Chapter Text
Hermione Granger exited her office exactly forty-seven minutes after she promised herself she would leave. So by her standards, she was exactly on time. She was never late to work in the morning, but always late going home. In fact, that had been precisely the reason her last girlfriend had given her as to why they needed to break up.
That was over two years ago though, and certainly not worth dwelling over in her opinion. Hermione couldn’t exactly claim to have a love life, but it didn’t bother her. She found she had little attention or energy for most others in a romantic capacity. At the age of 29, what she found herself mostly attracted to was her own success. And successful she was. Just nine years after the end of the Second Wizarding War, Hermione Granger was promoted to Senior Undersecretary for the Minister for Magic.
She’d held the title for just over a year now and was as determined as ever to meet her own impossibly set standards. When in her office, she occasionally felt her mind drift back to her fifth year, when Dolores Umbrdige held the same title, sat in the same office, in fact. Hermione nearly shivered at the thought whenever it surfaced. The disgust which bubbled in her stomach when it did pushed her to outshine even the most unreasonable metrics of performance. She hated having any association with that woman. Being one of her successors in the role of second in command to the Minister for Magic was an association Hermione wasn’t comfortable sharing. She therefore pushed herself to near perfection. There was nothing she let out of her control. There was nothing she couldn’t achieve.
After warding her door and taking one final look at the common area of her department in the Ministry, she rode the lift up to the central atrium. The click of her heels echoed in the near vacant space. As she passed the golden fountain, her eyes briefly scanned the sculpture at the centre representing the cooperation of muggles, wizards and witches, and magical creatures alike. The sculpture was one Hermione had personally overseen the design and installation of when she was Head of the Department for Magical Beings Relations (after she swiftly renamed it from its previous and far more offensive name, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures).
She was proud of the many career triumphs she’d had over the past decade. She didn’t have a wife or children like the rest of her mates from school, but she found she had something just as satisfying: a sense of accomplishment and growing power. Her illustrious career would hopefully one day culminate in her election as the Minister for Magic. Aside from the Minister himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt, she was one of the most respected voices in the Progressive magical party she belonged to. When Kingsley retires, she’d certainly be a shoo in for the top job, assuming her life continues on its projected path.
She was aware that the Progressive party had been discretely running focus groups on her for the past two years or so, to poll and track her likeability. She tried to ignore this, however, and focus on the present. One day at a time.
As she stepped into the Floo and whispered her address, she refocused on the here and now. Stepping out of her fireplace and into her living room, she cast a quick tempus charm.
“Damn,” she cursed under her breath.
She flicked her wrist, removing her clothes in a feat of wandless magic and swiftly getting into the shower, she used a touch of magic to help expedite her task. After all, Andy would kill her if she were late. She’d promised to make an appearance.
Andromeda Tonks, Head Healer at St. Mungos, had become one of her closest friends nearly a decade ago.
The war had ended. Everyone was focused on healing, mourning those lost, and rebuilding all that had been broken. Families came back together. Friends married. Couples had children. The world was changing for the better. But Hermione had no one.
She and Ron had ended and quickly as they began, once it became glaringly obvious that she was not at all interested in the opposite sex.
Despite what she’d told Harry and Ron before going on the hunt for Horcruxes, she’d irreparably altered her parents’ memories. She considered it an unintentional but necessary casualty of war.
To this day, Hermione kept track of her parents, who now went by Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They still lived as a very happy and well off couple with a thriving dentistry practice outside Melbourne, Australia. She visited them every winter. They had no idea she was their daughter, but instead believed her to be a distant cousin who had connected with them through genealogy research. It wasn’t as it was before, but they’d developed their own kind of strange relationship with their new identities.
Hermione knew the spellwork she’d done on their minds would be irreversible and didn’t attempt to find them in the immediate aftermath of the war. Instead, she waited several years to seek them out just to be sure the conflict truly was over and they would be safe. Luckily for her, Voldemort’s true followers quickly dispersed or were sent to prison after his downfall. Further, their society, while it had progressed socially in many notable ways over the past decade, still devoted shockingly few resources and attention to muggle-born witches and wizards. She doubted anyone from the wizarding government had ever bothered to look into the wellbeing of her parents, or parents of other muggle born children after the war ended. The lack of support for young muggleborns was something she hoped to change when she became Minister.
Hermione was nineteen, traumatised both physically and mentally, and had no one but herself. The scar on her arm, which had never fully healed as it had been cursed by the blade which was used to mar her skin, was causing her severe pain at night. She took herself to hospital and the witch which entered her examination room was none other than Andromeda Tonks, a senior healer at the time. It took the healer several months of research to discover a suitable treatment. Over this time, the pair developed a tentative acquaintance. Andy turned into a familiar pen pal and eventually a friend during her eighth year at Hogwarts, where she returned to the castle to finish her formal magical education. The year was long and her heart was lonely. Andy’s letters and occasional visits to Hogsmead with the young metamorphmagus, Teddy, went a long way to soothe her soul.
Over time, their bond grew. Hermione even lived with Andromeda for about a year after she completed her studies and began her professional life. They each provided exactly what the other needed. In Andromeda, Hermione found companionship, a quasi-parental figure, and most prominently these days, a friend. In Hermione, Andy found the same, but a young gifted spirit which reminded her of her daughter Dora in the best way, as well as another reliable adult figure for Teddy, whom she was now raising on her own.
Stepping out of the shower, she summoned her wand and performed a complex series of spells to style her hair just right so that it laid in long smooth waves. Another swish of her wand had her gown for the evening draping itself around her body and to the floor. It was white and flowing, with gold accents fastening it to her body. The dress was low cut and had a high slit up the side. Admittedly, it accentuated her curves, which had filled out over the past decade.
She used another spell that her colleague and friend, Pansy Parkinson taught her, which effortlessly applied her makeup to her face and the moisturiser she loved to her body which was imbued with unicorn horn dust. The moisturiser gave her naturally olive toned skin a flawless shimmer. Last was the crown of flowers, which hovered above her and then gracefully landed upon her head. She smirked at her reflection in the mirror as she took in the look. Stepping into her gold strappy heels, she grabbed a purse, transfigured it to match the look, and apparated to the event.
Outside the building, she was greeted by a large wizard in black robes.
“Name?” He asked, sensing her presence, without looking up from his clipboard. She cleared her throat and raised a curious eyebrow at the man. He looked up and fumbled slightly, before recovering. “Ah, Miss Granger. Welcome.”
He nodded at her and she gave him a soft smile. While she once hated the fame being a member of ‘the Golden Trio’ brought her, she knew that even without her storied actions as a teenager, she’d be well known now anyway. At some point in the past ten years, she realised any attempts at privacy were futile. Instead, she leaned into her fame. She never milked it. She didn’t even enjoy it. But she recognized the role she’d played in society from a young age. Especially given her high profile career path at the Ministry, she accepted that the comfort of anonymity would never be her reality.
He looked down at his clipboard, likely reading a note, and continued, “Mrs. Tonks has requested that you check in with her before giving your speech. She says she’ll be making the rounds, but to follow the yellow brick road to find her?” The last part of his sentence was said questioningly. He furrowed his brow and looked up at her before admitting, “I’m not quite sure what that means. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Hermione chuckled and confirmed, “I’ll find her. Thank you.”
Hermione deduced that Andy must be dressed in some sort of costume related to the Wizard of Oz. The bouncer was obviously not a muggleborn, or he likely would have understood the reference.
Sure enough, Hermione found Andy upon entering the ballroom wearing a very short blue chequered dress and sparkly red heels. Her hair was pulled into pigtails, but somehow still looked grown up. She approached the older woman from behind, hoping to catch her off-guard when she spoke into her ear, “funny, I don’t remember Dorothy being quite so sexy in the movie.”
She could practically feel Andromeda’s smirk, which she’d found was a signature expression of all of the Black sisters, before the woman turned on the spot to face her. Andy’s brown eyes trailed her form down and up again before she said, “well, Dorothy wasn’t me.” Andy winked and then said, “you’re looking quite fetching tonight as well. Trying to catch someone’s eye?”
Hermione grinned at her friend’s banter while simultaneously rolling her eyes. “Please, you know better.”
Andy shrugged. “Just saying. Your costume is very… eye-catching.”
Hermione inwardly rejoiced. She was hoping she looked as good as she felt, her mind on one person in particular. But she couldn’t say that to Andy. So instead, she changed the subject. Looking around the large ballroom, she noticed it was decorated darkly. The moody space had low lighting and surprisingly chic decor given that it was a Halloween charity ball to raise money for children in the rare disease ward of St. Mungos.
“The place looks amazing, Andy. You did a fantastic job.”
“Narcissa did the lion’s share of the planning. You know how she is,” she said off handedly, taking a sip of the champagne glass in her hand.
Narcissa, the third and youngest Black sister was a potions master at St. Mungos. After the war, evidence and court testimony proved that she had been secretly aiding both the Hogwarts mediwitch, Poppy Pomfrey, and the Order by supplying them with all kinds of healing potions and medicinal salves brewed in her private lab. Exonerated for any actions during the war, Narcissa was now a successful potioneer and philanthropist who doted on her only grandson, Scorpius, nearly to the point of suffocation. It was an endearing quality that Hermione had seen first hand on many occasions. After her trial where she was found innocent of all crimes against her for aiding Voldemort and the Death Eaters, Narcissa reconnected with her older sister Andromeda. Thus, Hermione ran into her from time to time not only at social and political events, but at Andy’s house or other family gatherings.
Hermione held no hatred for the woman anymore, and the blonde had even found her way into Hermione’s short list of friends. They certainly weren’t as close as Andy and Hermione, but she found Narcissa’s company intellectually stimulating. The seemingly callous blonde was actually quite warm with her family. Hermione was still somewhat uneasy around the posh woman, but found herself enjoying their untraditional friendship nonetheless.
“Oh? Where is Narcissa? Surely miss manners isn’t late,” Hermione teased.
Andy rolled her eyes and said, “of course not. She’s been here for hours critiquing every last candle placement and generally being a pain in my arse. I think I saw a caterer crying out back,” she said sarcastically. “She’s probably off making the rounds somewhere.” Andy waved her hand around to emphasise her point. “Ah!” Andy exclaimed as one of said caterers walked by with a tray of champagne. She placed her empty glass on the tray and grabbed two more, handing one to Hermione. The older woman clinked their glasses together before they each took a sip. Hermione felt the cool bubbles playfully dancing on her tongue and silently agreed not to drink too much tonight, lest she make careless decisions.
“Thank you again, for being our honorary guest ,” Andy said with mock sophistication.
Truthfully, until the bouncer had said something, Hermione hadn’t given much thought to the fact that she’d be expected to give a speech. As an up and coming politician, though, she attended these kinds of events often and was certain she could wing it. “Please, as if Narcissa’s contact book doesn’t have far better connections,” she said teasingly.
“Hey, no self-deprecation,” Andy replied as she lightly smacked the younger woman’s arm. “ You just need to throw on some of the Golden Girl riz and flash that dazzling smile. You’ll have the donors eating out of the palm of your hand. And at the end of all of this, I’ll be able to afford to break ground on the new expansion ward,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“You’re ridiculous,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes but smiling.
As if summoned by their conversation, Narcissa approached the pair. She was wearing a long elegant gown that clung to her body like a second skin. It was blue and silver, looked almost scale-like, and clearly magically enhanced to shimmer when she moved. Her hair was down but slicked back and had silver sparkles and blue stones worked into it. Hermione assessed the woman curiously, trying to work out what her costume was.
“A Swedish Short-Snout,” Narcissa answered Hermione’s unasked question as if she’d read her mind. Then again, perhaps she had. The blonde was a talented legilimens.
Hermione asked incredulously, “you’re a dragon?”
Narcissa smirked and said simply, “my interpretation, darling. You can’t have expected me to dress in a silly costume.” She gestured to Andromeda as if to illustrate her point that the event’s theme was beneath her.
Andy rolled her eyes and said, “see? A pain in my arse.”
A low sultry voice spoke near her right ear, “I was hoping to be a pain in someone’s arse tonight, if you know what I mean. Know anyone that might be interested, Granger?”
Bellatrix. The third and eldest Black sister had made her appearance.
Andy snorted at her sister’s rude comment and Narcissa admonished the dark haired sister for being crude. But that all faded into the background as Hermione spun to reply and subsequently struggled to contain her reaction.
Bellatrix wore a sinfully short emerald green silk dress that was draped so loosely it appeared that the fabric merely maintained the idea of remaining on her body. It was fastened with metal silver straps, and had a scoop neck that revealed plentiful cleavage. The back was practically nonexistent, the scoop dipping so low, Hermione was certain it would reveal her bum if she arched her back.
Her strong pale legs were fully on display. Her arms were also bare, and equally as white. The only blemishes marring her otherwise perfect skin was the black Dark Mark on her inner left forearm and the rune tattooed on her neck from her stint in Azkaban, which was currently hidden by her hair. Hermione knew the woman could cover them with a simple glamour charm, but chose not to, preferring the intimidation factor the magical tattoos gave her in her line of work.
She had a silver cuff that looked like a snake with emeralds for eyes wrapped tightly around her right bicep and her left thigh. Her eye makeup was dark and smokey, her lips were shaded with her signature red lipstick, which was magically enhanced not to smudge or fade as the night wore on. Her hair, which she often attempted to contain in a bun or ponytail at work, was down. Her inky black ringlets cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Some of those ringlets were enchanted to twist and rise up off of her head. They were slithering .
“Medusa,” Hermione concluded, more breathlessly than she would have liked, interrupting the bickering of the two younger sisters.
Bellatrix’s plump red lips pulled into a devilish smirk. Her eyes slowly raked across Hermione’s form and she felt herself heating up a bit at the attention. As quickly as it had appeared, the smirk was gone. Bellatrix glared at her and cuttingly warned, “careful, Aphrodite. I’ll turn you to stone.” Her tone was harsh, but her eyes still twinkled with a hint of amusement. Despite her best efforts to be intimidating, Hermione knew the older woman was teasing.
Bellatrix Black. Hermione’s head swam at the sight of her. Her lust battled fiercely with the disdain she felt for the older woman. Much like her youngest sister, Bellatrix was found to be a double agent after the war. Unlike her sister, it didn’t take court hearings to sort out the truth. After all, Bellatrix herself killed the last of Voldemort’s horcruxes, Nagini, before helping Harry duel him to his ultimate death. Hermione also later pieced together that in addition to her laundry list of actions to aid and abet the Order, Bellatrix used the trio’s time captured at Malfoy Manor to cleverly point them in the direction of her Gringotts vault. She’d even taken care to leave several of her hairs on Hermione’s clothing for the polyjuice they used to steal Helga Hufflepuff’s cup.
Bellatrix had been recruited out of Hogwarts and trained in secret by Alastor Moody himself to infiltrate Voldemort’s inner ranks. The dark witch now held the late wizard’s position in the Ministry. As the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bellatrix was a force to be reckoned with.
Despite ultimately being an agent of the light, Bellatrix was no saint. She was cynical and could be cruel. She was sarcastic and rude and more often than not got under Hermione’s skin to the point of wanting to pull her hair out.
But she was also brilliant and tortured and something about her piqued Hermione’s curiosity. Despite knowing better, because she did know better than to get involved with someone as completely inappropriate as Bellatrix Black, Hermione found herself wondering how she might unravel the dark witch’s mysteries.
At the age of 57, Bellatrix wasn’t even quite middle aged for a witch. She had the faintest lines between her eyebrows, around her eyes, and tugging at her cheeks when she flashed a rare smile, but like her sisters, was largely unaffected by ageing. Despite her life, which had been scarred by the near constant exposure to war for two decades, the average muggle would probably peg her as somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties. Hermione thought this was completely unfair. She simply shouldn’t be so physically attracted to someone literally twice her age, but the Black family seemed to have some kind of superior genetics, even for witches.
Medusa . It did seem a fitting costume for the dark witch. Her beauty could certainly captivate the world. At the very least, it captivated Hermione. Voldemort attempted to seduce her into his ranks when she was a young girl and while she initially resisted, was pressured into entering his ranks under the guise of the greater good.
Working undercover had no doubt changed her. Despite this, she never gave in. Everything Voldemort gained from Bellatrix was either taken, or exacted to be given. It would have been all too easy for Bellatrix to abandon the Order’s cause and genuinely join the Death Eaters, but she remained loyal. While she could maintain her innocence, Voldemort forced her into committing despicable acts. With his influence, she became a monster to many. Despite her public absolution and very high profile job in the Ministry, she largely lived in exile. Bellatrix rarely attended social functions such as this. Hermione suspected she’d been strongarmed by her two younger sisters who planned the event. She lived alone in her massive ancestral manor and kept little company beyond her family. She maintained a powerful and frightening facade, whether out of habit or to protect herself, Hermione didn’t know.
No, the story of Bellatrix and Medusa weren’t perfectly aligned, but they had far too many similarities for the costume to be a coincidence. If the choice in attire was an intentional nod to her own journey, Hermione doubted Bellatrix wanted anyone to notice, so she didn’t comment on it further.
“Earth to Hermione,” Andromeda waved a hand in front of Hermione’s face. She felt her cheeks heat up slightly at the realisation that she’d been staring. She silently hoped it had gone unnoticed by the younger two Black sisters.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, are you prepared to say a few words?”
“Oh,” Hermione shook Bellatrix from her thoughts. “Yes, of course. What time were you thinking?”
Narcissa cut in, “I think we should give everyone another hour or so to arrive and socialise. Then Andy, you’ll introduce Hermione. Hermione, you’ll say your words and encourage everyone to generously open their wallets and hearts to the children of St. Mungos. I’ll finish us off by instructing people where and how to donate and then it’ll just be a lot of smiling and ego stroking from there.”
“My favourite,” Bellatrix interjected sarcastically.
“Hush, Bella,” Narcissa said.
Andy and Narcissa took their leave to greet new arrivals, leaving only Bellatrix and Hermione. The intensity of their eye contact had Hermione questioning whether she really was being turned to stone. She couldn’t seem to move or say anything. She was completely enthralled by the dark witch. Before she could worry too much about what to say, they were interrupted by a group three: Draco, his wife Astoria, and Blaise Zabini. Bellatrix kissed the cheeks of her nephew and niece in law and everyone exchanged pleasantries. Draco and Blaise worked together in the Aurors office under Bellatrix’s department.
With all of the confidence in the world, Blaise said, “Bellatrix, you’re looking extremely well. Care to save me a dance?”
“Fuck off, Zabini,” she sparred.
He grasped at his heart and said, “you wound me.” Straightening up and flashing a dazzling smile he tried again, “give me a chance, Bellatrix. All I need is one night to show you what could be yours.”
“Blaise, don’t be disgusting. That’s my aunt,” Draco chastised his friend.
But Bellatrix didn’t need defending. “Only in your wet dreams, Zabini.”
Putting on his best puppy dog eyes and leaning into the witch, he pleaded, “but why? I promise I’d make a great second husband.”
She scoffed and raised her chin arrogantly. She held out her fingers to count. “For one, you’re a child.”
“I’m nearly thirty,” he interrupted, but she pressed on.
“Two, you work in my department. This is bordering on sexual harassment at this point. You’re lucky I haven’t reported your sorry arse. Three, you’re simply not my type. And four,” Bellatrix leaned in a bit, conspiratorially lowering her voice to say, “you couldn’t keep up with me.”
Gobsmacked, Blaise’s jaw dropped at the insinuation. Draco groaned and muttered something about, “not needing to hear that.” Astoria giggled into her champagne glass. Hermione did her best to keep the smirk off of her lips.
Bellatrix delivered her final blow, waving him off as she said, “run along little boy.” Bellatrix's eyes met her own and gave her a wink so fast, she might have imagined it, as the dark witch took a long sip from her glass.
After sufficiently fulfilling her social obligation with the group, Hermione politely excused herself. She knew Andy would appreciate it if she spent time schmoozing donors rather than spending all night in debate with Draco over the latest legislation that landed on her desk.
Eventually, the two glasses of wine she’d consumed hit her bladder and she found herself searching a winding path of dark hallways for the toilet. Suddenly someone tightly gripped her wrist and roughly pulled her behind a door and into a dark room. Before she even had time to react, her scream was silenced with the force of plump lips covering her own.
Without meaning to, she moaned into the kiss and returned it with fervour. She recognised these lips, and they were all too easy to get lost in. One of her hands wound into thick curly locks, tickling her fingers with their charmed movement. The other arm wrapped around the waist of the toned body before her. Her hand pressed against the soft skin on the small of her exposed back. As the pair of lips left her own in favour of travelling down her neck, she tried to regain some sense of control. Though when she spoke, her voice was shakier than she’d intended. “Bellatrix, what are you doing?”
After a moment of no response, Hermione asked again, with slightly more gusto, “Bellatrix,” she gently pushed at the woman’s shoulders, creating space between them. “What are you doing?”
In the dark room, Hermione could faintly make out the whites around Bellatrix’s nearly obsidian eyes. As her pupils adjusted to the room, dimly lit from the strip of light coming through the crack under the door, Hermione saw the pout on Bellatrix’s face. The older witch complained childishly, “this party is boring.” She ducked her head to resume her work on Hermione’s neck.
“The party isn’t boring,” Hermione argued.
“Well it’s certainly not anymore,” Bellatrix mumbled her concession. Hermione felt the woman’s long fingers trace up her thigh between the slit in her dress. She traced her digits over the panties and dug her index finger under the waistband.
“Bellatrix,” Hermione snipped, struggling to maintain a sense of composure. “We can’t do this here! I have to… We shouldn’t… Your sisters will be needing me soon,” she settled on a reasonable argument.
In a sickly sweet voice, Bellatrix said, “darling, please don’t mention my sisters when I’m trying to make love to you. It’s a bit of a turn off.”
Hermione scoffed. Bellatrix and Hermione didn’t use pet names. And they certainly never ‘made love.’
Shifting into her much more familiar no-nonsense tone, Bellatrix asked bluntly, “are you going to let me fuck you or not?” For emphasis, she snapped the band on Hermione’s panties, where her hand still brushed teasingly.
After a tense moment of consideration, Hermione agreed, “fine.”
Bellatrix’s mouth split in a wide, predatory grin as she wandlessly vanished her knickers.
“Bellatrix Black,” Hermione chastised. “I’m going to need those back. You better not have permanently vanished them.”
Instead of responding, Bellatrix silenced her with a heated kiss that made Hermione senseless. Tauntingly, Bellatrix spoke quietly into her ear as her fingers resumed teasing her. “Aphrodite, the loosest goddess in Greek mythology. Interesting costume choice, Granger.”
“I like to think she was just picky,” Hermione replied as Bellatrix licked up the column of her neck.
Incredulously, Bellatrix asked, “picky? How is shagging half of Mount Olympus being picky?”
“Perhaps she was just looking for the right partner. Maybe she had to kiss a few monsters before finding her hero.”
Bellatrix chuckled darkly into the crook of her neck. “Hm, and which am I, Aphrodite?”
Before Hermione even had time to consider a response to that question, Bellatrix harshly bit at the juncture of her neck and shoulder at the same time as roughly inserting two fingers into her. Hermione let out a loud gasp that turned into a moan as Bellatrix reconnected the lips in a searing kiss and began roughly fucking her into the door behind her.
Bellatrix used her thumb to rub circles over Hermione’s clit which earned her an, “oh fuck,” followed by a breathy, “Bella, please. Fuck.” Her eyes slammed shut with the force of her building orgasm.
For several moments, heavy breathing and the filthy squelching sounds of Bellatrix’s hand working inside her were the only sounds in the room.
Bellatrix nipped at her bottom lip and commanded, “look into my eyes.”
Looking into desire filled charcoal eyes, Hermione whimpered. Her mouth formed into a near silent, “oh,” and she came, forcefully clenching around Bellatrix’s two fingers. She momentarily saw something slightly warmer flicker in those midnight orbs, but the older woman closed them before planting a final kiss on her lips and removing her hand.
The dark witch licked her fingers clean. Back to her playful banter, she said, “mm, delicious,” as she moved a half-step backwards.
Hermione rolled her eyes and righted her dress and hair. She held out a hand and said, “okay. Hand them over.”
“Hand what over?” Bellatrix’s voice was dripping in feigned innocence.
“Bellatrix,” Hermione said curtly. “Give me my knickers.”
Bellatrix made a noise that was somewhere between a meow and a roar, observing with a smirk, “the lioness has claws tonight.” Hermione merely glared at her, again, shaking her outstretched hand in waiting. “Sorry. No can do.”
“What do you mean, ‘no can do’?”
“I don’t know where they went, Granger. I’m a witch, not a seer.”
Hermione huffed in frustration and mumbled, “you always do this.” She turned on her heel to leave with a, “fine,” levelled at the other woman. She reached for the door, but Bellatrix swiftly grabbed her wrist.
“Not going to return the favour? Where are your social graces?”
“I don’t have time for this right now. Andy’s probably looking for me.”
“I see how it is. Trading in one Black for the younger model?”
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard, she felt like they might fall out. “Please. I simply don’t have the time right now. After all, you dragged me into a closet.”
“You didn’t seem to mind,” Bellatrix reminded her.
“You’re unbelievable. You know that, right?”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Now you’re going to hurt my feelings, Granger,” Bellatrix petulantly replied.
Hermione breathed deeply through her nose. “I’ll find you later, okay?”
“Sure,” Bellatrix agreed noncommittally.
With a final look at the slightly dishevelled looking dark witch, Hermione turned towards the door again. She opened it which flooded the room with the low light from the corridor. Bellatrix squeezed her wrist she was still holding and pulled her back again.
“Wha-”
Hermione’s question was cut off once again by the familiar plump lips. The kiss was warm and lingering and somewhere in the middle, Hermione felt the tingle of Bellatrix’s magic settle over her. She pulled back from the kiss in time to see the older witch lowering her wand. She raised an eyebrow in question.
Bellatrix explained, “glamour charm. For the bite mark I left on your neck.”
Hermione delicately traced her fingers over the spot she believed the mark would be. In her haste to leave, she’d forgotten to hide any marks, which was critical if they wanted their rendezvous to remain secret. Which they did.
“Thanks,” Hermione said softly. She leaned forward and placed one final chaste kiss on Bellatrix’s lips before turning and leaving for good this time.