Nightcall

“So she’s definitely been watching you, then,” Ginny sighed over the receiver, “Kinky.”

Hermione blushed profusely and was suddenly glad that she was alone– or as alone as she could seem to be– in her bedroom at the Manor. She had called Ginny as soon as she had returned to Draco’s room for the night, hoping that her friend’s voice might help to quiet the nervous energy that hung about her like a fog.

“We don’t know that, Ginevra,” she upbraided back into the phone, using her friend’s full name for extra ethos.

“She said your hands were pretty. How else would she have known that if she wasn’t spying on you, exactly?” Ginny pressed.

“She could have deduced,” Hermione shrugged.

“Deduced?”

“From my incredibly aesthetic handwriting,” Hermione flailed, “She’s an English Professor. I’m sure she can intuit things like that. She’s a professional.”

“Hermione, I say this with love– you sound absolutely unhinged,” Ginny giggled.

Hermione allowed herself to fall backwards onto the four poster bed, moaning slightly as she sunk into the waiting duvet.

“It is weird though, right? To say something like that when we haven’t even met properly? Like was she threatening me or–?” Hermione broke off shaking her head. Every part of her felt frazzled and on edge, like a violin string pulled too taut.

“Or flirting with you, maybe?” Ginny murmured.

“No, that doesn’t even make sense, Gin.”

“I dunno. She sounds cool and mysterious and hot and alluring and you are way too tightly round. I feel like you sort of deserve an illicit vacation romance.”

“I am not too tightly wound,” Hermione retorted, rolling onto her stomach, “I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly adjusted and very fun to be around.”

“I know that,” Ginny retorted in mock outrage, “But you never do anything for yourself. It might be nice to let loose a bit. Be the one taken care of for a change.”

Hermione felt her entire body tighten despite herself, her jaw clenching.

“Can we not talk about that right now, please,” she whispered, pressing her face into the pillow as though to smother herself.

Ginny sighed.

“Yeah, of course, I’m sorry, ‘Mione.”

“It’s fine, I’m just in my repression era, so,” she muttered, aiming for levity.

“Dork,” Ginny chuckled, before pivoting tactfully, “Okay, so fill me in on the whole Fleur situation please. She asked you out?”

Hermione groaned.

“Technically she just left me her phone number.”

“Hermione, she likes you.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t really have time for any of that anyways. I’ve got the fresh term to prepare for and then finals and then securing long term work in tandem with grad school applications. There just wont be time for distractions.”

“Fleur Delacour is not a distraction. She’s a goddess,” Ginny shouted in disbelief, “How does this always happen to you? First, Victor, and now–”

“Nothing happened with Victor, so he doesn’t count,” Hermione interrupted primly.

“Yeah, but he was still madly in love with you. What happened to him anyways?”

“Nothing really. He’s still wonderfully kind. Still playing rugby with Draco. Last time I saw him he was talking about maybe joining the police academy after school.”

“ACAB,” Ginny sighed.

“I know. I told him.”

“I do miss your hot transfer Bulgarian Rugby player era, though,” Ginny sighed.

“Okay, enough! How are you and Luna?”

“Luna’s on fire. Another one of her astrology videos went viral on Tiktok– it was like “What type of cat should you get based on your moon sign” or something like that.”

“Of course she is,” Hermione grinned.

“And she’s getting sponsorship offers all over the place. There was one from a sex toy company that puts crystals into their silicone vibrator molds. It’s sort of iconic?”

“Is she going to do it?”

“You know, Luna. Of course she is.”

A smile slipped over Hermione’s lips, and some of the tightness in her shoulders abated.

“I miss you guys,” Hermione whispered curling up around the phone, “Remind me why I went away for school again?”

“Because you’re a literal genius who deserves adventure and intrigue,” Ginny supplied easily.

When they were in high school, Ginny, Luna, and Hermione would sometimes fall asleep over the phone, just listening to the sounds of each other breathing. That sort of easy intimacy had been one of the most treasured experiences in Hermione’s somewhat chaotic life, and she longed for it now, in the shadowy semi-darkness of Draco’s bedroom with an almost overwhelming nostalgia.

“Night, Gin,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, ‘Mione,” her friend returned, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the hot Lit Professor bite! Unless you’re into that.”

She hung up abruptly, laughing in spite of herself.

***

The next morning, Hermione wandered down to the paneled dining room, having carelessly settled on a dark lace bralette and an oversized off the shoulder cashmere sweater.

She knew she couldn’t justify continuing to go out for every meal, not with sending money home and existing on a student’s budget, but she was reluctant to cause Kreature any inconvenience.
“Mistress Granger,” the maid’s voice grated from behind her, as if magically summoned, “Will you be wanting breakfast now?”

Hermione swung around, flustered.

“Erm, yes please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Kreature muttered something unintelligible under her breath and disappeared abruptly, leaving Hermione to stare awkwardly at the opulently set table. The centerpiece was a graceful arrangement of eucalyptus and lily and peacock feathers, surrounded on both sides by silver sculpted candle holders. Hermione tried to imagine what this room might look and feel like if it were full, and found she could not.

“It seats forty, in a pinch,” a warm, sultry voice sounded in her ear, apparently reading her mind.

For the second time that day, Hermione jolted around, her heart in her ears.

As her eyes fell on the woman who lounged only inches away, almost unbearably close, the first thing Hermione registered was the sheer darkness of her. She was like a black and white Renaissance modello, or else an ethereally smudged charcoal sketch– all shadow and ghostly light.

Her eyes were so brown that really, they might be the night sky, thought Hermione. Eyes like black holes, like the roar on the other side of silence, like an abyss with no clear end. And her effortlessly curled hair was done up elegantly around her face, her high cheekbones sharp enough to slice the younger girl in half, and Hermione found that she couldn’t breathe.

The older woman was dressed in a silky black nightdress, apparently having just risen from her own bed, wherever that was.

“Cat got your tongue, Granger?” asked Bellatrix Lestrange, and the younger witch found her gaze glued to the woman’s mouth, which was like a beautiful wound, fuschia and absorbing.

“I wasn’t supposed to run into you,” was all that she could think of to say. As soon as she had registered that the words were spoken aloud, and not confined to her mind, she blushed furiously.

A predatory smile slipped across Bellatrix’s face, revealing impossibly sharp canines. There was something feral in it, and Hermione’s stomach gave an involuntary jump.

“Oh? Is that so? And why not, pray tell?” the older woman took a step closer, invading Hermione’s space even more than she was already.

Hermione attempted to calm herself, forcing her gaze upwards to maintain eye contact.

“Your sister seems to think you’re something of a recluse,” she managed, her voice shivery and small.

Bellatrix shrugged, disinterestedly.

“I am, but I can make exceptions for interfering little girls who make a mess of my research materials.”

Hermione took a step back, mortified.

“I apologize. I hadn’t been informed that you would be utilizing the library collections over break. I would never want to pervert your process,” she expelled in a rush, the part of her that longed for approval suddenly in control.

Bellatrix’s smile widened.

“So accommodating, Miss Granger,” she purred, “Dragon mentioned that you’re supposed to be the brightest of your year, but I think he might be wrong. You’re just a teacher’s pet, aren’t you?” The insult stung, but on a somewhat deeper level, Hermioned reveled in the challenge.

“Dragon?” Hermione managed at last, feeling herself pulled from the conversation by the unfamiliar nickname.

Bellatrix ignored her, studying her nails which were long and sharp and painted a deep shade of crimson.

“Are you in love with him?” Bellatrix murmured at last, her eyes flickering up to meet Hermione’s at last.

Hermione sputtered.

“Who? What? Draco? Sorry– What?” She wanted to laugh but felt that might be inappropriate.

“Unless I have another irreverent, blonde haired nephew that I don’t know about?” Bellatrix raised a single dark eyebrow, “Why else would he put your name forward for the position you currently occupy? Draco doesn’t like strangers.”

Why do they all keep calling me that? Hermione wondered internally, with a huff of frustration.

“Um, no. Definitely not,” Hermione cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders, “He’s a friend. A good friend. So we’re not actually strangers. Ew.”

Bellatrix continued to watch her in silence, a tactic Hermione knew well. She was determined not to be the first to break the uncomfortable quiet between them, but Bellatrix seemed almost too at ease with the energy in the room.

“And he knew I needed the money,” she muttered at last, breaking eye contact with Bellatrix to stare at her socks.

This seemed to satisfy the older woman, who nodded and drew back a few paces.

At that moment, Kreature came bustling in, carrying a tray laden with orange juice, coffee, tea, and what looked like red wine.

Bellatrix gracefully plucked the wine from the tray, and took a long sip. Her eyes glittered when she noticed Hermione’s open mouthed stare.

“Never seen a woman drink before, Granger? Draco said you were from a small town in the middle of nowhere but I assumed–”

Irritation rising, Hermione cut her off.

“Isn’t it a bit early in the morning for that?” she offered, her brow furrowed.

“Ooh, she’s righteous too. I can’t wait to get to know you better,” Bellatrix smiled coldly, her voice sarcastic.

Hermione attempted to shield the hurt she was feeling from her face, but she was sure that Bellatix must be able to see it, to know where Hermione was wounded like a sixth sense, as a shark might taste blood in the water.

“I’ll leave you to your breakfast, then, pet” she said in a sing-song voice, “I only popped in to be polite. You didn’t respond to my last little message, and I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any more misunderstandings. The library is mine. A tenured professor has actual important things to do. If you must entertain yourself in it, do so unobtrusively. Are we clear?”

Hermione bit her cheek until she tasted the faint copper tang of blood.

“Crystal,” she replied.