Apollo
After her encounter with Bellatrix in the dining room, Hermione did her best to catalog the library collection in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. And it was with the older woman in mind that she erected a schedule for herself over the next week.
She rose early, sometimes before the sun, wrapping a thin silken robe around her she had filched from Draco’s closet for the sake of propriety. Then, on tentative, bare feet, she would feel her way to the library’s immense double doors, and push her way inside, only letting herself relax when she was quite sure that she was alone. She would work diligently until breakfast, and then abscond up to her rooms once more, taking her usual tea and scone in bed. When Bellatrix was not bound by a teaching schedule, or apparently set upon harassing Hermione over breakfast, she seemed to be largely nocturnal, for which the younger girl was grateful.
It was one morning, just like this, when Hermione stumbled into the library, her curly hair tied up in a messy bun, her robe slightly undone, her eyes bleary with sleep, that she found she had miscalculated.
The immense doors had just closed with a soothing click behind her, and she was palming the wall for the light switch, when a low, gravelly voice found her in the gloom.
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to wander around in the dark, pet?”
Hermione froze, her breath caught in her throat.
She turned slowly in the direction of the voice, letting her eyes adjust.
“Professor?” she tried nervously, the skin along her exposed neck blossoming with gooseflesh.
A rustling came from deeper in the library, although Hermione could not discern Bellatrix in the shadows. And then, unnervingly, silence.
Hemione shifted on her toes, wondering if she should run. She dismissed the childish notion swiftly, annoyed at herself. Even so, she could not control how her breath came in sharp, jagged little inhales, and her eyes scanned the shadows uselessly.
“Professor Lestrange?” she tried again, a note of a whine seeping into her voice, “This isn’t amusing.”
The sudden, unexpected sensation of warm breath along her collarbone made her shudder.
“Don’t call me that,” Bellatrix murmured in her ear, “Lestrange was my husband’s name. Not mine.” There was a strange inflection in her tone as she said the word husband, as though she were discussing something exceedingly distasteful.
Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again. She could feel, more than hear Bellatrix moving about in the dark, in a slow circle around her. Could smell the scent of her smokey perfume languishing in the air between them.
After a long moment, she forced herself to respond in as casual a manner as she could.
“The two of you are separated, then?”
Bellatrix chuckled from the shadows, much too close for comfort. Hermione let her eyes flutter shut, allowing the scent of the older woman to overpower her.
“Something like that.”
Hermione had no idea what that meant, but she imagined that Bellatrix enjoyed making her grasp desperately for every scrap of knowledge she dropped. She felt like a pigeon scavenging uselessly around Bellatrix’s feet for bread crumbs.
“How wonderfully vague,” she muttered dryly.
“Oh, does the obnoxious little teacher’s pet interloping in my family home feel entitled to my entire intrapersonal history? How rich.” Bellatrix was quick to retort, her speech simultaneously playful and caustic.
Hermione bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably. She fought the urge to flee from the room, from this woman and her strangeness.
“Were you reading here, alone in the dark?” Hermione babbled at last, just to change the subject.
“Just full of questions, aren’t you Granger?” Bellatrix sighed, this time from behind her. The voice was so close that it sent a shiver down her spine.
Hermione shrugged, feigning indifference.
“One might assume that as a scholar yourself, you’d have less disdain for curiosity,” the younger girl swallowed, “Can we turn on a light in here?”
“I rather like you in the dark,” Bellatrix murmured, “It feels allegorical somehow.”
“I’ll leave you be, then,” Hermione muttered, turning on her heel, no longer caring that she was being rude, “Clearly I’ve interrupted you.”
A cold, vice-like hand settled around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. Before the younger girl could react, the older woman’s thumb began to rub comforting circles around Hermione’s pulse point.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry?” Hermione questioned, her whole body frenetic.
“My husband. Dead,” Bellatrix offered as casually as if she were discussing the weather.
Hermione felt light-headed in the semi-darkness. What was Bellatrix playing at?
Suddenly the Professor’s fingers paused along Hermione’s skin.
“You’re frightened,” she said, with something like awe and annoyance in her tone, “Your little heart is beating a mile a minute. Like a hunted thing.” There was a queer fondness in her words, mixed with condescension. For a moment, the fingers tightened around Hermione’s wrist, as though Bellatrix couldn’t imagine letting her go.
“My husband’s heart was like yours. Frantic little beats.” The woman was close enough that Hermione could make out her smirk in the darkness.
In another instant, she withdrew her fingers. In spite of the oddness of the situation, Hermione found herself missing the older woman’s touch.
“Get out. Perhaps you can come back in the afternoon, once you’re properly dressed and fed,” Bellatrix dismissed her calmly, her voice suddenly far away and disinterested.
Hermione felt a flash of shame rise in her. Bellatrix choosing to comment on her clothes, or lack thereof, left her feeling hollowed out, diminished.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her fingers closing with relief around the door’s wrought iron handle, and beginning to push.
“For what?” Bellatrix inquired, apparently taken aback.
“For your loss. I can’t imagine it’s easy to lose someone you’ve loved and built a life with.” Now that the door was open, a stream of light slipped into the library. Hermione turned to see Bellatrix poised in the doorway, her lips pursed, her expression tempestuous.
“Has anyone ever told you that your sincerity is vaguely off-putting, Granger?”
Hermione stared back at the older woman, at a loss for words. It was becoming a habit.
“Don’t be sorry,” Bellatrix continued, stretching like a cat as Hermione took another halting step from the Library, “Rudolphus was a vile, unctuous little creature. I wanted him dead for a very long time. I had to be patient.”
Hermione felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. Draco's aunt was unlike anyone she had ever met. Ruthless and playful in turn.
“I should go,” Hermione muttered, stumbling backwards until she found her footing, and then streaking down the corridor.