Rita Skeeter, known for her chipper personality and wide, pearly smile, now hunched over her secretaire with hitching breaths and twitching quills. The unfinished Daily Prophet under her lay now drenched in tears, the ink spreading in splotched pools.
She had no problem on writing in the corner, 10,000 ON BLACK’S HEAD.
National Weather and Zodiac Aspects bored her as they usually did, nobody ever payed attention to those these days. If one looked, they’d see Scorpios should be expecting opportunity.
But what gave Rita pause was the freshly drafted story taking up the front page:
EXCLUSIVE: MAYHEM AT HIGH SECURITY PRISON
MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN
Below the title, a moving picture depicting a frenzied inmate. Anyone else would see her as she looked; A yowling woman with wild, black fur and quills painfully blunted down to stubs. Chains wrapped around each wrist, purple bruises from obvious struggle. There was blood dribbling down her chin, a curled tongue wrapping over to pick it back up. Her eyes were wild, with thin pupils and dark circles tainting the skin beneath. She looked like a wild animal, she was a wild animal.
But- Rita saw her past the sickly skin and dirty nails. Rita saw the eyes that held fear beneath the craze, she saw the hands that trembled against the restraints, saw the bruised lips as once plump and red, the teeth even and tongue minty, the shoulders soft, waist delicate…
But that was before.
Before the woman she loved finally fell to the hands of He Who Should Not Be Named, started coming back to their hotel rooms with blood under her nails and something dangerous in her eyes- her smile just like the devil’s. Bellatrix would caress Rita’s cheek with freshly scrubbed hands and lean full lips down to an exposed ear, whispering lies of, ‘I just stopped by the butcher, you know how much I love to get the best cut’, or, ‘It’s just mud, darling, you know how practice with Reggie can be.’ And sometimes the blonde would accept defeat and fall down to the bed with her lover following soon after, let the night rid of any worries she had before.
But sometimes she would furrow her brow and push those desperate hands away, because Bellatrix Lestrange was never known to do something as lowly as visiting a butcher when a measly elf could do it for her, and she’d rather die than let Regulus get the advantage over her- no matter how much she loved her little cousin.
This would always end in a fight: Rita screaming out in anguish,
‘You’re still a kid! We’re still kids- can’t you just stay with us? Stay with me? Please, Trix, you don’t have to do this.’
‘You knew what you were getting into when you saw The Mark on my arm! It was you who pulled me into your bed then, and it’s still you paying for these tacky rooms now,’ the black hog growled out.
Rita would grab her wrist before she could storm out the door, but the sound of a quick apparition snap! would be the last sign of Bellatrix’s presence.
The next day, while eavesdropping on Rodolphus in the common room, her owl dropped down a newspaper. Muggle Family of Five Massacred plastered on the front page.
The last time Bellatrix came to school was the day before her 18th birthday.
It was also the last time Bellatrix came to Rita’s bed.
That was thirteen years ago, though. Thirteen years later and Rita is staring down at her ex-lover’s picture. She needed air, she needed to throw this draft in the trash- it was all messy from her tears- and maybe she needed to vomit. She pushed her chair away from the desk, rubbing at her nose and doddered to the balcony door, pushing it open with shaking hands. A breath of exhaustion escaped her, quickly replaced by a harsh intake of cold, London air. Her fingers wrapped around the balcony top bar, trembling before her upper body collapsed onto the surface. She shook so violently, don’t gag, don’t vomit, don’t- she let out a guttural sob- cry.
She spent about twenty minutes outside trying to will her mental turmoil away before the chill creeped too far into her skin, reminding her too much of dark quills and cold touches. Pulling away from the edge, Rita shivered once not from the breeze.
She made her way into the lavatory, lights turning on with a quick flick of her pointer finger. Pristine, carrara marble sink now tainted by black droplets as Rita wiped her eyes, looking up into the mirror she could see only a mess. Mascara and liner stains ran down her cheeks, her eyes were red and puffy, her lip ticked. The white fur around her face was all stained too, perfect. Rita yanked a soft, towel from the rack, lightly wetting it and bringing it to her cheeks. She dabbed the cloth against her fur, slowly but surely wiping off the black stains. The journalist brushed her nails against her face, smoothing out the fur. Rita looked back into the mirror, satisfied with her appearance now. Nobody would be able to tell anything was wrong, she was fine.
Rita switched the light off and closed the lavatory door behind her as she walked towards her bed. Her eyes drifted closed as she pulled the silk sheet over her, listening to absolute silence.
“Rita?”
Eyes opened fast, head whipping around and arms pushing her body up from the pillow. She didn’t see anything, her room was just dark corners and plain walls.
It was nothing. She was just getting too tired is all.
As Rita was about to set herself back down, she heard it again.
“Rita?”
Head whipping around, quills raised in alarm, Rita gasped out in fear. That voice…
“Rita,” It was closer, and now as the woman listened- she swore she heard a light creaking on her floor. Footsteps. Her recent attraction, a nice man who drank gin and dubonnet, was anything but silent and cautious. Plus, he was on a Ministry trip, he wouldn’t be back home until at least tomorrow.
The voice sounded too scratchy, too feminine, too familiar.
“Rita…” And now she saw, a shadowy figure emerged from the far side of the room, slowly stepping towards her. Rita was tired, and she didn’t have her glasses. But she saw those curled quills, she saw pale skin, and she didn’t need her eyes to hear her voice.
“Trix?”
Bellatrix Lestrange, recent Azkaban escapee, muggle murderer, and ex-lover of Rita Skeeter, stood mere feet from the bed.
The noirette smiled, “Sorry for the scare,” a timid shiver, “I missed you.”
Rita could only stare, was this real? She reached out an arm, extending her fingers out to touch the arm of the other. Skin touched skin. Warm touched cold.
The journalist pulled her hand away as if burned.
“Oh,” a trembling breath, “Oh, God. How did you get in here? How did you find me?”
“You left the balcony door open,” Rita turned to look, and there was a slightly ajar door there. Oh.
“And, I had Rudy’s hound track your scent.” The witch pulled out a thin, blonde strand of fur, “Always kept some of you with me, you know.” She smiled.
Rita put her head in her hand, “Jesus, you kept my fur?”
“I was sentenced to life, love, I needed something to keep me sane,” She laughed tightly.
“Clearly it worked wonders,” she mumbled. Bellatrix stiffened before walking closer to the bed, knees just barely about to hit the mattress before stopping. Rita was tense with fear. Maybe once they were reckless teenagers in love, but now they’re adults, and one of them is a criminal. A killer.
For the first time since she woke up, Rita fully realizes that the woman looking at her with such longing is not the girl she knew before. Her eyes glance over to the bedside table where her wand lays, it’s just an arms reach…
Bellatrix doesn’t notice, weird, but Rita wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth.
"You've been crying." Her eyes wander to the desk, a drafted newspaper, "Ah."
Rita moved closer to the dresser slowly, which also happened to be closer to the other witch.
Lestrange took this as the blonde trying to get closer to her, so she leaned down and put her leg up and over the mattress.
Rita stopped in her motions, Bellatrix was looking into her eyes so desperately, like a wounded animal waiting to be taken in. She leaned in just enough for their noses to touch, but not enough to be quite together yet.
“Trix?”
“Please,” The quiet voice cut through, “Please, Rita, give me this.”
Their lips grazed, and that’s all it took for Bellatrix to push forward.
Rita’s back hit the bed, her body jolting in shock and eyes wide. The other witch was holding on to her like a lifeline, hands trembling against Rita’s nightgown. She pulled up and looked down at Rita, before looking to the side to see an arm extending towards the stand, a hand wrapped around a wand.
There was a moment, Bellatrix looked back at Rita, Rita looked back up.
She let go of the wand and brought her hand to hold the other’s cheek. Bellatrix went back down to Rita’s lips. Trix would never hurt me.
Previous silence was now replaced by the sound of fabric falling and needy kisses. Rita moved her head to face a picture frame on the bedside table. Bellatrix followed her gaze. A man and woman kissed on the beach, he dipped her down and she pulled her leg up around him. Rita’s gaze lingered on it, a tinge of guilt forming in her gut.
“Someone important?” Bellatrix asked quietly, nervously.
“His name’s Tom.”
The pale witch hummed. Rita turned to look back into those eyes.
She pulled the picture down against the table.
“He’ll be back tomorrow.” Slender arms wrapped around Bellatrix’s neck, pulling her down. “Stay with me. Please, Trix.”
Rita was pushed down into the mattress.
-
When Rita woke up, she was alone. The balcony door was closed now, and she was tucked in nice and comfortable. But for the first time in thirteen years, she felt dirty.