file. We’ll return next Friday to retrieve it.”
Hermione changes back into her normal clothes, and a few minutes later they’re back outside, wandering the streets of the charming little town arm in arm. She knows that Andromeda is keeping her out of the Château to keep her mind off of tonight’s dinner, and Hermione appreciates the effort. If she was stuck at home with nothing to do but converse with the Blacks and stare at the ocean, she’d be a pile of nerves.
Instead, she gets to enjoy a cup of the best coffee she’s ever had with a stunning view of the sharp cliffs and the waves that crash against them. Andromeda is lost in the view, too, her latte hovering midair as stares.
“What are you thinking about?” Hermione asks.
Andromeda looks at her, blinking herself out of whatever she’s been lost in thought about. She glances around the small cafe, but at noon the place is sparsely populated. There is no risk of being overheard.
“My family,” she says, “I feel worse about lying to them than I thought I would.”
“So do I,” Hermione says, frowning down at her drink, “Hey, maybe they’ll be awful to us tonight and we’ll stop feeling bad.”
Andromeda laughs, the sound light and clear, chasing away Hermione’s gloom. “It’s likely.”
The bell on the door of the cafe trills, and Andromeda’s eyes shift behind Hermione before her face lights up. Hermione twists in her seat to see Nymphadora winding through the tables, a bright smile on her face. Hermione jumps to her feet in time to catch her in a hug.
“Finally,” Hermione says, Nymphadora laughing into her hair.
“I was starting to think you were avoiding me!” She says, parting from Hermione and plopping herself into the empty seat between Hermione and Andy.
“I thought the same!” Hermione argues, sitting back down with a huff, “You’ve left me to fend for myself for the last day. Would’ve been nice to have another friendly face around.”
Nymphadora grimaces, no doubt imagining how Hermione’s first meeting with the family went, “That bad?”
“They haven’t been too unruly,” Andromeda says, patting her daughter on the back of her hand, “Yet.”
“Worried about tonight?” She asks. At Hermione’s sage nod, she adds, “Well, I’ll do my best to diffuse the tension.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Hermione asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. I have a bomb to drop that I’m reserving for an emergency.”
Andromeda rolls her eyes and Hermione snorts. “What constitutes an emergency?”
Nymphadora thinks for a moment. “Hermione starts crying. Oh, if they make her cry, I will fuck everyone’s shit up.”
The trio dissolves into laughter, but Hermione appreciates the support. It’s a relief to have Nymphadora in on their little scheme, and to have her full blessing. She’s certain that no matter how she’s treated, she’ll be able to hold it together. She’s not going to let the Black family’s bigoted opinions reduce her to tears.
They spend the next hour catching up, and for the first time since arriving in France, Hermione begins to feel the tension leaving her shoulders.
By nightfall, her tension returns tenfold.
Hermione stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, framed by the dissipating steam from a particularly scalding shower. Her cheeks are flushed as she rakes her hands through her damp hair, spreading a crème through it that’ll keep it tamed. She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a white sweater, hoping to present as demure enough to warrant sympathy.
Her mind wars with itself, torn between confidence and anxiety. She fully believes in what she and Andy are trying to achieve with this lie, but if she’s going to regret it, those seeds of remorse will sprout tonight.
Strangely, amidst all of her anxiety, black, prying eyes are at the center. She’s most nervous to be in Bellatrix’s crosshairs, to prove herself worthy of dating her sister. How is Hermione supposed to do that when she isn’t actually dating her, when she wouldn’t actually deem herself worthy? Andromeda has gone through a trauma unlike anything Hermione could imagine going through herself, and she made herself a better person from it. She’s a mother, a business owner, a spokesperson for people in need. She’s incredible.
And Hermione is just starting out. She can only hope to accomplish what Andromeda has accomplished thus far in life, let alone be worthy of a relationship with someone like her.
She sighs, shoving herself away from the mirror and steeling herself for what’s to come.
Conversation wafts up the stairs as Hermione descends. She can smell the food cooking in the kitchen, can feel the warmth of the fireplace before she reaches the dining room. Everything in her body wants to relax into the comfort of the home, but her gut won’t allow her to lower her guard.
She enters the room, pausing at the doorframe. The long, mahogany table is centered before a massive fireplace, roaring with orange life. In front of the fireplace Narcissa is seated between Bellatrix and Draco. Closer to Hermione, Andromeda and Dora have saved her a seat between them. On either end of the table are Cygnus and Druella, who both pause in conversation to look at her. A thin smile does little to soften Druella’s features.
“Hermione. Please, take a seat. We’re all just teeming with questions.”
Hermione disguises her immediate pang of anxiety with a smile. She steps further into the room, and takes a seat in the spot saved for her. Nymphadora smiles encouragingly at her, nudging her with her elbow in greeting. Andromeda pours her wine, and the sound of the Merlot filling her cup is the only sound in the room aside from the crackling flames.
“Yes, we have all been discussing you and everything we’ve yet to learn about you,” Cygnus says, leaning forward to grin at her. His eyes are positively sparkling. “You’re quite the mystery to us all, Miss Granger.”
“Please,” Narcissa drawls, swirling the wine in her glass with a delicate sneer, “Why don’t we save the cross examination for dessert?”
Right on cue, two members of the Black’s staff enter the dining room from the kitchen doors on either side of the fireplace, carrying plates of food. Hermione straightens in her seat, taking a long drink of wine while the attention is diverted. It’s only Bellatrix who doesn’t look away, observing Hermione closely. Andromeda is quick to pour her more wine before she sets the glass down.
Seared duck with a dark red sauce and mashed potatoes is placed in front of her, and her stomach rumbles in response. It’s then that Hermione realizes she hasn’t actually eaten all day. It takes extraordinary willpower to keep herself from plunging her fork and knife in straight away, waiting until the entire table is served.
Draco is the first to delve into his dinner, unconcerned with the tension at the table. The rest of the table follows, aside from Bellatrix, who merely continues to watch as Hermione cuts her first bite and pops it into her mouth.
Her eyes flutter shut and she barely contains a moan at the explosion of flavor. When she opens her eyes again, Bellatrix’s haven’t moved. The moment their eyes lock, a shiver shoots down Hermione’s spine.
“Chef Moulin is quite talented, isn’t she?” Bellatrix asks, a smirk playing at her lips.
Hermione swallows, her fork and knife pausing in their pursuit of her next bite. “She is indeed. You’re lucky to have her.”
Druella’s high voice cuts through the air between them. “It’s nice to indulge in a professional chef for our holidays. It’s been a tradition of ours since the girls were children. Long before you were born.”
Cygnus chuckles, and Andromeda narrows her eyes. Hermione releases her knife to pat Andy’s hand on top of the table, the jab rolling off her shoulders with ease.
“They are very fortunate to have grown up with such a privilege,” Hermione replies.
“I’m sure your family has traditions of their own. How do you typically spend your holidays with them?” Druella asks, her eyes piercing and unfaltering even as she takes her first bite of dinner.
“At my parent’s house in London, usually. We haven’t taken many family holidays, which is why my parents are so keen on traveling now.”
“Now that you’re grown and out of the house? How unfortunate for you, dear,” Cygnus says, punctuating his sentence with a long drink from his glass.
“I’m sure Hermione doesn’t mind,” Bellatrix says, leaning back in her chair as her win-red smirk grows, “It means she gets to spend the holiday with ‘Dromeda. She’ll never miss out on another holiday with a Black at her side.”
“Tonks,” Nymphadora interjects, pinning her aunt with a stony stare, “My mother is a Tonks.”
“Ah, but she was a Black first,” Bellatrix responds, her tone biting as she shifts her eyes to Nymphadora, “She will always be a Black, whether she likes it or not.”
Nymphadora doesn’t respond, but her mother’s glare says what she’s thinking for her. Bellatrix raises her glass to her lips and drinks, her eyes finding their way back to Hermione’s. Hermione cuts another piece of duck and eats it, refusing to break their stare.
“Cheers to that,” Druella says with a delicate laugh, “Draco, darling, speaking of…young love, how is it going with Miss Greengrass?”
Draco looks up from his plate for the first time, his eyes bouncing over Hermione and Andromeda before landing on his grandmother. He swallows, patting his mouth with his napkin before responding, “It’s going well.”
“Have you started thinking about a proposal? There’s a lovely shop right here in Blouin we could take you to. Find something one of a kind. How does that sound?”
Draco blanches, his eyes darting away. He buys himself a moment to think by taking a sip before clearing his throat. “Um, it’s only been a year, grandmother.”
“You know, Dru and I were only together for a year before I proposed. You have to stake your claim on the good ones before you lose the chance,” Cygnus says, reaching across the corner of the table to ruffle Draco’s hair.
“What about you, Hermione?” Bellatrix says, and her velvet voice has warmth climbing up Hermione’s neck. She practically purrs her name, “You’ve been dating my sister for a year, haven’t you?”
Hermione swallows carefully, extremely aware of the sudden tightness in her throat. Before she can answer, Druella is shrilly interrupting.
“Are you mad? We’ve only just met her!”
Bellatrix leans forward, her eyes bright, “We’ve only met Astoria once, and we’ve already spent more time with Hermione than we have with her. Why is it too soon for them, but not for Draco?”
Hermione’s heart somersaults straight into a sprint in her chest. Narcissa sighs.
“She has a point, mother,” Andromeda says, “Why is it any different for us?”
Hermione’s eyes bulge as she turns to stare at Andromeda. Has she gone absolutely mad?
“It just is,” Druella snaps, “Andromeda has a child. She’s a widow and her girlfriend is the same age as her daughter.”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Nymphadora interjects cheerfully, “‘Mione is great. Love her.”
“Well?” Bellatrix asks, her focus never leaving Hermione, “Pray tell, Granger. What are your intentions with my sister?”
Hermione freezes, staring at the eldest Black sister. With the fire crackling behind her, shining in her thick, black curls, glinting off the silk of her shirt, she’s a sight to behold, and she’s looking at Hermione like she’s the only other person in the room. The silence is stifling as Hermione’s mind races to find an appropriate response.
“I am going to treat her with all of the care and respect that she deserves,” Hermione says carefully.
“Do you see yourself marrying her?” Bellatrix presses, casting aside Hermione’s response as the non-answer it was.
Hermione presses her lips together as she struggles to keep her expression neutral.
“Do you think you’re worthy of her?” Bellatrix continues.
“No,” Hermione answers, surprising herself with her honesty. Bellatrix’s expression freezes, a subtle hint of shock glancing across her face. “I don’t. I would like to be, of course, but Andromeda is the sort of woman you need to work to be worthy of each and every day. And I intend on doing just that; working to better myself, to uplift her, to…to become worthy.”
Bellatrix can hardly contain her sneer of annoyance at the answer. Andromeda drapes a hand over the back of her chair, beaming at her, and Nymphadora releases a long breath. Hermione smiles at Bellatrix, knowing she’s given the perfect answer.
“Well said,” Cygnus admits, and when Hermione looks at him, she sees the first genuine smile he’s ever given her. Along with it comes a sharp pang of guilt.
“Yes, that was lovely,” Bellatrix drawls, “But you need to be held to a certain standard if you want to be with a Black.”
Nymphadora opens her mouth, undoubtedly to remind Bellatrix that it’s Tonks, but Bellatrix holds up a finger, silencing her without looking at her. Hermione’s hand tightens around her fork until her knuckles turn white, unable to turn away from Bellatrix’s heated stare, unable to stop the heat of her own anger from rising within her.
“Just ask me what it is you want to ask me. Go on, I have no doubt I’ll meet your strict standards.”
“Hermione—” Andromeda starts, her hand on Hermione’s wrist.
“It’s fine, Andy,” she interrupts, “There’s no need for her to mince words. She should just say what it is she wants to say.”
Bellatrix’s teeth glint in the light when she grins, lowering her hand to rest on the rim of her glass. She runs a single digit along the rim as she considers her words, the entire table waiting in tense silence.
“Where did you go to university?” Bellatrix asks.
“Cambridge, where I received a Bachelors for Psychology.”
“Only a Bachelors? You’re satisfied with that?”
Hermione forces her expression to remain neutral, “Actually, I’m headed to Oxford next fall to begin their Masters program in Cognitive Behavioral Sciences.”
“Oh really? As I recall, you aren’t so…privileged to have come from money. How do you plan on paying for that? Surely ‘Dromeda isn’t going to—”
“Of course she isn’t,” Hermione says, her cheeks flushing, “It will add to my student loans, yes, but I have a payment plan in place. I would never ask her to help.”
“Well, you must be paid quite well at your little Tonks Club for sad children, then. How is that going to work when you move to Oxford? I’m sure you’ve figured it out. Sleeping with your boss has its benefits, doesn’t it?”
“Bella,” Andromeda hisses, “That is so fucking inappropriate—”
“The Tonks Project has outposts outside of London, and has been wildly successful in its endeavors. There are plenty of students that are on scholarships or loans that need assistance, there is work to be done there. I will continue to earn a fair salary.”
Bellatrix takes a drink while Hermione talks, but the alcohol does nothing to soften the malicious gleam in her eyes. This is the true Bellatrix, all facades aside, and she is as insensitive as she is ruthless.
“And what will you do once you're done with university? What are your ambitions?”
Hermione hesitates for the first time, noticing the trap that Bellatrix has laid out before she opens her mouth. If she plans to continue her work beneath Andromeda, she will be seen as unambitious, wasting her time and money on school to go nowhere. If she tells her she plans on leaving, she’ll be accused of using her job under Andromeda to pay her way through school before abandoning her. There is no right answer, and worse yet, she hasn’t had this discussion with Andromeda yet.
“Once Hermione has her PhD, she’ll have the option of working as a psychologist for my organization. She doesn’t have to take it, of course, but that’s a problem that is years away.”
Bellatrix looks between Hermione and her sister, her brows drawing together. There are wheels turning behind her eyes, and Hermione fears she can see her suspicions rising.
“She’s going to support you and your daughter on a psychologist's salary? A salary that you’re paying? With all of that debt she’s going to acquire, I just don’t see how that’s reasonable.”
“Dora doesn’t need supporting,” Andromeda says, her tone lowering until it’s downright acidic, “She’s an adult, as is Hermione.”
“Barely,” Bellatrix scoffs, “I just think you could’ve chosen better, ’Dromeda. You’re honestly telling me this is who you want in a life partner?”
Hermione lowers her eyes to her lap, her appetite lost along with any defenses of herself. The words, no matter how bitter and desperate they may be, hit close to home. Bellatrix has managed to pick apart her truthful, heartfelt answers, answers she’s proud of, and make her feel worthless all the same.
Andromeda is saying something, her arm slung protectively around the back of Hermione’s chair, but Hermione can’t bring herself to listen. This whole endeavor is beginning to feel incredibly useless. No one will be able to win Bellatrix’s approval, no one is going to be worthy of this family. Hermione isn’t helping at all, and now she’s trapped here for the next month with no escape.
She swallows the lump in her throat as the panic rises. Bellatrix and Andromeda’s voices are raised, Draco’s eyes are wide, and Narcissa looks like she’d rather be anywhere else in the bloody world. Cygnus and Druella are trying to stop the argument to no avail.
A hand slams down on the table, rattling the silverware and bringing the argument to an abrupt stop. Everyone turns their attention to Nymphadora, whose eyes are wide and nervous, her fingers splayed across the table where her hand landed.
“I have an announcement to make,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically high.
Everyone at the table stares at her, waiting to hear what she has to say in strained silence. When she only continues to stare back at them, wide eyed, Druella asks, “What? What is it?”
Beside Hermione, Andromeda is shaking her head. Nymphadora raises her glass of water in a cheers, her hand shaking.
“I’m pregnant.”
The table erupts straight back into chaos.
Andromeda let's Hermione take the Volkswagen for a drive after dinner to decompress. They never made it to dessert, with half the table storming off in anger or exhaustion and leaving Andy, Dora, and Druella to discuss the details of the unplanned pregnancy.
Hermione didn’t feel right sticking around, and her nerves were fried from the night. She’s exhausted and upset enough that she gets into the car on the wrong side, forgetting everything is backwards where she is, before clamoring over the center console into the driver's seat. She drives the car out to the cliffs, a fifteen minute drive from the Château, enjoying the hum of the engine and the wind that batters the car over the sound of the radio.
She parks the car in an empty lot, with nothing but the light from the moon as company. She can still make out the cliffs in the darkness, the moonlight reflecting off of them as they take a beating from the English Channel. She can hear the waves even from inside the car, the steady, repetitive sound calming her nerves slowly and surely.
She takes a deep sigh, replaying the events of the night and wondering if she could’ve done anything better. She remembers the way Bellatrix looked at her, the way she grew increasingly agitated at Hermione’s every answer. Nothing could’ve prevented it from going the way she did.
Hermione can’t stop herself from snorting when she thinks of Nymphadora’s announcement. She’d gone on to explain that the 34 year old man she’s dating is more than happy to care for her and the baby, despite some initial reservations he had. The phrase initial reservations led to another ten minutes of overlapping yells, before Cygnus realized that a thirteen year age difference separated the two.
“Thanks to the example your mother set for you, no doubt,” Bellatrix said, thoroughly ruining the night beyond repair.
Hermione stays at the cliff's edge for three hours, listening to the quiet music on the stereo and the muffled waves, as relentless in their anger as the eldest Black sister. She watches the time change from eight, to nine, to ten, to eleven, before deciding she’d have to head back if she didn’t want to get caught sleeping in the car.
She can only hope she doesn’t run into Bellatrix before she makes it to her room. The dark haired woman had gone off to the parlor with a bottle of wine, and on her way out Hermione saw the bottle already half empty. She’s surely slinking around the castle, drunk and angry and as unpleasant as ever. If Hermione’s lucky, she’s passed out asleep already, although she doesn't seem the type to turn in before midnight.
The lights in the Château are dark when she returns. She enters through the front door as quietly as possible, and checks the sitting room fire to see dim embers smoldering in the fireplace. The castle is dark and silent, all the way up the stairs.
The creak of a door has Hermione pausing at the top of the stairs. She looks down the dark hallway, trying to figure out which door had opened. Her eyes strain in the darkness, and seeing nothing, she steps forward.
Unease makes her skin crawl as she pads down the hall, her socks making each step silent. She can’t see a thing in the encompassing darkness, and each step forward is a calculated risk.
A single arched window lets in a sliver of dark blue light, and as she approaches it, a shadow passes over it and pauses. Hermione freezes, staring blindly at the dark shape that seems to be staring right back at her. She takes a deep breath, pulling the air around her into her lungs, and she smells amber and bergamot. Bellatrix.
“Someone’s got a habit of sneaking around late at night,” the shadow says, Bellatrix’s voice slithering out in the air between them and making the hair on Hermione’s arms stand on end.
“It’s not a habit,” Hermione says, her voice hardly above a whisper, “And if it is, clearly you share it.”
She moves to walk past her, her heart hammering in her chest, when the shadow reaches out and grabs her by the arm. Hermione stops, looking up and barely making out the sharp features of Bellatrix’s face. She can’t make out her expression in the darkness, can’t make any sense of her intentions.
“I hope you’re apologizing for your behavior this evening,” Hermione says, the breathy words lacking the venom she wished to infuse them with, “otherwise we have nothing to say to each other.”
Bellatrix moves closer, and Hermione can hear the steady sound of her breath, smell the heavy, intoxicating scent of her hair, feel the warmth of her skin.
“Oh, I have something to say to you,” Bellatrix murmurs, her low voice sending a shiver through Hermione’s body.
Hermione tries to pull her arm away, but she stumbles and Bellatrix doesn’t let go. Instead, she uses her imbalance to shove her against the wall, her other hand coming to rest on the wall above Hermione’s head. She’s trapped, Bellatrix’s face inches from her own.
At the new angle, the dark blue light from the window illuminates the right side of Bellatrix’s face. Hermione can see the rise and fall of her chest with every labored breath she takes, and can see the subtle flush on her cheeks from the wine. She can smell the wine on her breath, mingling with the warm scent of her skin. It makes Hermione dizzy, as though she’s as drunk as Bellatrix is. She could push her away. She should.
She doesn’t.
“What-” Hermione stutters, “W-what could you possibly have to say to me other than sorry?”
“I think you’re hiding something,” Bellatrix says.
Hermione’s mind comes to a grinding halt, panic setting in. Her heart is roaring in her ears, her eyes flickering between Bellatrix’s as she tries to work out what she did wrong, why she would say that, what she should say in response. Her mind replays the words over and over, a broken record. When she doesn’t say anything, Bellatrix smiles, slow and predatory.
She leans in, whispering her next words directly into Hermione’s ear.
“I’m going to find out what it is.”