Nightcall

Hermione’s hands trembled all the way up the spiral staircase and down the darkened corridors to Draco’s room. The older woman had a way of getting under her skin, that much was obvious. But how she did it was something of a mystery to Hermione.

Because it wasn’t the woman’s flagrant misogyny, her degradation of Hermione into a pretty, ornamental object which goaded her– that seemed too simple. No, it was that Bellatrix seemed to assume Hermione wouldn’t see through her simplistic brand of faux-aggressiveness. Perhaps she really did imagine that Hermione was mindless. The thought sent an indignant thrill of irritation through the younger girl.

“I hate her,” Hermione whispered impotently under her breath, “That unkind, cruel, arrogant–” she broke off, annoyed at herself. What good did such expressions of vitriol serve, especially when Hermione most certainly didn’t hate the older woman. Not even the tiniest bit.

The truth was that Bellatrix Black fascinated her, and Hermione was perfectly aware that the professor harbored none of that same fascination for her. Just as Icarus dove headfirst into the sun, she would burn herself up for a minute in the woman’s uncanny presence. It was pathetic, really.

She closed the door gently behind her, turning the lock and breathing out raggedly, clenching her eyes shut, before at last allowing Bellatrix to come over her like a fever. The hunger in the pit of her stomach from too many missed meals only compounded her irritability. And amplified her strange, dark longing.

She tied her hair up in a frazzled bun and changed into an oversized sleep shirt. Draco’s bed waited for her silently, and after a long moment she crawled inside of it, allowing the duvet to swallow her.

***

That night, Hermione dreamt of Shell Cottage again.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, she knew. Whenever her waking life began to feel the slightest bit chaotic, her sleeping one relapsed into visions of that long ago summer by the sea. It was like muscle memory, or else traumatically-induced time travel.

In the dream, she was languid and half-conscious on the beach, as she had been a thousand times, the waves crashing over her body and face as she struggled to breathe. Kelp tangled about her ankles, and sand dug into the backs of her arms as she stared up into the cumulous streaked sky. The panic began like a fire in her breast, burning faintly, on the verge of all out conflagration.

But this time, it was not Ron’s hands, broad and warm, tugging her from the surf. No, tonight was different.

A low, reverberating growl came from somewhere to her right. Hermione forced herself to lift her head blearily, to blink salt water from her eyes.

An enormous black dog– or perhaps a wolf– Hermione could not discern exactly what the creature was– had its dark eyes trained on her prone form. Its teeth, polished to exquisite almond whiteness, gleamed threateningly in the moonlight.

“Are you going to kill me?” Hermione asked vaguely, her thoughts murky and slow.

The beast snarled, and then, with a snap of its powerful jaws, pounced. She scarcely had time to scream as the thing’s maw swallowed her face.

***

Hermione woke with a garbled, stillborn shriek working its way out of her throat. A thin layer of sweat had broken out along her back while she slept, and her shirt was twisted around her middle, evidence of her writhing.

“Hush, pet,” a low, honeyed voice whispered in her ear, and in the next moment, Hermione was cognizant that someone was tangled up with her in bed.

She gasped, shuddering with the realization that it Bellatrix who was pressed against her, rubbing soothing circles along her exposed arms.

“You were dreaming. That’s all it was. A dream,” the older woman hummed as Hermione slumped against her, her racing heart slowing slightly as the room came into focus, and her eyes adjusted to the dark.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, slowly, her throat still raw from screaming. In the silence, she could feel her breaths mixing with Bellatrix’s. It was heady, unexpected. Wrong, even.

But she could feel Bellatrix shaking her head against her, could feel a single long, elegant finger, covering her lips, silencing her.

Her mind could not keep up with any of it.

“Professor– Lestra– Black,” she struggled for breath around Bellatrix’s hand, “You’re–” she broke off, “Here? How did you get here?”

Bellatrix stiffened slightly, her tone becoming terse.

“I heard you screaming,” she retorted, as though that made perfect sense, “I thought someone might be hurting you. Your little cries were bloodcurdling, really.”

“But how did you get into my room? Into my bed?” Hermione garbled.

“You left your chamber door unlocked,” Bellatrix shrugged defensively.

“I didn’t,” Hermione fought half-heartedly, struggling to remember if this was strictly true, and found that she was too distressed to be sure with any certainty.

“You did,” Bellatrix insisted, loosening her hold on Hermione’s waist. Hermione turned to face her in the dark, feeling the older woman’s breath on her lips now.

“And you came,” Hermione hummed, transfixed by the outline of Bellatrix’s jaw in the dark, by the dark purple of her lips.

Bellatrix made an annoyed tutting sound, but didn’t pull away from the strange half-embrace that the two women found themselves in. Instead her fingers resumed making patterns on the soft indent of Hermione’s waist, where her shirt had ridden up.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked, after a long moment.

Hermione was so distracted by the feeling of Bellatrix’s fingernail on her bare skin that she answered without bothering to censor herself.

“Shell cottage,” she whispered, almost contentedly, before she realized her mistake and froze.

If Bellatrix noticed Hermione’s sudden discomfort, she did not show it.

“I’ve never heard of it, but I don’t get out much,” she returned dryly.

Hermione shifted.

“You wouldn’t have. It was– a sort of– vacation house– for a family friend. The friend got handsy, I guess, even though I desperately didn't want him too. And I still dream about it sometimes. How it felt,” she forced out, biting the inside of her cheek, “I– this is so embarrassing. You’re going to be my professor next term and I’m telling you about– things I don’t tell anyone about.”

“I understand,” Bellatrix allowed, and Hermione felt that perhaps the older woman understood, “Everyone interesting has their own variation of shell cottage.”

Hermione let her eyes flutter shut with relief.

“You think I’m interesting?” Hermione asked lazily, her eyes returning to Bellatrix’s obscured face.

“You’re extrapolating,” Bellatrix hummed, but her fingers had drifted higher, along Hermione’s ribs.

And then, perhaps feeling an uncharacteristic form of pity, she continued.

"You smell rather enticing though."

The words hit Hermione like a blade to the chest. Was Professor Black actually flirting with her? Surely not. Could Draco's Aunt even be into women? The entire situation was entirely bizarre.

“There was a wolf on the beach. He attacked me. A huge, black creature. That’s why I screamed,” Hermione murmured into the space between them, hoping to fill the silence.

“It’s the House,” Bellatrix supplied abruptly, her fingers freezing in their ministrations.

“Sorry?” Hermione inquired.

“The Manor. Cignus is gone but he isn’t really. Lurks over everything like a fog. Or a dog.”

Hermione frowned, watching as Bellatrix’s teeth caught the moonlight. The older woman appeared to be smiling, but without any actual mirth.

“Cignus?” Hermione asked softly, snuggling a bit closer to Bellatrix.

The woman smelled musky and sharp, like cedar and smoke and elderflower. Hermione felt slightly insane, or as though perhaps she were still dreaming.

Bellatrix, for her part, suddenly seemed to realize the strangeness of their relative positions. She jerked backwards, almost tearing herself from the bed, and wrenching free of Hermione’s space.

"No, wait," Hermione gasped, before she could stop herself, "Won't you stay? Just for a little while?" She blushed as she spoke the request, feeling like a child who has stayed up too far past their bedtime.

“I think I’ve encroached long enough, pet,” the cruel, mocking tone of voice was back, and it stung, “Do you think you can manage the rest of the night without screaming bloody murder and waking the rest of the house?”

Hermione sat up, pulling the sheets more securely around her, her face flushing with shame.

"You're pretty when you're wounded," Bellatrix smirked. Hermione felt tears threatening in the back of her throat.

“There goes that heart of yours again,” Bellatrix sighed, suddenly weary, “A thousand beats a minute, I swear. It must be exhausting, being so alive.” And with that, the woman slipped from the room.

***

The next morning dawned bright and early and Hermione awoke with bitterness on her tongue. Bellatrix was impossible to read-- hot and cold in turns. She had, for all her previous cruelty, been so disarming wrapped around Hermione in the darkness. Disarming enough that Hermione had begged her to stay the night. It was mortifying. The important thing, the younger girl reasoned, was that she hadn't elected to stay by Hermione's side in the end.

A queer neediness came over her then, clawing at her stomach. Hermione groaned, thrusting her face into a goose feather pillow and letting out a little moan. Perhaps Ginny and Draco were right, and she needed to get back out there. To date, or at the very least, to fool around for a change. The idea made her uncomfortable, but if her behavior around Bellatrix over the past week was anything to go by, she needed to indulge in a little romance soon. She was lonely, she resigned, and that was why she had practically thrown herself at her future professor. There was no other logical explanation for her uncommon comfortability with Bellatrix Black.

Fishing around for her phone on the nightstand, she pulled up the most recently saved number, and rattled off a swift message before she could overthink her actions too much.

Hermione: Are you still interested in a drink?

For a minute, her message bubble sat alone, suspended in white space. And then, with alarming rapidness:

Fleur: oui! i thought you'd never ask;)

Fleur: are you still in town over the break? xx