Nightcall

Hermione was starving by the time that dinner rolled around the next evening, having spent the day hefting books from one corner of the library to another, or else hunched over the makeshift nightstand she’d thought to bring in from her own room, making catalog cards with her gloved hands, since Bellatrix had made it perfectly clear that she did not want the younger girl using the escritoire. As she meandered through the corridors on the upper floor, her phone buzzed in the pocket of her joggers. She did not bother to check who the message was from– not when Fleur had been flirting with her all afternoon.

The older girl was surprisingly easy to talk to. In only a manners of hours, the French TA had regaled Hermione with her thoughts on all of Oscar Wilde’s major works and some of his minor ones, their professor’s open marriage, and the best spots to share a bottle of wine near campus, with her signature breezy flirtatiousness. It was nice, Hermione supposed, objectively speaking. Fleur was lovely, and fiercely intelligent, and witty over text. But something held her back anyhow. Fleur had asked her when she was free for coffee or wine, or a movie at hers, and Hermione had somehow not found the energy to respond, which was ridiculous.

As she wandered to the top of the stairs, her socked feet kissing the hardwood floor, the sound of slightly raised voices gave her pause.

“Don’t you have anything fresher?” The syllables were delivered with dexterity, and Hermione easily recognized the venom and warmth native to Bellatrix’s voice.

“Nothing on hand. Unless you want me to go break the neck of one of the pretty birdies outside. Perhaps you’ll develop a taste for them, like Miss Andromeda,” a separate voice returned, low and grating and annoyed. Kreature.

“The usual refrigerated crap isn’t doing it for me anymore,” Bellatrix muttered in frustration, and Hermione was surprised to discern something of a whine in the professor’s tone, “It’s like my palate has suddenly realized it’s stale.”

Kreature snickered, and suddenly she heard Bellatrix give a stifled roar.

“What are you laughing at?” she hissed, and Hermione took an involuntary step backwards, her heart frozen at the animosity in Bellatrix’s voice.

“Only that Kreature is wondering if this is about the girl staying in the Manor,” Kreature hummed innocently.

“What are you implying?” Bellatrix’s voice had taken on a deadly dimension.

“Perhaps it is harder to enjoy the bagged stuff when there is something so pretty and so fresh being flaunted in front of you,” the old maid crooned, “You could ask her you know. She wouldn’t say no, I don’t imagine.”

Hermione felt vaguely nauseous as she gripped the bannister. What was Kreature talking about?

“You infernal woman–” Bellatrix began, before breaking off abruptly.

Hermione held her breath, her heart racing with horror.

“Frantic little beats,” murmured Bellatrix from below, and Hermione gulped wondering if perhaps she might have misheard, “We’ve got company Kreature. Go see to dinner.” How she could sense Hermione from a floor away was beyond the younger girl’s understanding

Hermione continued to hold tightly to the intricately carved railing until the sounds of both women’s footsteps disappeared. But her heart continued to hammer away in her chest for a good deal longer than that.

***

When Hermione finally convinced herself to go down the stairs and through the double doors into the dining room, Bellatrix was already waiting for her, lounging casually in a chair at the head of the table. Her hair was pulled back in her usual messy chignon, and her black cocktail dress was dangerously low cut.

Her heavily lidded eyes seemed to grow heavier as she appraised Hermione, and the younger girl tightened unconsciously.

“You’re eating with me tonight?” Hermione asked, her voice annoyingly breathy.

A smirk slipped across the professor’s face at Hermione’s obvious anxiety.

“After I realized you were eavesdropping on Kreature and I earlier this evening, I thought I might just cut out the middle man,” she drawled, picking up a spoon and regarding her reflection in it.

“I wasn’t–” Hermione began, but Bellatrix held up a single finger and Hermione’s denial died in her throat. Without looking up at her, Bellatrix’s smile widened.

“Good girl,” she murmured, and Hermione wondered if she might somehow melt on the spot.

Instead she coughed, stumbling forward to take the chair opposite the older woman.

“I’ve had Kreature lay out a nice vintage for you,” Bellatrix continued, and Hermione realized that the goblet in front of her was full of plum-colored liquid.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” she muttered, suddenly awkward, “But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. I’m not even old enough to drink.”

Bellatrix waved her hand as though Hermione’s words could be warded off.

“Semantics,” she murmured, “I want you to drink.”

Hermione took a slow breath, slightly overwhelmed by the strangeness of the atmosphere.

“How could you tell that I was– erm– watching?,” she asked after a moment, staring at her fingers.

“Your heartbeat gives you away, Granger. It’s very distinctive,” Bellatrix shrugged, leaning back in her chair slightly.

“Right, but how can you hear it when I’m a floor away?” Hermione pressed, feeling how absurd the question sounded.

Bellatrix shrugged again.

“Your questions are tiring me,” she sighed, stretching her arms above her head and exposing the length of her white forearms, “My turn, I think.”

Hermione shifted but said nothing.

“Did you fall back asleep after I left your room last night?” the professor began, her eyes rising to meet Hermione’s with an almost agonizing intensity. Hermione found herself lost in them for a moment, licking her lips before she could stop herself and reign in the gesture.

“Um, yes, I did,” she managed tersely, annoyed, “I suppose I should thank you for checking in on me. And apologize for waking you.”

Bellatrix watched her carefully, her eyes narrowing before becoming impassive once more.

“You didn’t wake me,” she waved an elegant hand.

Hermione was not sure what to say to that. In her pocket, her phone buzzed.

Bellatrix’s eyes seemed to seek it out under the table, as though she could feel it herself. A sour expression came over her face, and Hermione wondered if perhaps she was not supposed to have any sort of electronics at the table.

“You mentioned that you’re writing your thesis on the interface between the supernatural and the psychoanalytic in Gothic Literature,” Bellatrix quickly pivoted, her eyes flashing sulkily, “What works are you drawing your close readings from?”

“You remembered?” Hermione looked at the older woman blankly.

A flash of irritation slipped over Bellatrix’s face.

“Of course. I do listen, when I want to,” she muttered.

“Right,” Hermione took this in stride, “Well, originally I started with the old staples: Otronto, Udolpho, The Monk, etc., but after I took an Oscar Wilde Seminar, Dorian Gray sort of began to appeal to me, and I have a soft spot for Wuthering Heights that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how I try.” She broke off, blushing.

“You prefer Emily to Charlotte?” inquired Bellatrix lightly.

“Bronte? Oh yes. I’m a big believer in Emily supremacy, although Charlotte is lovely, and so is Anne. “Jane Eyre” is a classic and “Agnes Grey” was sort of amusing in a very judgemental way.”

“Team Heathcliff or Team Linton, then?” Bellatrix continued, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue.

“Oh, Heathcliff, by a mile,” Hermione murmured excitedly, “He and Catharine were made for each other, don’t you think? Linton was respectable, and stable, but Heathcliff is submerged in her same wildness, as coarse as the moors themselves.”

From Hermione’s jogger pocket, her phone buzzed again.

A scowl appeared on the older woman’s face but then flickered and disappeared before Hermione could analyze it.

“Boyfriend?” she asked in a voice that was almost too casual.

Hermione had chosen that moment to take a sip of her wine, and nearly choked.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Hermione retorted before she realized how rude the response sounded. Steadying herself, and taking another quick sip she revised her answer.

“No, not a boyfriend. I wouldn’t really do well with those, I imagine,” she offered awkwardly.

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed for a moment with something like triumph.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Girlfriend, then?”

Hermione tightened again, running her tongue along the ridges of her teeth.

“Um, no. Not yet,” she caught herself just in time to see the irritation well up in the professor’s face.

“Oh, so she is someone you’re interested in? This girl?” Bellatrix said the last word as though it were something vaguely distasteful. Hermione reddened.

“No, she’s just a friend. My TA actually, from last semester. She gave me her number but I’m not really sure that I’m– I don’t really date,” she broke off.

Bellatrix sneered, taking a long draught from her own goblet.

“Ah, so she’d like you to be hers, but you’re keeping her at bay, is that it?”

Hermione shrugged. There was something archaic and intimate about Bellatrix’s phrasing, something that made her stomach squirm pleasurably.

“I don’t date,” she repeated, “I don’t have time.”

“So you’ve never been anyone’s?” Bellatrix asked innocently, her eyes fixed on Hermione’s, “You’ve never been in love?”

Hermione felt her throat tighten. There was something so beautiful and intense in Bellatrix’s expression that she had to look away, into the depths of her drink.

“I don’t have time,” she whispered, but the words sounded soft and stilted, even to her.

Bellatrix’s eyes roved her face, with an unreadable expression. Could it be pity in her eyes, or something like victory? Or even longing?

Kreature chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen with a handful of steaming platters, which she deposited roughly in front of Hermione. Food delivered, she bowed and made herself scarce once more.

“Oh, won’t you be eating as well?” Hermione inquired, fidgeting as Black simply watched.

Bellatrix shook her head.

“I’d prefer to watch you,” she offered softly, taking a slow sip of her wine.

Hermione lowered her eyes, biting her lip. There was something dreadfully sweet about being the center of Bellatrix Black’s attention. Something Hermione felt rather sure she would not be willing to give up.