whelve
The rain began not long after they had left St. Marie’s, falling in thick, unrelenting sheets that blurred the streets of Paris into a watery, gray haze. The city, usually alive with its intricate beauty, now looked washed out and lifeless. Bellatrix stalked ahead, her dark coat billowing behind her like a vengeful shadow, while Rita followed a few paces behind, shielded by a bright yellow umbrella that clashed horribly with the muted palette of the dreary morning.
Bellatrix clenched her teeth as her boots splashed through a puddle, the cold water seeping into her stockings. This whole arrangement was becoming more infuriating by the minute. Thanks to her aunt Walburga’s paranoia about preserving the family’s reputation, Bellatrix had been ordered to keep a low profile, stripped of even the most basic privileges. Her usual methods of transport had been forbidden; now, if she wanted to go anywhere, she was left with two equally humiliating choices—walking or humbling herself to request her aunt’s chauffeur.
She would sooner wade through a storm barefoot than ask Walburga for anything.
“You know,” Rita called out, raising her voice to be heard over the rhythmic drumming of rain on her umbrella, “if you’d bothered to bring an umbrella, you wouldn’t look like such a drowned rat.”
Bellatrix stopped so abruptly that Rita nearly collided with her. Slowly, Bellatrix turned, her expression murderous as her piercing gray eyes fixed on Rita. Rain dripped from the ends of her soaked hair, cascading down her face in icy rivulets.
“You think this is funny?” Bellatrix spat, her voice sharp and venomous.
“Not funny,” Rita replied lightly, stepping carefully around a puddle and tightening her grip on the umbrella’s handle. “Just... ironic. For someone so obsessed with appearances, you don’t seem particularly concerned about how you look right now.”
Bellatrix’s jaw tightened, the muscles in her neck tensing as her fists curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. Rita Skeeter had been with her for all of an hour, and already she’d established herself as a master of getting under Bellatrix’s skin. If not for the public setting and the faint glimmer of restraint Bellatrix clung to, she might have slapped the smirk off Rita’s face right then and there.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Bellatrix said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. She stepped forward, closing the space between them until she stood mere inches from Rita. The younger woman didn’t flinch, but Bellatrix could see her breath quicken, fogging slightly in the cold, damp air. “You’re here to do a job, not critique me. Keep your little comments to yourself, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Rita interrupted, her tone deceptively sweet as she tilted her head to one side. The smirk on her lips widened. “Threaten me some more? My, you really are predictable.”
Bellatrix’s nostrils flared, and she inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Her temper frayed further with each passing second, a fiery rage that threatened to boil over. But before she could conjure a suitable retort, Rita leaned closer, her smirk softening into something unreadable. Her breath brushed against Bellatrix’s ear, warm against the icy rain, and Bellatrix froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
“Tell me something, Bellatrix,” Rita said softly, her voice threaded with curiosity. “Do you always push people away like this? Or is it just me?”
The question struck Bellatrix like a blow, and for a fleeting moment, her icy composure cracked. Something raw and unguarded flickered in her eyes—confusion, perhaps, or something darker, something she refused to name. Her cheeks, already flushed from the cold, deepened to a shade of red she had never thought herself capable of.
And then, just as quickly, the mask was back in place. She threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, scornful sound that echoed down the empty street.
“I don’t have time for your amateur psychoanalysis,” she sneered, spinning on her heel with practiced elegance and striding off into the rain without another glance.
Rita stood there for a moment, watching Bellatrix’s retreating figure. The rain battered against her umbrella, and a single drop slid from its edge, splashing onto the toe of her polished shoe. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured, more to herself than to Bellatrix, twirling her umbrella lazily before setting off at a leisurely pace to follow.
As she walked, Rita allowed herself a moment of indulgence. Rita without doubt didn’t like Bellatrix at all. However, Bellatrix Black was, without question, the most fascinating assignment she had ever been given. Arrogant, temperamental, impossibly proud—but beneath the layers of venom and fire, Rita sensed something else.
And Rita Skeeter, as much as she loathed to admit it, was hopelessly addicted to uncovering secrets.
The rain was relentless, drumming against the windows of the elevator lobby as Bellatrix finally stepped inside her apartment building. She was soaked to the bone, her dark hair plastered to her face, and her coat clung uncomfortably to her skin. Every drop of water that slid down her neck made her scowl deepen. Behind her, Rita Skeeter sauntered in with an air of irritating nonchalance, twirling her obnoxiously bright yellow umbrella before shaking it out with an exaggerated flourish.
Bellatrix had barely reached the elevator when she pressed the "close" button, determined to get even a moment to herself. To her dismay, Rita’s manicured hand shot out to stop the doors.
“What are you doing?” Bellatrix snapped, glaring at the blonde as she stepped inside.
“I’m coming with you, obviously,” Rita replied breezily.
“No,” Bellatrix declared firmly, turning her face forward and crossing her arms. “I don’t think so.”
Rita rolled her eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Do you even know what your aunt meant by ‘press training’?” she asked, her tone dripping with mockery.
Bellatrix hesitated, her fingers twitching against her coat sleeve. “All I know,” she replied stiffly, “is that you’re supposed to make sure I don’t cause any scandals for the next week and a half. That’s it.”
Rita threw her head back and let out a laugh so loud it echoed off the elevator walls. Bellatrix frowned, her confusion quickly morphing into irritation. She hadn’t thought it possible to dislike Rita more than she already did, but the journalist seemed determined to outdo herself.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Rita finally said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re in for a surprise, my dear! I suggest you call your beloved aunt and ask her exactly what she meant before you go making declarations.”
Bellatrix’s jaw tightened as she dug her phone out of her pocket. She stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway, turning her back to Rita as though she could somehow shield herself from the woman’s smug gaze. Dialling Walburga’s number, she pressed the phone to her ear and waited, her heart sinking with every ring.
“Oui, Bella?” Walburga’s sharp voice answered on the other end.
“Tante, où as-tu trouvé cette fille?” Bellatrix asked, her frustration seeping into her tone.
“Rita?” Walburga replied, sounding almost bemused.
“Bien sûr, Rita. Qui d’autre ?” Bellatrix muttered under her breath.
“Bellatrix, pourquoi m’appelles-tu pour des raisons aussi idiotes ?” Walburga’s impatience crackled through the phone.
Bellatrix’s grip on the device tightened. “Tante, I just want to know what you meant by ‘press training.’ Exactly.”
Walburga let out an exasperated sigh that made Bellatrix feel like a chastised schoolgirl. “Bella, je pensais que c’était évident,” Walburga said, her words slow and deliberate. “Tu seras formée par Rita. Cela signifie qu’elle passera la semaine et demie avec toi en permanence pour te préparer aux médias et autres. Pour une fille aussi brillante, tu poses des questions stupides.”
Bellatrix froze, the weight of her aunt’s words sinking in. “Wait—what?” she stammered. “Does that mean I’ll be stuck with her for the next week? I have to see her every day?”
“Bellatrix, I’m going to say this in English so you understand,” Walburga snapped, her tone icy. “Rita will be with you at all times until the Yule Gala. That means she will keep you in check for the next week and a half. Do you understand?”
The phone felt heavy in Bellatrix’s hand as she stared at the black screen after Walburga hung up. For a moment, she stood motionless, her thoughts racing. How was she supposed to endure this? Trapped in her apartment with Rita Skeeter, unable to leave the public eye for fear of scandal—it was a nightmare come to life.
Taking a deep breath, Bellatrix schooled her expression into something resembling calm and marched back to the elevator. Rita was leaning casually against the wall, her umbrella resting against her shoulder like a parasol.
“Well?” Rita asked, her smirk widening as Bellatrix approached.
“Do you understand now?” she added, pushing up her glasses in a deliberately irritating manner.
Bellatrix’s gray eyes flashed with annoyance, but she refused to give Rita the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she stepped into the elevator, pressed the button for the top floor, and stared straight ahead. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the hum of the elevator and the faint sound of rain pattering against the building’s windows.
Reaching into her pocket, Bellatrix pulled out her phone and typed out a quick message to Narcissa.
Out of curiosity, are you being babysat by a press trainer as well?
She hit send, her fingers trembling slightly from a mix of frustration and cold. The message was delivered at 13:27 pm. As she slipped the phone back into her pocket, the elevator let out a soft ding, and the doors slid open to reveal the hallway leading to her apartment.
Bellatrix strode forward without a word, her keys already in hand. Rita followed at a leisurely pace, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she hummed a tune under her breath.
The moment Bellatrix unlocked the door and stepped inside, she was hit with the familiar scent of lavender and leather (and maybe a slight hint of cigarette smoke). Her Parisian apartment was a stark contrast to the dreary weather outside—warm, luxurious, and immaculately organized. Half-transparent white curtains framed the windows, and a grand bookshelf dominated one wall, its shelves filled with rare tomes and meticulously arranged trinkets. Most of the books on that shelf were simply books Regulus had gifted her, or at least recommended to her.
Rita stepped in behind her, taking in the space with a critical eye. “Cozy,” she remarked, her tone making it clear she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Bellatrix ignored her, shrugging off her wet coat and draping it over the back of a chair. She crossed the room to the fireplace, she took a match to ignite the logs. A soft glow filled the room, and the warmth began to seep into her chilled bones. Thankfully the tall french windows were closed to she didn’t have to worry more than she had to about the cold.
“So,” Rita began, setting her umbrella down by the door. “What do you want to start the week off by, princess?”
Bellatrix turned slowly, fixing Rita with a glare that could have frozen the fire she’d just lit. “The plan,” she said icily, “is for you to stay out of my way.”
Rita smirked, unperturbed. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s what your aunt had in mind.”
Bellatrix’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she forced herself to remain calm. It was going to be a long week, and she needed to keep her temper in check. For now. She refused to allow herself to lose her composure and temper in her own home.
The quiet between them didn’t last long. Rita, as always, had a knack for shattering silence with her characteristic brazenness.
“So,” she began, her voice cutting through the soft crackle of the fire. “Where will I sleep? And where can I put my things? They’ll be arriving later today.”
Bellatrix froze mid-step, her back to Rita. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, as though willing the words to be a figment of her imagination. Slowly, she turned around, her gray eyes narrowing. “right.”
Rita raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Someone doesn’t look too happy.”
Bellatrix’s jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The audacity of it all—if only her aunt Walburga had mentioned this particular detail earlier than 5 minutes ago, and now she was saddled with not only Rita’s presence but her baggage, quite literally. “Great,” Bellatrix muttered under her breath. “Just great. Perfect, even.”
Rita watched her with an amused expression, clearly enjoying Bellatrix’s discomfort. “Well?” she prompted. “Where do you want me?”
Bellatrix turned away sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as if that might somehow ward off the growing headache pounding at her temples. She muttered a string of curses under her breath, her mind racing. This couldn’t be happening. Not yesterday, when she’d still had the luxury of solitude, the freedom to sink into her favourite armchair and escape the world. Now, her sanctuary was being invaded.
“Give me a second to think,” she snapped, pacing toward the fireplace. Her hand went to her temples, massaging them as she tried to make sense of the situation. She was seconds away from telling Rita to sleep on the floor—honestly, it seemed fair punishment for the woman’s grating personality—but a flicker of guilt tugged at her thoughts. As much as she despised the journalist’s company, Bellatrix couldn’t entirely ignore the sense of obligation instilled in her by Walburga’s orders. Bellatrix also didn’t want Skeeter to think what they wrote in the papers about her was true.
After a long pause, Bellatrix exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping. “You can sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll clear out some space in the closet for your things.”
Rita’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “How generous of you,” she remarked, the sarcasm dripping from her words.
Bellatrix glared at her but chose not to rise to the bait. Instead, she crossed the room and began surveying her living room, mentally calculating how much space she could sacrifice. The couch was long and plush, certainly comfortable enough for someone like Rita. And as for her closet... well, it wasn’t as though she didn’t have room to spare, but the thought of sharing any part of her personal space made her stomach churn.
“I don’t suppose you’ll be content to keep your things out of the way?” Bellatrix asked, her tone sharp.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Rita said airily, flopping onto the aforementioned couch and stretching out as though she already owned the place. “I’ll make myself at home.”
Bellatrix’s eye twitched. She spun on her heel and strode toward her bedroom, muttering under her breath about "invasions of privacy" and "meddlesome aunts." Inside, she yanked open the doors to her closet with more force than necessary. The rows of tailored coats, dresses, and perfectly aligned shoes stared back at her, a testament to her meticulous nature.
It was almost physically painful to start rearranging her things. She shoved a row of designer gowns aside, creating a small section at the end of the closet. “This will have to do,” she muttered to herself.
When she returned to the living room, Rita was lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine she’d apparently conjured out of thin air. Bellatrix stopped in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Your space is ready,” she announced flatly.
Rita glanced up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Efficient as ever, darling,” she quipped. “But don’t you think it’s a bit... undignified for someone of my stature to live out of a corner of your closet?”
Bellatrix’s glare was colder than the rain still battering against the windows. “You’re lucky I’m letting you stay inside at all,” she hissed. “If it were up to me, you’d be in a hotel across the city.”
“Ah, but then I wouldn’t be able to do my job properly,” Rita said, her voice sickeningly sweet. She set the magazine aside and leaned back, looking entirely too comfortable. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Bellatrix’s patience was wearing thin. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Listen to me, Skeeter. You may be here on my aunt’s orders but don’t mistake that for an invitation to make yourself at home. You’ll keep out of my way, stay out of my business, and not touch a single thing in this apartment without my permission. Understood?”
Rita tilted her head, as if considering Bellatrix’s words. Then, to Bellatrix’s utter frustration, she smiled. “Crystal clear,” she said, her tone maddeningly nonchalant. Rita Skeeter reminded Bellatrix a lot of her younger cousin Sirius, they both possessed the same audacity and nonchalantness.
Bellatrix turned away, biting back the urge to scream. She couldn’t afford to lose her temper—not now, not when Rita seemed to thrive on provoking her. Instead, she busied herself with tidying up the space, her movements stiff and mechanical.
As the minutes ticked by, the reality of her situation began to sink in. This was her life now—trapped in her own home with the most infuriating woman she’d ever met. It wasn’t just the inconvenience or the invasion of privacy that grated on her; it was the way Rita seemed to effortlessly unravel her composure, exposing cracks in the icy facade she’d spent years perfecting.
Bellatrix glanced toward the couch, where Rita was now scrolling through her phone, her expression serene. For all her outward confidence, Bellatrix couldn’t shake the feeling that Rita knew exactly what she was doing—and that, somehow, she was enjoying every second of it.
It was going to be a very, very long week.
Bellatrix had spent hours locked in her room, sprawled out on her bed with the curtains drawn tight. Her sanctuary, once a refuge of peace, now felt claustrophobic, suffocating under the weight of her own thoughts. She stared at the ceiling, her mind whirling in a loop of irritation, regret, and dread. Every time she tried to focus on something else, her thoughts dragged her back to the situation at hand.
She was lying in bed, out just sprawled like a starfish. She stares at her ceiling, making out the details of her offered ceiling. Shapes and intricate designs. It was somewhat underwhelming compared to everything.
She had made a grave mistake earlier—one she knew better than to repeat—and yet, she had fallen into the trap anyway. Against her better judgment, she had opened social media.
Social media is the one and only thing she should probably never open, especially in times such as these. It was, predictably, a disaster. A Pandora’s box of criticism, speculation, and outright venom. She had barely scrolled through Instagram before encountering a post from The Daily Prophet’s official account. The bold, eye-catching caption read: “Scandal of the Season: The Infamous Blacks Unveiled! To read more press the link in the caption!” Underneath, a call to action invited followers to click the link for exclusive details.
Bellatrix groaned audibly, but the worst was yet to come. Against her better instincts, she tapped on the comments. Curiosity killed the cat, right? Or however, the saying goes.
User831830: lol this is insane. how is anyone surprised? do ppl not remember all the recent scandals Bellatrix caused??
Coolgirl423: rich ppl drama. yawn.
Sapphirecat_: is it just me or is it weird that they’re dragging minors like Regulus into this? why focus so much on Sirius’ sexuality? creepy vibes.
User10101010: does anyone know why Andromeda got disowned?
→ Guysliketrucks replied: i think she did something the family didn’t approve of, or maybe she left on her own.
→ User831830 replied: wouldn’t be surprised if she just left. that family is full of red flags.
Il0vefashi0n: this article has zero proof aside from rumors. the only confirmed thing is andy being disowned. did we really need three pages of Bellatrix-bashing for that?
The further she scrolled, the angrier she became. Her face twisted into a scowl as she tossed her phone onto the bed beside her. She could handle people talking about her—she was no stranger to the harsh spotlight of public scrutiny—but dragging Sirius, Regulus, and Narcissa into the mess crossed a line.
Still, a few comments stood out. That Sapphirecat_ person wasn’t entirely wrong; the obsessive focus on Sirius’s sexuality in the article had been unsettling. And Il0vefashi0n had made a valid point about the lack of evidence in the exposé. But small victories like these did little to soothe the ache of being torn apart yet again in the public eye.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the past. She was thirteen the first time she became the subject of public ridicule, her every move analyzed by gossip columnists and fashion critics. At sixteen, she had made headlines again, this time for being photographed in a compromising situation. For an entire year, she couldn’t escape the whispers labeling her a delinquent and a druggie.
By eighteen, her personal life—her intimate life—had become tabloid fodder. It felt as though she was constantly being deconstructed, her flaws laid bare for public consumption. And just when she thought the frenzy had died down, a new scandal would arise, and the cycle would begin anew.
Gosh.
She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the soft, messy curls with a nervous energy. The sensation grounded her, providing a strange comfort in the midst of her spiralling thoughts.
Deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen, hoping against hope that Narcissa had finally replied to her earlier text. Nothing. The lack of response only added to her anxiety. Narcissa was usually quick to reply, and the silence gnawed at her.
With a groan, Bellatrix glanced at the clock. The golden light of sunset had long faded into the inky blue of night, and it was already past 7 PM. The realization hit her: she hadn’t eaten all day. Half a cup of coffee didn’t count as sustenance.
Not to mention, she couldn’t avoid Rita forever, no matter how much she wished otherwise. Though she still hated Rita with a passion, after reading the comments Bellatrix allowed herself to understand that maybe Rita was on her side. With a resigned sigh, she slipped off the bed and padded to her bedroom door. She turned the knob cautiously, opening it just enough to peek outside. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, it felt necessary to move stealthily.
The living room was quiet, save for the faint sound of rain pattering against the windows. Rita was still there, seated on the couch with her legs crossed and her phone in hand. As Bellatrix stepped out, Rita looked up, her sharp green eyes locking onto Bellatrix’s like a predator-sensing movement.
Bellatrix hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the awkward tension that filled the space. She hated feeling uncomfortable in her own home, but Rita’s presence seemed to have that effect.
“Look…” Bellatrix began, shifting her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten anything yet, but I’m starving. I was thinking of ordering Chinese food, but I can’t exactly… go outside or talk to anyone right now. So, could you… order it for us?”
The words felt clumsy coming out, but she didn’t care. She just wanted this exchange to be over as quickly as possible.
Rita arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “What if I don’t like Chinese food?”
Bellatrix’s patience was already hanging by a thread, and Rita’s response frayed it further. She shot the blonde an exasperated glare. “Why do you always make everything into an argument?”
“I don’t,” Rita replied, her tone infuriatingly calm.
“Yes, you do!” Bellatrix snapped. “Next time, I won’t even bother asking you for anything. You’re supposed to be the one making an effort to get to know me, aren’t you? Or did I misunderstand your whole purpose for being here?”
Rita didn’t flinch. Instead, she set her phone down and met Bellatrix’s fiery gaze with an unsettling composure. “How is it my fault that you locked yourself in your room all day and made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me here?” she asked, her voice maddeningly steady.
Bellatrix’s jaw clenched. She hated it when people spoke to her like that—calm, measured as if she were the unreasonable one. Her father had perfected that tone, using it to make her feel small during arguments, and Rita was doing it now with infuriating ease.
What made it worse was that Rita wasn’t entirely wrong. Bellatrix had locked herself away, avoiding any interaction. She had been curt and dismissive, giving orders rather than engaging in conversation. But she wasn’t about to admit any of that out loud.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “What do you want to eat, then?”
“I can eat Chinese,” Rita said, her lips curving into a smug smile. She batted her lashes innocently as if she hadn’t just pushed Bellatrix’s buttons to the brink of explosion.
Bellatrix clenched her fists, resisting the urge to throw something.
What a bitch.
Without another word, she grabbed her phone and placed the order herself. If she couldn’t go out in public, she could at least handle an app. She stalked back to her room afterward, slamming the door behind her.
Once the food arrived, the atmosphere remained tense.
What a shocker.
Bellatrix and Rita sat at opposite ends of the dining table, eating in silence. The only sounds were the clink of chopsticks against containers and the occasional rustle of plastic bags.
Bellatrix stole a glance at Rita, who seemed entirely unbothered by the tension. If anything, she looked amused, as though she found Bellatrix’s frustration entertaining.
Bellatrix scowled and focused on her food. She had no idea how she was going to survive this meal, much less the next days.
To Bellatrix’s surprise, the heavy silence was broken.
“Bellatrix, what questions do you have for me?” Rita asked, her tone light and amused as though she were addressing a curious child rather than a coiled snake of frustration.
Bellatrix blinked. “What do you mean?” she replied dully. Her voice was flat, detached, as she poked at her food with her fork, refusing to look up.
“I don’t know,” Rita said with a shrug, her casual air entirely at odds with the charged atmosphere in the room. “Maybe work-related? Or something else. We’re going to be living together for a while, so I thought you might want to know something about me. You know, to make this slightly less miserable.”
Bellatrix had no immediate reply. She was tired, still hungry, and, above all, deeply annoyed. And yet, as much as she wanted to ignore Rita’s invitation, an unwelcome pang of guilt began to gnaw at her. Her tante would’ve scolded her for being so dismissive. Show some manners, Bella, she’d say. You’re a Black; act like it.
Bellatrix hated guilt. It was an insidious, lingering emotion she couldn’t shake off, and now it pushed her into engaging with Rita despite every instinct telling her not to.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice clipped. “All right, I suppose.”
For the first time since the meal had started, Bellatrix fully looked at Rita Skeeter. Though they were seated only a few feet apart, Bellatrix had previously avoided eye contact, preferring instead to focus on her food, her phone, or the corner of the room. Now, however, she took Rita in, her sharp gaze scanning every detail as though cataloging a subject for study.
Rita’s green eyes were the first thing Bellatrix noticed. They weren’t the glittering emerald shade often romanticized in novels, but a softer, subtler green—the exact hue of the green tea her tante used to brew in the mornings. Rita’s face was a study in contrasts, sharp and angular yet somehow retaining a softness that softened the edges of her cheekbones. Her skin, though lightly touched with makeup, had a smooth, almost porcelain quality, and her light, wavy hair framed her face with precision. The bob cut was neatly styled, its ends brushing just below her jawline. Bellatrix normally found bobs to be an affront to good taste, but Rita, infuriatingly, managed to make it work.
Her gaze lingered on Rita’s dark rectangular glasses, perched confidently near the tip of her nose, adding a touch of intellect to her otherwise showy appearance. The ensemble was completed by a fitted black turtleneck and a string of pearls looped loosely around her neck. She looked every bit the sophisticated professional, albeit with a theatrical flair that spoke to an undeniable vanity.
Bellatrix didn’t realize she’d been staring until Rita cleared her throat, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. Bellatrix snapped back to attention, embarrassed but determined not to show it.
“Right,” Bellatrix said quickly, her mind scrambling for something to ask. “Well, how old are you?”
Rita’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Curious about my age already? I’d lie and say I’m not disappointed, but oh well. If you must know, I’m twenty-five.”
“Right. Me too,” Bellatrix said, feeling the conversation slipping further from her grasp. Rita’s confident tone was unsettling, and for once in her life, Bellatrix found herself struggling to maintain control of a simple interaction. Small talk had never been this difficult.
“What’s your background, I suppose?” Bellatrix asked, her gaze dropping back to her plate. She figured it was only fair to learn more about Rita, given that Rita (and by extension, the rest of the world) already knew everything about her.
“What do you mean? My work or my life?” Rita asked, her tone indicating she was enjoying this far more than Bellatrix.
“Both, I suppose,” Bellatrix said slowly. “It’s only fair since you essentially know everything there is to know about me.”
“All right,” Rita said, settling back in her chair. She began with an air of practiced ease, as though reciting a polished monologue. “Let’s start with work. I was a journalist for a while. Got my degree in psychology and journalism, which was… useful enough.”
“If you’re a journalist, how did you end up doing press training?” Bellatrix interrupted, her curiosity momentarily overpowering her irritation.
Rita’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smirk remained. “Before you interrupted, I was just about to explain. Basic journalism bored me, so I started freelancing, dabbling in PR and media training. Eventually, I went back to school and officially qualified as a public relations specialist. Or media trainer, if you prefer. The terminology is flexible.”
Bellatrix nodded, absorbing the explanation. It was beginning to make sense why Rita carried herself with such unshakable confidence—she was clearly used to controlling narratives and commanding attention. Of course, she was one of the obnoxious psychology majors.
Rita continued. “As for my background… it’s a bit less glamorous. My mother is Polish; she moved to England in her twenties, met my father, got married, and the two of them eventually relocated to Belgium. Apparently, nobody can stand England’s dreadful weather for long.”
“Belgium?” Bellatrix asked, her tone skeptical. “What was wrong with staying in Poland?”
“Oh, you know,” Rita said airily, “war, economic collapse, the usual. Belgium seemed safer, I suppose. Anyway, I’m an only child. Boring, I know, but there it is.”
“What about school?” Bellatrix asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself. Bellatrix wondered what God-forsaken school actually accepted this girl. “Where did you go?”
Rita’s smirk deepened. “Boarding school. European, of course.”
“Which one?” Bellatrix’s tone was sharper now, almost accusatory. She was genuinely curious about what kind of institution would admit someone like Rita.
“Beauxbatons,” Rita replied, rolling her eyes. “Posh and prissy, I know, but it had its moments.”
Bellatrix’s expression softened ever so slightly. “I was supposed to go there,” she admitted. Beauxbatons had always appealed to her sense of elegance and class—everything a proper boarding school should be. That and the fact that her mother attended it.
“And why didn’t you?” Rita asked, her curiosity genuine.
“My family decided it would be better for me to improve my English,” Bellatrix said with a shrug. “So, I didn’t go..”
“Right,” Rita said, raising an eyebrow. There was a pause, a moment of stillness where neither woman spoke. Bellatrix felt as though she were being studied, dissected under Rita’s penetrating gaze, and it made her skin crawl.
Rita leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with an air of satisfaction. Her lips curled into a sly smile, as though she had just triumphed in some unspoken competition.
“Well,” she began, her voice dripping with amusement, “now that we’ve played twenty questions, I’d say we’re practically best friends. Don’t you think? So, I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you something too.”
Bellatrix scowled her earlier flicker of guilt now extinguished by a fresh wave of irritation. Rita’s playful tone was as grating as nails on a chalkboard, and it set her teeth on edge. For all her polished exterior, Bellatrix was not one to let herself be outmaneuvered, not even by someone as audacious as Rita Skeeter.
“I’ll be the one to determine whether you deserve an answer,” Bellatrix snapped, her dark eyes narrowing.
Rita didn’t flinch. If anything, her smile widened, her confidence only fueling Bellatrix’s ire. “Fair enough,” Rita said lightly. Then, as if pondering her next move, she tilted her head and continued, “Here’s a simple one: What’s a question you hate being asked?”
Bellatrix froze, caught off guard by the unexpected query. Of all the things Rita could have asked, this one felt disarming in its simplicity. Yet, Bellatrix was no fool. She knew better than to take questions at face value, especially from someone like Rita.
The question, innocent as it seemed, held layers of implication. It was a subtle jab, an invitation for Bellatrix to expose her vulnerabilities under the guise of a harmless conversation. Growing up in the cutthroat world of the Black family, Bellatrix had been taught to guard her weaknesses fiercely. She had learned early that sharing too much could be used against her.
Her thoughts churned as she considered how to respond. Should she offer a genuine answer, something truthful that might bridge the cavernous gap between them? For a fleeting moment, the idea was tempting. Perhaps, if Rita understood her better, this uneasy arrangement could be made less unbearable.
But fantasies were for children, and Bellatrix had left her childhood behind long ago. Experience had taught her that honesty was a luxury she could ill afford.
“I don’t like questions like that,” Bellatrix said at last, her voice laced with sarcasm. She scoffed softly, flicking a strand of her raven-black hair over her shoulder.
Rita didn’t falter. If anything, she seemed more amused. Her smile remained firmly in place, her sharp green eyes studying Bellatrix with a calculated interest.
“Witty,” Rita remarked, her tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “But I would genuinely prefer if you told me. You know, for professional reasons.”
Bellatrix arched an eyebrow, unsure where this was going.
Rita leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. “Think of it this way,” she explained. “If I know which questions you hate being asked, I can figure out how to steer the public away from them. It’s part of my job, you see. Managing public perception and all that.”
Bellatrix felt the tension in her shoulders ease—just slightly. So this wasn’t personal, at least not entirely. Rita’s inquiry was rooted in work, in the mechanics of media training. Still, it didn’t make the question any less intrusive.
“I see,” Bellatrix replied, her voice carefully neutral. She paused, her gaze flickering to the window where rain drummed softly against the glass. Outside, the world seemed mercifully distant, a gray blur of movement and sound.
After a moment’s deliberation, she spoke again. “I don’t particularly enjoy questions about drug use or rehab. Or anything concerning my…” She hesitated, her expression hardening, “...my sex life.”
Rita nodded thoughtfully, her demeanour surprisingly serious. “Seems fair,” she said simply, as though Bellatrix had just confessed something as mundane as her favourite colour.
The simplicity of her reaction irritated Bellatrix. She had expected some sly remark, some smirk or quip designed to needle her further. But Rita offered none of that. Instead, she regarded Bellatrix with an air of professionalism that felt almost... respectful.
Bellatrix shifted uncomfortably in her chair, unsure of how to navigate this unfamiliar territory. The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the faint clinking of silverware against porcelain and take-out boxes as Bellatrix pushed the remnants of her food around her plate.
Finally, Rita broke the quiet, again. “You know,” she began, her tone lighter now, “I could give you a few tips on handling questions like that. If you’re interested, of course.”
Bellatrix frowned. “Tips?”
“Yes, tips,” Rita said with a small laugh. “You’d be surprised how much of an impact a well-crafted response can have. Even the most invasive questions can be deflected with the right approach.”
Bellatrix regarded her skeptically. “And what, exactly, would you suggest?”
“Well,” Rita said, leaning back again, “for starters, you could try redirecting the conversation. If someone asks about your personal life, steer the discussion toward something you’re comfortable talking about. Or, if all else fails, use humour. A witty remark can do wonders for diffusing tension. If I’m being honest most of your media controversy comes from the fact that you have blunt responses”
Bellatrix stared at her, unimpressed. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” Rita admitted, shrugging. “But it’s effective. And let’s be honest, Bellatrix—you’re not exactly lacking in wit. You could pull it off.”
For the first time that evening, Bellatrix felt a faint flicker of amusement. Rita’s words were borderline flattering, and though she would never admit it aloud, Bellatrix appreciated the acknowledgment of her intellect.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bellatrix said dryly, though a corner of her mouth twitched upward in what might have been the beginnings of a smile.
Rita caught the subtle change in her expression and smiled back, her green eyes sparkling with something akin to triumph.
“Good,” Rita said. “Because like it or not, you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future. We might as well make the best of it.”
Bellatrix didn’t reply. Instead, she picked up her chopsticks and began to eat again, her appetite slowly returning.
For all her frustrations with Rita, Bellatrix couldn’t deny that the woman had a certain charm. Annoying as it was, there was something oddly refreshing about Rita’s bluntness, her refusal to be intimidated.
Perhaps, Bellatrix thought, this arrangement wouldn’t be entirely unbearable after all. Or well only as long as Rita kept acting like this and not like the bitch she was earlier.
Bellatrix paced around her room, the soft hum of her phone’s screen illuminating her face in the dim light of the evening. The music playing through her headphones was the only sound accompanying her, but even that had begun to fade into a distant blur. Amy Winehouse had been her go-to for years, but tonight, it was Siouxsie Sioux who captured her attention more. The Passenger played on repeat, Siouxsie’s melancholic voice curling through her thoughts like smoke, wrapping itself around the images that flickered across her screen. Bellatrix mindlessly scrolled through her camera roll, her eyes glazing over as each photo blended into the next.
Her thumb swiped effortlessly over the screen, as the haunting rhythm of the song echoed in her ears. The world outside felt muffled, distant—just like the thoughts swirling inside her mind. She wasn’t really looking at the pictures; they were just a blur, a collection of past moments she no longer fully engaged with. Her attention was fractured, like a thousand shards of glass scattered across a room. Then, as her eyes wandered over an old photo of Narcissa, something in her chest tightened.
The image was from when Narcissa was still a teenager, the roundness of her cheeks betraying the innocence of her youth. She was laughing, genuinely, the kind of laugh that sent orange juice flying from her nose in a messy explosion. Thank God for live photos, Bellatrix thought. Bellatrix felt a tug in her stomach—there was a time when those moments meant something, didn’t there? Before everything started to twist, to fracture. The photo was a reminder of what once was, and what could never be again.
Her finger hovered over the screen, and she swiped left. Another photo appeared—this one is older. Bellatrix smiled faintly at the sight of herself and Anastasia Zabini, an old friend from school. They had been inseparable back then, two girls bound together by shared mischief and dreams of something greater. Bellatrix’s hair was styled in two tight Dutch braids, matching perfectly with Anastasia. Their poses were confident as if they owned the world. Bellatrix hadn’t spoken to Anastasia since graduation, not since she had moved away. That felt like another lifetime ago.
She kept scrolling, not really thinking, just filling the silence with old faces and memories. But then she froze, the brightness of her phone screen suddenly blinding her. Her breath caught in her throat as her finger stilled over the screen. She had scrolled so far back that she had reached the picture she had tried to avoid for years. It was a photo of her, Narcissa, and Andromeda—together. All three of them. Bellatrix’s hand trembled slightly as she stared at the image.
It was one of those rare moments—before the divide, before the betrayals—that they had been happy. Bellatrix stood in the center, her arms draped over her sisters' shoulders, her usual smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Narcissa had just bought a new headband, and she was wearing it proudly, her smile wide and untainted by the darker forces that would soon pull them all in different directions. And Andromeda—Andromeda was in the photo, too. Bellatrix’s chest tightened as she looked at her. There was Andromeda, her younger sister, who was so different from the person she had thought to know. Thought to know better than anyone before last week.
Andromeda’s hair was perfectly styled, not straight like Narcissa’s, nor messy and curly like Bellatrix’s. It was a deep shade of brown, with soft waves that framed her face in a way that made her seem more serene, more gentle than Bellatrix had ever remembered. And there was that smile. Warm, inviting, and completely free of the bitterness that would later consume their family.
Bellatrix’s gaze lingered on Andromeda.
How had things gone so wrong?
What had happened to them?
To her sisters? To her family?
Bellatrix’s mind swirled with questions, but before she could dive deeper into the memories, her phone buzzed, breaking her from her reverie.
It was Narcissa. The message appeared at the top of her screen, interrupting the quiet storm in Bellatrix’s mind.
Cissy: Sorry I didn’t text back sooner, I was busy.
The message felt strangely distant, but Bellatrix couldn’t ignore the surge of relief that washed over her. Her fingers hovered over the screen, and then another message came through.
Cissy: Also, to answer your question, no, I’m not being babysat by a press trainer. I’m getting press trained though.
Bellatrix frowned, her curiosity piqued. She tapped on the notification, her fingers moving automatically as she opened their chat.
Bellatrix: Who’s your press person?
Cissy’s reply came quickly, almost too quickly, as if she had been waiting for Bellatrix to message her back.
Cissy: A Pandora Lovegood. She’s a wee strange, but nonetheless okay.
Bellatrix paused before replying.
Bellatrix: Pandora Lovegood? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Bellatrix didn’t care enough to dwell on it. Instead, her mind was still occupied by her own situation.
Cissy: Also, what do you mean you’re being babysat?
Bellatrix let out a humourless chuckle before typing out her response.
Bellatrix: I mean I’m literally staying with my press trainer 24/7 until the Yule thing.
Cissy: WHAT? That is insane.
Bellatrix smirked as she read Narcissa’s reply, a dark, sardonic edge to her words.
Bellatrix: lol. Tell me about it.
She set the phone down for a moment, her fingers tapping absently on the table. The Yule event was drawing closer, and the pressure was mounting. It had always been about appearances for the Black family, but now it seemed as if it was about more than just that. There were whispers in the air, rumours of power shifting, of things moving in dark and dangerous ways. Bellatrix felt it—the pull of it. She had been so focused on the ritual of it all, the training, the preparation, the public image, that she had almost forgotten what she had lost. What had changed?
Her phone buzzed again, pulling her from her thoughts. Narcissa had replied.
Cissy: I really don’t understand how you’re dealing with that. It sounds like torture.
Bellatrix rolled her eyes, but there was something about the message that softened her. Narcissa still cared, in her own way, even if it was buried beneath the weight of their own lives. Bellatrix didn’t respond right away. Instead, she glanced back at the photo of her and her sisters.
For a fleeting moment, she considered reaching out to Andromeda, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Andromeda was gone—gone from their world, gone from their family. There was no going back.
Bellatrix instead just replied to Narcissa once more.
Bellatrix: yea idk. My press trainer is annoying. She literally tries to get under my skin on purpose.
Cissy: she sounds like Sirius.
Bellatrix: yea i thought so too.
Cissy: What’s her name?
Bellatrix: Skeeter, Rita Skeeter.
Cissy: never heard of her.
Bellatrix: she is/was apparently some journalist.
Cissy: How do you know?
Bellatrix: she told me.
Cissy: ah.
Cissy: well ig she has to be proficient in her field or media relations if tante Walburga handpicked her.
Bellatrix: Tante picked her?? Who told you?
Cissy: Tante told me herself. Apparently, your Rita girl is the best of the best.
Bellatrix scoffed.
Bellatrix: if she’s so good how come me and you never heard of her??
Cissy: maybe she’s one of those people who doesn’t like having their names known to the public.
Bellatrix: you clearly haven’t met her. Skeeter doesn’t strike me as the modest type.
Cissy: anything is possibleeee….
Bellatrix: What about Pandora Lovegood? Wdym she’s strange?
Cissy: Well it’s like. Idk how to explain. She has the vibe of someone who smokes a lot of weed iykwim. Idk tho she’s pretty chill so i’m not complaining.
Bellatrix: lol. Remember Sybill from school? Is she like that?
Cissy: HAHA. they would 100% be friends if they knew each other.
Bellatrix didn’t reply. She was a bit stuck on the photo. At first, Bellatrix didn’t remember this photo at all and she wondered when it was taken in the first place. But suddenly the memory came to her as clear as day, though it felt like the memory was lost forever. It was like when you rewatch a movie from your childhood. The memory was always there, though really far back in her mind.
They had just finished exams, and the three of them flushed with the giddy relief of summer approaching. Narcissa had insisted on taking the photo, of course. She had always been the sentimental one, even back then. Andromeda had protested, mumbling something about how her hair wasn’t right, but she had reluctantly joined in. Bellatrix could still hear their laughter in her mind as they jostled into position, Narcissa fiddling with her new headband, Bellatrix smirking at their fussing, and Andromeda finally giving in with that warm, reluctant smile of hers.
She wanted to have something to focus on other than the ache in her chest. She thought about sending a message to Narcissa—something casual, a subtle way to bring up Andromeda without revealing how deeply it was affecting her.
But what could she even say? Narcissa wouldn’t understand. Narcissa had always been the most devoted to the family, the one who upheld the Black legacy with a fierce determination. She had written Andromeda off the moment she left the estate doors. Bellatrix had followed suit, of course, but it hadn’t been as easy for her. She remembered the arguments, the shouting matches that echoed through the halls of the estate, and even their London home, Grimmauld Place. She remembered the way Andromeda’s face would harden when she spoke of love, of choice, of freedom. But she also remembered the way Andromeda’s face would soften every time she was with her family. They were family, before anything.
Not anymore though.
Bellatrix stopped pacing and leaned against the window, staring out into the night. The city lights glittered faintly in the distance, but they felt far away, unreachable. And there it was the Eiffel Tower again. Shining ever so brightly in contrast to the dark night sky. She crossed her arms over her chest, her nails digging into her sleeves as she tried to ground herself.
“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath. “Stupid girl.”
She wasn’t sure if she was talking about Andromeda or herself.
Bellatrix decided to text Narcissa back instead. Self-pity would get her nowhere; it never had.
Bellatrix: yeah for sure haha.
She hit send, the casual tone masking the unease twisting in her stomach. Moments later, Narcissa's reply appeared on the screen.
Cissy: kinda random ik, but, how are you holding up with the whole Andy thing? I saw the way you reacted at the meeting on Sunday (yesterday).
The words hit Bellatrix like a slap. She stared at the screen, her heart skipping a beat. Narcissa had noticed. Of course, she had. Well it was hard not to. Bellatrix’s reactions, no matter how controlled she thought they were (and they usually weren’t), always seemed to betray her true feelings.
The meeting felt like a lifetime ago now, its details hazy yet sharp in her mind even though it was yesterday. Bellatrix recalled the tense atmosphere, the veiled accusations, and the subtle glances exchanged around the room. She remembered how Narcissa, ever the diplomat, had remained silent for most of it, her composure trying to hide whatever shame or discomfort she might have felt. Bellatrix, on the other hand, had struggled to keep her emotions in check. They both obviously failed at remaining calm.
She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Should she tell Narcissa the truth? The storm of emotions that Andromeda’s name stirred? Or should she lie, dismiss it all with a curt reply and insist the subject be dropped? The idea of ignoring the text entirely also crossed her mind, but it felt cowardly.
As she debated, Rita’s words echoed in her mind.
“Well,” Rita had said, leaning back in her chair with a knowing smirk, “for starters, you could try redirecting the conversation. If someone asks about your personal life, steer the discussion toward something you’re comfortable talking about. Or, if all else fails, use humour.”
Bellatrix’s lips curled into a faint smirk at the memory. For the first time since she met Rita, she was glad to have her say that. Rita always had a way of making even the most intrusive questions seem manageable. Right. She’d take a third option: redirect the conversation to safer ground.
Her fingers moved swiftly as she began typing.
Bellatrix stared at the screen for a moment, weighing the words in her mind before finally deciding to send a message. She couldn’t keep spiralling. Self-pity would get her nowhere—she knew that. If she was going to survive this, she had to keep things light, even if the conversation was pushing her into uncomfortable territory.
Bellatrix: oh, you know me, Cissy. Always dramatic oops. But speaking of the meeting, did you notice how Regulus said absolutely nothing? Suppose this is hitting him harder than usual.
It wasn’t her best attempt at deflection, but it would do. Bellatrix leaned back against the plush cushions of her bed, exhaling slowly. She couldn’t avoid the entire conversation about the meeting, especially not with Narcissa. Truth be told, she needed to talk about it. She had to unload somewhere—if she didn’t, she’d explode. The meeting had been a crushing weight, filled with too many hidden barbs and too many unsaid things. The subject of Andromeda hung in the air, thick and suffocating, and it made Bellatrix want to claw her way out of her own skin.
Her fingers hovered above the screen, waiting for Narcissa’s reply. She had carefully crafted the message, throwing in just enough of a distraction to steer away from Andromeda without looking too obvious. Bellatrix had learned the art of deflection over the years, but it didn’t come easily. Not when it came to her sister. But for now, she could talk about Regulus. That seemed safe.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, pulling her out of her thoughts.
Cissy: Bellatrix! Don’t be mean. But yes, I did notice. Do you think he’s nervous?
A sly grin spread across Bellatrix’s face. Perfect. The conversation had shifted away from the emotional minefield that was Andromeda. For now, at least. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her sister’s name would eventually make its way into this conversation, but at least for the moment, the topic felt... safer.
Bellatrix: i think he’s only that nervous because he had his name actually mentioned in a bad light for the first time in the Prophet.
Narcissa’s response came almost immediately.
Cissy: Yea. We've all been there though. And he’s like what? 17?
Bellatrix: no that’s Sirius. Regulus is 15.
Cissy: oh. Wow. kinda early can't lie.
Bellatrix: well we all had our names by the time we were 16, in some way or another. It’s like a rite of passage.
The words felt cold on her fingers. A rite of passage. It sounded so casual, so normal, but Bellatrix couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. A rite of passage, indeed. For some of them, it was just a matter of time before their names were dragged through the mud. She had already been through it—she can’t even remember how many times, if you counted the aftermath of her own decisions—but she hadn’t expected it for Regulus. The youngest of the Black boys had always been the quiet one, the reserved one, the one who didn’t make waves. The one who preferred to be out of the spotlight.
Cissy: i legit still remember the first time i was the subject of page 6. 17th birthday where people suddenly thought i was going to do a reality tv show because of all the cameras at my party.
Bellatrix: I DEFINITELY REMEMBER THAT. i even more remember how Sirius lit your dress on fire.
Bellatrix chuckled, shaking her head at the memory. That night had been chaotic, to say the least. But it had been so typical of Sirius—reckless and unpredictable, as always.
Cissy: i still haven't forgiven him for it!
Bellatrix: ONCLE ORION AND PAPA WERE SOO ANGRY. they were angrier than tante and maman.
Cissy: no literally.
The conversation had taken a nostalgic turn, and Bellatrix almost felt guilty for enjoying the trip down memory lane. It was easier to talk about the past, where everything felt a bit more stable, even if it wasn’t true. Even if they all knew that nothing was as it seemed anymore.
But then Narcissa shifted the conversation again, and Bellatrix felt the familiar weight settle in her stomach.
Cissy: speaking of oncle Orion and papa…
Bellatrix felt her pulse quicken.
Bellatrix: ?
Cissy: where do you think they were? Bc they weren’t at the meeting.
Bellatrix frowned, brow furrowing. She had been so caught up in the events of the meeting itself that she hadn’t even thought to question the absence of her father and uncle.
Bellatrix: not that you mention it. I have no clue. Do you think they were maybe like at a conference? Bc don’t they handle all of the actual finances of our family?
Cissy: maybe. Honestly, i’m just curious bc even tho Walburga is like the head of the family it’s still weird to not see them there yk?
Bellatrix could understand that. Despite the estranged relationships and the cold silences that had grown between them all over the years, it still felt off for the patriarchs of their family to not be present at something like the meeting. They were expected to be there, and their absence left a gap—a hole that Bellatrix could feel in the pit of her stomach.
Bellatrix: yea i get what you mean.
The conversation paused for a few moments, the silence stretching between them as each sister contemplated the mystery. Then Narcissa broke it once more.
Cissy: do you think they’ll be at the Yule Gala?
Bellatrix: yea probably. I don’t see reason for them not to come.
Bellatrix: plus maman will legit put papa’s head on a stake if he doesn’t come to her beloved gala.
Bellatrix’s lips curled into a slight smirk, despite the tension still simmering beneath the surface. Her mother was relentless when it came to the Yule Gala, and Bellatrix could practically hear Walburga’s stern voice reprimanding her husband over the smallest of matters. There was no way he would skip the gala—especially not with the pressure Walburga put on him.
The thought of the upcoming event, though, sent a small pang through Bellatrix. She hadn’t yet decided whether she was looking forward to it or dreading it. The gala would be yet another reminder of everything they had lost. But it was tradition, and that made it unavoidable. Even if that meant they were in a crisis, public or familial.
By the time Bellatrix finally finished texting Narcissa, the clock had already ticked past 1 a.m., and the silence in her room was profound. The rhythmic hum of her headphones was gone, replaced by the eerie quiet of the night. Her phone, now low on battery, seemed to blink its last warning with the dimming screen. With a slight groan, Bellatrix rolled over in bed, feeling the weight of the evening’s thoughts settle on her like a heavy blanket. The conversation with Narcissa had momentarily distracted her, but the unresolved emotions still gnawed at her.
She reached for her phone, squinting at the screen, only to realize it was too late to stay plugged into music any longer. Her headphones were already dead, and the phone itself was on the verge of following suit. A resigned sigh escaped her lips as she tossed her phone to the side, sat up and slipped out from under the covers. The cool night air hit her skin, sending a slight chill through her body. She had to find the charger—there was no way she was going to let her phone die now. The idea of having nothing to do in the middle of the night was far more unbearable than the task of finding her charger.
She moved toward the edge of her room, turning on her phone’s flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark. It was a faint light, but enough to guide her steps. As her eyes scanned the room, she was hit by the sudden realization that her space was messier than usual. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, books and papers cluttered her desk, and random trinkets seemed to be abandoned in corners. Her room was always somewhat disorganized, but tonight it felt worse, as though she’d been rushing through everything without care. Maybe it was the weight of her thoughts that had caused it, or maybe it was just the exhaustion creeping up on her.
Bellatrix moved toward the dresser, looking around for the charger, but it wasn’t there. She searched every nook and cranny, becoming increasingly frustrated. The charger was nowhere to be found.
With a soft growl of irritation, she muttered to herself. Maybe I left it in the kitchen.
It was the most logical place. She couldn’t recall exactly when or how it had gotten misplaced, but at this point, it didn’t matter. She simply wanted her charger back, and she was determined to find it.
She stepped carefully out of her room, the faint click of the door handle the only sound breaking the silence. The hallway was dark, but her phone’s light guided her forward. As she passed the living room, she caught sight of something—someone, rather—on the couch.
Right, Rita.
Bellatrix stopped in her tracks, her heart momentarily skipping a beat. She had almost forgotten Rita was still here. For a few hours, she’d managed to push the memory of her presence to the back of her mind. Now, seeing Rita asleep on the couch, her blonde hair splayed out messily, Bellatrix was once again reminded of the strange situation they found themselves in.
She sighed, rolling her eyes at herself.
She began to tiptoe across the floor, doing her best not to wake the blonde. The old wood creaked beneath her, and she cringed with every step. The last thing she wanted was to wake Rita, but the floor betrayed her every time. Bellatrix winced, cursing the creaky floorboards under her breath. It felt like each step was louder than the last. Rita didn’t stir at first, and Bellatrix allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
But then, as she got closer to the kitchen, she heard it. A soft mumble, barely audible, but clear enough to catch Bellatrix’s attention.
“I never meant to kiss them... I told you.”
Bellatrix froze, her heart racing. Rita was talking in her sleep. Bellatrix had always found sleep-talking strange, but this—this was different. The words were enough to make her pause, a sense of curiosity gnawing at her. Who was Rita talking about? Bellatrix’s mind flickered through imaginary possible names and faces.
Bellatrix’s hand rested on the kitchen counter, her fingers curling around the edge of it as she processed the oddness of the situation.
What kind of situation is she talking about?
And who the hell is she talking about?
A strange, unbidden feeling of irritation mixed with curiosity crept up her spine. The sheer absurdity of it made Bellatrix want to laugh, but she also found herself unwilling to ignore it. Was this just some kind of forgotten sleep-rambling? Or was there something more beneath the surface?
The thought lingered with her as she spotted her charger on the marble counter, just where she thought it might be. Without thinking too much, she snatched it up and started heading back toward her room, trying to be as quiet as possible. But as she turned the corner, another soft mumble floated through the air, causing her to stop in her tracks again.
“I told you... I didn’t mean it...”
Bellatrix furrowed her brow, now genuinely curious. It was strange enough to spark her interest, but she wasn’t foolish enough to pry into someone else’s private affairs. Or maybe she was. She didn’t know. What did it matter?
Now in her room, she plugged her phone in, and then tossed the charger aside on her nightstand. She crawled back into bed, the weight of the night pulling at her again. For a long while, she simply lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the house. Her mind wasn’t quite ready to settle. It wandered, flipping through more pictures on her phone, but none of them held the same warmth or nostalgia as the one she had seen earlier. The picture of the Black sisters, all together, happy—so young, so happy before this whole mess.
She closed her eyes, but the thoughts kept spinning in circles. The fractured remnants of family, her obliterated relationship with Andromeda, and now, this strange snippet of conversation from Rita—everything seemed to be colliding in her head. The past, it seemed, was something to be buried. Yet it had a way of creeping up on her when she least expected it.
Minutes turned into hours, and Bellatrix let herself get lost in the thought again. The voice of her subconsciousness filled the room, her melancholy tone pulling Bellatrix’s mind far away from the house and all the chaos within it. And then suddenly everything went quiet. Bella didn’t hear the voice in her head anymore and she heard only the quiet buzzing of the city of Paris in the background.
For just a moment, Bellatrix let herself forget it all—the pressure, the fractured relationships, and the ever-looming shadows of the future. The world outside her mind could wait. Thoughts of Rita could wait. In the dark, with only the silence to guide her, Bellatrix let herself slip into the solace of silence.