Chapter Text
Wednesday, 7:46 AM. Ministry of Magic, Sub-level 4
The scent of old parchment, dry ink, and cold coffee mingled with enchanted dust and damp stone. Hermione Granger sat at her desk, her back straight, but her soul bent with weariness. The silence of the sub-level was broken only by the scratching of her self-inking quill and the sporadic scraping of chairs in other offices—voices were rare there. This was where cases no one wanted came to die. On the desk in front of her, stacked almost methodically, lay seventeen folders belonging to former Death Eaters.
Seventeen names society wanted to forget, but which she, out of principle—or stubbornness—refused to abandon. The Wizarding At-Risk Reintegration Project was the first of its kind, and, like almost everything she proposed, it met resistance. Not from Kingsley. Not from those who had truly fought in the war. But from the new generation of well-fed wizards, who had never heard an Imperius Curse whispered behind a door. People who never had to spit blood to hide a secret.
She rubbed her temples, trying to dispel the ache that had throbbed there since sunrise. "It's not forgiveness. It's rebuilding. If we don't give truth a chance, history repeats itself." She had heard her own voice say that at the last international conference. Now it sounded almost naive. As if speaking of numbers. As if the scars on her back were mere statistics.
The name on top of the folder she held was Theodore Nott. An intelligent, collaborative wizard, seemingly remorseful. Hermione had spent hours with him in magical assessment sessions, interviews, and memory charm verifications. The Ministry didn't trust him, but she did. She still trusted some. Not all. Never all again.
She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her, and looked around the small, functional office. A portrait of her old battles: the fallen flag of a broken house, a burned Hogwarts crest leaning in the corner, and a crooked hippogriff statuette—a gift from Harry, in a rare moment of tenderness. She picked up her tea mug, now lukewarm, and drank without tasting it. The bitterness was different.
Something was wrong that morning.
It was the way the corridors sounded too empty. How the gazes of some Aurors shifted when she passed. How the Ministry owl had arrived thirty minutes early—a roll of parchment sealed with purple wax, no sender. She thought about ignoring it, as she always did with invitations to political meetings. But something about the seal bothered her. It wasn't the official symbol. It was older. More dangerous. And then, as if the universe listened, the office door opened slowly, without a knock. Just a crack, but enough for the bald, imposing head of a familiar wizard to appear from the shadows.
"Granger," Kingsley said, his voice deep and firm, but with a more... intimate tone. More cautious. "I need you. Now." She looked at him for a second longer than necessary. Just enough to understand that this summons wasn't bureaucratic. It was something bigger. And she felt—without knowing how, or why—that she was about to open a door that would never close again.
Hermione rose with the same discipline she had learned to duel: fast, precise, without hesitation—though inside, her stomach had twisted. Kingsley Shacklebolt hadn't appeared in person on a lower floor in months. When he did, it wasn't for bureaucracy. And, especially, it wasn't for her. He said nothing more. He just turned, and Hermione followed him, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the dark corridor. It was curious how the Ministry corridors always seemed gloomier after hours—or perhaps it was her heart now casting shadows where before there was only marble.
She walked a little behind him, analyzing him. Kingsley had always been a man of few words, but not of empty gestures. The tension in his shoulders betrayed what he hadn't yet said. A warning. A burden. They passed two disused departments. The walls felt colder there. As they rounded the final corner, they crossed paths with two uniformed Aurors who averted their gaze—from Hermione, not from Kingsley. This was new. Kingsley stopped in front of a door with no plaque. He made a simple movement with his wand and the latch turned with a soft click. The room was small, windowless. An old Ministry crest adorned the opposite wall: the scales and the serpent intertwined—the symbol of Magical Justice before the war. Inside, there was only a dark wooden table, two chairs, a shelf of sealed files, and an enchanted lamp with a greenish light. He entered, pointed to the chair opposite, and closed the door behind her with a silent spell.
"Sit," he said. Hermione obeyed. Kingsley conjured a roll of parchment sealed with black wax. He placed it in the center of the table between them. The object seemed to vibrate—not physically, but with the presence of something that did not want to be read. She recognized the secrecy spell immediately: an archaic enchantment, used during the secret trials of the First Wizarding War. "This is not recorded anywhere," he said, his voice low, almost too grave for the room. "And it must remain that way. What you are about to see will not be documented. It will not be disclosed. And, above all, it will not be easy to digest." Hermione kept her face neutral. It was a trick she had learned over the years: to appear in control while the world collapsed inside her chest. Kingsley pushed the scroll towards her. "Please open it, Granger."
She hesitated for a second.
Only one.
Then she broke the seal with the tip of her wand.
The parchment unrolled itself, revealing a file with precise handwriting. The crest in the upper left corner was obliterated—intentionally burned. She read the first lines. And the world, for a moment, stopped breathing with her.
Name: Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Status: Alive
Memory: Partially compromised
Risk Level: Lethal
Detention Location: -
Classified Legal Status: Deceased to the general public.
Actual condition under the protection of Decree 17A – National Magical Security
Hermione read it again.
Then a third time.
The letters didn't change.
"This is a mistake," she said, without emotion. Just a statement. Kingsley clasped his hands on the table. He didn't argue. He didn't deny. He just held her gaze. "You know Molly Weasley killed her," she continued. "I saw it. We all saw it."
"We thought so," he replied. "But the spells intertwined. And she... survived. Comatose. Forgotten amidst the chaos. She was found days later, among the bodies. Almost unrecognizable. The rest... is more complicated."
Hermione closed her eyes for a second. The memory of Malfoy Manor's drawing-room invaded like a lightning bolt: the coldness of the blade, the cut skin, the insane laughter. She swallowed hard. It's not real. It's a mistake. It's an illusion. But the file was still there. It still stated the name. "Why me?"
Kingsley leaned forward, his tone now more personal, almost... protective. "Because no one else could face her without succumbing to hatred or fear. And because, despite everything, you still believe people can change."
Hermione stared at the document for a few more seconds. Her fingertips began to tingle—as if her very blood refused to touch that name. Bellatrix Lestrange is alive. And, for some absurd and cruel twist of fate... it was now her responsibility. Hermione didn't know if time had passed quickly or slowly. She only knew that when she blinked, the words were still there. That the name still weighed like an ancient curse etched in blood—not on the parchment, but on her. Bellatrix Black Lestrange. Alive. Her body remained still, but something inside her silently crumbled, like a library whose ceiling began to give way—internal shelves toppling, one by one, in a slow collapse.
She heard Kingsley continue to speak, but his voice now sounded distant, as if coming from behind thick glass. "The recovery was kept in absolute secrecy… The detention is supervised by a specialized curator… She presents with partial memory loss…" Memory.
The irony of the term hit her like a blow. What does it mean to forget? What does it mean to erase parts of oneself when the other person—the victim—remembers everything? Hermione's index finger moved slowly to the corner of her sleeve. She didn't need to see. She knew exactly where the scar was—the word carved with a knife, with cruel refinement, with ritualistic pleasure. "Mudblood." Tattooed on skin, etched in soul.
And then came the sound. Shards of a buried past that, now, began to push their way back to the surface, like old bones in a newly disturbed battlefield.
Flashback – Malfoy Manor, Winter, War Year: 1998
The floor was cold stone. The air, saturated with fear, mold, and blood.
Hermione screamed. Not with words—the words had run out. Only the raw sound of pain remained. Magic ropes tightened her wrists above her head. Her knees trembled, but she couldn't fall. Bellatrix wouldn't let her.
"So fragile, aren't you?" the voice, dancing with sadism, murmured. "So dirty. And yet… so much fun to break."
Hermione cried, but not from weakness. She cried from hatred. From helplessness. From knowing that, for a moment, she wished it would end—any way it could.
Bellatrix walked around her like a satisfied serpent, her wand glowing red and gold, her face lit by an animalistic pleasure. "Cruciatus." The world turned into thorns. Thousands. Inside her skin. Under her nails. In her eyes. In her heart. And, amidst the torment, Bellatrix laughed. "Want to know what it means to live impure, Mudblood? It's to carry the pain until it becomes part of who you are. Until you bend. Until you beg."
But Hermione didn't beg. Not that night, nor the ones that followed. She just survived—and locked it all away in a dark place within herself.
Return to Present
She was back in Kingsley's office. But the churning stomach, the ragged breath, the sweaty hands—none of it was from the present. Kingsley watched. He understood more than he said. "You don't have to accept," he finally said. "But it's better you know. And if you decide not to go… someone else will go in your place. And perhaps without the care, the firmness, or the sense of justice that you have." Hermione didn't reply. She slowly stood up, like someone emerging from a frozen lake. She picked up the dossier. She closed her eyes for an instant—just long enough to push the past back into its silent prison. The same one where she had kept Bellatrix. But she wasn't there anymore. Now, the witch was alive. And justice… was in her hands.
"Where is she?" Hermione finally asked. Kingsley hesitated.
"In Devonshire. A restricted magical facility. An old converted druid fortress. You won't be observed, but you will be protected. Take what you need. Leave today, if you can." She nodded. She didn't say goodbye. She left the room and walked through the corridors as if they were made of glass. She knew what was coming next. She knew the woman who had broken her was waiting in a cold stone cell, perhaps without remembering what she had done. But Hermione remembered. And that's what made everything more dangerous.
Devonshire, Hours Later
The fine rain fell as if the sky whispered secrets to the earth. Gray, persistent, almost gentle. But the fog was something else. The fog was not gentle—it was thick, ancient, almost magical in itself. It covered the fields like a veil between worlds. Hermione Apparated to the edge of a dirt road, her heavy coat hood covering her damp hair. Her wand firm in her inner pocket, her heart more volatile. Before her, amidst gnarled trees and dry oaks, stood a construction of dark stone and moss—half castle, half temple. Silent, austere. There were no signs, no visible markings. Only the sound of the wind and water running off the eyeless gargoyles.
The restricted magical facility in Devonshire. An old druid fortress. Converted, they said. But it still pulsed like something that didn't want to be awakened. She walked slowly to the black oak door. She didn't need to knock. Before her palm touched the wood, it opened with a low creak, as if it had been waiting. The woman who appeared at the door was tall, thin, with white hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a dark blue robe with no symbols, and an obsidian brooch on her chest. "Granger," she said, as if confirming a prophecy. "It's time."
"Madame Althaea?" Hermione asked, extending her hand. The other woman did not shake it. She merely observed her, as if weighing her soul with her eyes.
"She senses before she sees. And today her silence changed," Althaea said. "Come in." Hermione did. The temperature dropped two degrees. Or perhaps it was the energy. The corridors were narrow, curving, with living stone walls that seemed to whisper something too ancient to be understood. There were no candles—only bluish floating lights, silent, cold. They passed two closed doors. None marked. No sound behind them.
"How many are here?" Hermione asked.
"Only her," Althaea replied. "And me."
That made her stop for an instant. "Just the two of you?"
Althaea turned, serene. "This facility was built to contain chaotic entities. Bellatrix Lestrange doesn't need bars. What holds her here predates the cell. It's in her now. And, perhaps, always has been." Hermione didn't reply. But the back of her neck prickled. Not from fear—from remembrance. They continued walking to the last corridor, where the air felt denser. Althaea stopped in front of an enchanted metal door, sealed with ancient runes that Hermione recognized from her advanced research days: consciousness containment spells.
"She's in here," Althaea said, without touching the handle. "But I don't recommend you go in just now. Not yet. She hasn't slept in two days. She's… too awake."
Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she approached the door and placed her hand on the wood. Behind it, no sound. But something… vibrated. Faint. Almost imperceptible. Like a distant echo within her own body. Like being watched from within. And then—without warning, without logic—the voice emerged. Low. Hoarse. But clear. From the other side of the door. Inside her mind.
"Granger."
Hermione took an involuntary step back.
Althaea didn't seem surprised. "Sometimes she speaks. Sometimes she just thinks. We still don't know the extent of what remains in her." Hermione pressed her lips together. There was a metallic taste in her mouth.
"How did she know it was me?"
"She knows what bothers her," Althaea replied. "And you… you reek of truth."
Hermione settled into an observation room—an improvised library, with stone walls and enchanted glass panes that showed the outside of the cell, invisible to Bellatrix. She sat down. Opened the dossier.
Enemy of war.
Terrorist.
Torturer.
Presumed dead.
Sister of Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks.
Relative of Sirius Black.
Former follower of Voldemort.
Highly unstable.
Partial amnesia.
Displays lapses of lucidity and delirium.
Refuses to cooperate with any magical authority.
And at the bottom of the file, in black ink:
"Hermione Granger's presence may be the necessary trigger to recover or destroy what remains."
She leaned back in the chair. Took a deep breath. And for the second time since she arrived, she faced the glass. Bellatrix was sitting on the floor. Legs crossed. Eyes open. Fixed… on her. Even without being able to see. Sitting cross-legged, her body hunched like a creature in torpor. Her hair fell in disheveled strands around her pale face. Her hands rested on her knees, motionless. A cut on her lower lip was still healing, but there were no signs of recent struggle. She didn't look weak. She looked… dormant inside. But her eyes were open. Fixed on the mirrored glass that separated the two. Hermione knew Bellatrix couldn't see her. It was impossible—the glass had four concealment spells, all validated by the Department of Prohibited Artifacts. And yet… She felt seen. As if Bellatrix saw her through another layer of the world. Not with her eyes. With what remained of herself. Hermione unconsciously stepped back two paces. Her left hand went up to the old scar on her forearm. Not in defense—but as a reflex. As if seeking proof that she had survived.
"Any progress?" she asked, without taking her eyes off the woman. Althaea, beside her, watched with monastic attention.
"She eats. Sleeps little. Talks to the walls sometimes. Repeats names. Yours among them. And she sings. Always the same song."
"Which song?"
"A Celtic song. Pre-language. It's a ritualized spell. But incomplete. She repeats the same stanza. As if she wants to remember the rest." Hermione felt a shiver down her spine. Bellatrix, once, hummed during a duel. Laughed while destroying books. Laughed while… She stopped. Not now. She needed to stay whole. She needed to be professional. But there was something in the silence of that cell—something sharper than any curse.
She tried to keep her eyes fixed on the file, but the name at the top of the page seemed to burn her retina: Lestrange, Bellatrix. She had read reports about murderers before.
She had heard horrific confessions from former Death Eaters trying to justify the unjustifiable. She had faced bodies, tortured rooms, suffocating testimonies. But none of this prepared her to be just a few feet from her. She cut me with a dagger that needed no spell. Only will. She wrote hatred on my skin like an artist. And now… she's there. Sitting. Alive. Whole. And I… am the one left with the cracks. A slight tremor ran through her hands. She tried to hide it by crossing her arms. But her shoulders felt heavy.
The room seemed too small. "Madame Althaea," she said, without facing the curator. "May I be left alone?" The woman hesitated, but nodded. "I'll call if anything changes," she said, before leaving silently. When the door closed, the silence became absolute. Hermione approached the glass again. Closer, as if testing herself. Bellatrix remained seated. Eyes open. Pupils dilated. Her pale skin had an unhealthy tint, but not weak. There was something hidden beneath the surface—something Hermione recognized, because it also existed in her. Raw survival.
And then, in an almost imperceptible gesture, Bellatrix moved her fingers. Slow. Almost dancing in the air. As if drawing something invisible between her and the glass. Hermione didn't understand what it was. Until she saw the strokes. Four parallel lines. One crossing them in the middle. A word. A memory. A mark Bellatrix had drawn on her skin with blood, years earlier. M U D B L O O D Hermione recoiled a step. Then two. The wall behind her stopped her, cold as the floor of that manor where it all began. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes burned. She remembers. Even with her memory broken. Even with time. Even with the years. She remembers. And for some cruel reason—she wanted Hermione to know it.
Bellatrix Lestrange was there, on the edge between shadow and the false light of the skylight. Her thin, almost skeletal body lay on the cold floor like a sculpture made of bones and sickly flesh. But there was no fragility in the way her shoulders remained straight, as if a hidden force—fierce and wild—still inhabited that exhausted shell. Her black hair was plastered to her forehead by a thin layer of sweat and dirt, falling in crooked strands that framed a pale, marked face. Deep-set, yet bright, eyes contrasted with the rest of her exhausted face. Her iris was a storm of ashes and shadows, mesmerizing, almost as if madness itself danced there, trapped behind those eyeballs. Her lips, still parched and cracked, formed a faint smile that was neither joyful nor sad—it was the smile of someone who knows an ancient and dangerous secret, a smile that burned. Her hands, trembling at times, clenched into fists with unexpected strength. It was a constant struggle against something invisible, a silent war within herself. She hadn't slept in days—and this could be seen in the fleeting gleam of her eyes, in the tremor of her eyelids that never fully closed, in the way her joints creaked when she shifted position. Occasionally, her voice escaped in almost inaudible murmurs, repeating phrases in a dead language, a ritualistic chant that seemed to keep a part of her sanity trapped in that body about to fall apart.
But there was something more, an indescribable air that froze the air around her—an aura of latent danger, a subtle warning that this woman, even broken, was still capable of unleashing storms. Hermione observed all this, feeling a mixture of disgust, fear, and a strange… empathy? It was like looking into a distorted mirror of what she could have become, had she succumbed to despair and pain in the same way. Every small movement of Bellatrix was charged with an almost palpable tension, as if, at any moment, she could explode in violence or collapse in tears—and both possibilities terrified Hermione. Behind that smile, an ancient ferocity was hidden—the ferocity of someone who had burned from within, who lived on the edge of the abyss, and who, despite everything, still held a spark of insanity and power that no time could extinguish. And at that instant, Hermione understood that what bound them was not just a past of pain—it was the inescapable truth that, no matter how much they tried, neither could ever fully free themselves from that war. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the task ahead—to understand and, if possible, to tame that living storm.
Hermione stood before the heavy, enchanted metal door. The air felt denser, almost suffocating. Behind that sealed boundary, Bellatrix waited—or perhaps lurked, ready to devour any remnant of calm Hermione might carry. She felt the weight of her wand in her pocket, her breath a little faster, her stomach tight. The urge to retreat fought against the need to advance.
She turned and found Madame Althaea observing her, like a silent guardian. "Are you ready?" the woman asked, her voice firm, but without judgment. Hermione gave a brief nod. "Then let's get this over with." Althaea raised her wand with a precise gesture, uttering words in an ancient language Hermione didn't recognize. The door emitted a faint hum, the runes glowed with a bluish light, and the spell dissipated. The door creaked as it slowly opened, revealing the cold, dim interior of the cell.
Hermione took a deep breath and stepped inside. The silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of her own footsteps and controlled breathing. In the center of the cell, Bellatrix sat on a simple chair, her dark eyes fixed on Hermione with an almost unsettling intensity.
"You've arrived." Bellatrix's voice was low, hoarse, laden with contained ferocity.
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and replied, her voice firm, trying to suppress the bitterness: "I came because we have no choice. You're alive. I need to know why." Bellatrix smiled, a smile that was both cruel and defiant.
"You always want answers, mudblood. Questions, questions... But answers are nightmares."
Hermione took a step forward, feeling the weight of the past and the impact of the present. "You tortured me. You tried to destroy me. How do you expect me not to hate you?" Bellatrix laughed, a harsh, genuine sound.
"Hate is a prison, Muddy. You're as trapped by it as I am trapped here. But perhaps you don't yet know what you're trapped to me for."
Hermione swallowed, surprised by this unexpected suggestion. "And what would that be?"
Bellatrix leaned forward, bringing her face closer to Hermione's, her gaze piercing. "We both... are monsters the world doesn't want to acknowledge. But perhaps, together, we can be something new. Something no one has ever seen."
Hermione recoiled a step, shocked by the intensity of the proposal. "No... it's not like that. You're a murderer."
"And you are the girl who swore justice and ended up bringing chaos into herself," Bellatrix smiled provocatively.
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, but kept her voice calm and determined. "I came to understand. Not to forgive." Bellatrix nodded, a defiant glint in her eyes.
"Then let the game begin, Granger." The cell seemed like a theater of shadows, where fear and madness intertwined in a sharp whisper. Bellatrix arched her eyebrows, a crooked, crazed smile spreading across her face. "Oh, Muddy... You were always so proper, so rule-abiding... But here we are, aren't we? Eye to eye... I lived, I survived. And you? Still trying to find answers for what can't be fixed."
Hermione held her firm posture, but her voice wavered, laden with a bitter mixture. "You tortured me. And I... I can't forget. I’m here on behalf of the Ministry."
Bellatrix let out a laugh—a husky sound, almost a shriek, that seemed to come from a throat scratched by time. "Oh, my sweet, pain is a delicious seasoning! I enjoyed watching you cry, scream, beg. That despair, that fear... It's a feast for the soul. Do you think I forget? That the wound healed?" She tilted her head to the side, her dark eyes flashing madness. "I fed on your fear, and you became my favorite toy. Want to know? I miss it. Your warm skin under my wand. Your voice breaking the silence."
Hermione swallowed hard, her stomach churning. "I wish you were gone."
Bellatrix gave a hallucinated smile. "Disappear? How boring that would be! I like games, Granger. Cat and mouse games. You're my favorite prey. And I... I'm your worst memory." She tapped her fingers on the table with a strange rhythm, almost as if she were mentally humming. "I wake up in the middle of the night, and your face is always there, poking at my madness. The girl who defied me, who tried to save me, who hated me... who loved me, unknowingly."
Hermione shuddered. That last word sounded like sweet poison. "Don't misunderstand me," Hermione snarled, her voice cold. "I never loved you."
Bellatrix made an exaggerated grimace, as if she had been struck. "Ah, but the truth is a cruel monster, isn't it? You want to run from it, but it sticks, even when you try to scrape it off your skin." She took a step towards Hermione, her eyes gleaming like distorted stars. "I am your worst nightmare, your hidden madness. And you know it."
Hermione gripped her wand tightly, her breath short. "I came to understand. To close the past. Not to play your mad games."
Bellatrix laughed loudly, a strange, joyless sound. "Close? How funny. The past never dies. It feeds on your mind, pet. And while you cling to order, I dance in anarchy." She leaned back, her eyes glinting. "So, let the game begin... Madwoman against the prim one. Who will break first?" The air in the cell now seemed thicker, as if contaminated by Bellatrix's demented laughter. Hermione stepped back, her trembling hand still closed around her wand, though she knew she didn't need it at that moment. Or worse—perhaps she did need it, not to attack, but to keep herself whole. She turned her face away, her stomach churning.
Bellatrix's voice still vibrated in her ears, like a cursed spell:"You're my favorite prey. And I... I'm your worst memory." Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She hated it. The weight. The way Bellatrix invaded her, as she always did. It wasn't magic—it was something much more intimate, more perverse. Bellatrix messed with her instincts. Twisted memories as if they were rag dolls. Her voice cut through time, scars, and wills. And the worst part: Bellatrix knew it. Hermione bit her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She couldn't falter. She couldn't… waver. But she did waver. Because, for an instant, looking at Bellatrix—barefoot, disheveled, her eyes flashing with a hungry madness—she saw something human. A broken trace of someone who perhaps, in another world, could have been something else. Someone wounded. Not just cruel. And that idea disgusted her.
"You're seeing ghosts, Muddy. Creating narratives to justify your weakness." She paced back and forth i n the small antechamber outside the cell. Madame Althaea hadn't followed her—she had stayed at a distance, giving her space. But it wasn't enough. There wasn't enough space in the world for where she wanted to run. "You want to close the past? The past is laughing in your face." She sat on a narrow bench, her head in her hands.
She remembered the damp smell of Malfoy Manor's dungeon. The taste of iron in her mouth. The sound of her own voice screaming. Bellatrix's wand burning her skin as if carving a message. And now, that same woman spoke to her as if they were equals. As if they shared something. Hermione felt her chest ache. As if she was being pulled in opposite directions: her usual reason—sharp, logical—against something more instinctive, something primal, visceral. Something she hated to admit existed. "She provokes me because she knows she still affects me." And it did affect her. Not in the traditional way. It wasn't desire. It was repulsion loaded with attraction. Anger tinged with fascination. It was the kind of connection born at the edges of survival. Hermione knew: if she didn't maintain control, Bellatrix would destroy her again. But this time, not with spells. With words. With distorted truths. And perhaps… with mirrors. "You're not here to save her. You're here to prove that you're still good." The realization hit like a stone. And it hurt. Because perhaps it was true.
Hermione took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to relax. She knew she would have to go back in there. Talk to her. Look again into those insane eyes that seemed to see her more than they should. "One week. Seven days. Seven meetings." She stood up. Next time, she would have more control. More distance. But something deep within her—very deep, very silent—already knew: this wasn't a mission. It was a descent. And Bellatrix Black was waiting at the bottom of the abyss, smiling.
Flashback: Malfoy Manor, Winter, War Year: 1998.
Hermione lay on the marble floor, her face pressed against the cold stone. The pain in her back throbbed with living pulses, as if nerves were being ripped out with pliers. Blood slowly trickled between her ribs, warm, sticky. Above her, the voice—that damned voice—whispered with sick pleasure.
"Let's carve your pretty little name, Granger… just to make sure you never forget who owns you." She tried to scream, but her throat didn't respond. Everything had already been torn away: voice, pride, air. The sound of the magical blade tearing her skin came before the pain. And when the pain came, it was hungry.
Hermione arched her back against her own will, her body convulsed in a dance of involuntary spasms. "Don't pass out now, no, no, no… I want you to see. To feel. To memorize." Bellatrix gasped with excitement. "'Mudblood,' isn't it? Such an ugly word… so true…" Hermione's eyes burned. But they didn't cry. She refused to cry. Even when Bellatrix pressed her blood-stained fingers against her jaw and made her look at her own flesh, marked in scarlet letters. "See how well it suits you…"
It was at that moment—between a Cruciatus Curse and the distant sound of Harry crying in the background—that Hermione knew she could die there. But she didn't die. And, sometimes, that seemed much worse.
Back to the Present.
Ministry
She blinked, stopping abruptly in the empty Ministry corridor. The lights flickered more intensely now, and her breath was caught in her throat. Only then did she realize she was clenching her left palm so tightly that her nails had broken the skin. "She still lives inside me." Not as a memory. But as something more. Like an ancient poison. Like a scar that aches even in good weather. Hermione closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to regain control. But Bellatrix had opened something—an inner door she had kept locked since the war. And now, something inside her whispered that this cell wasn't just for interrogation. It was a mirror. And the reflection was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
The corridors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had an uncomfortable rigidity, as if the walls were made of more than stone—perhaps of expectations, silent vigilance, guilt. Hermione walked among employees who avoided her gaze. Some pretended to be busy with scrolls of parchment. Others simply moved away. She understood. In recent years, her name had become an ambiguous icon: for some, an immaculate hero. For others, the girl who insisted on questioning everything—even the winning side.
"Granger," a dry voice called to her left. It was Dawlish, the new head of War Detentions Oversight. Thinning hair, tired eyes, an expression that never changed. He always seemed bored or on the verge of anger. "Report on your first visit. I need it by the end of the day."
"I'm still processing what happened in there," Hermione replied, restrained.
"You had contact with one of the most dangerous war criminals of our time," he retorted, as if explaining something obvious.
"'Processing' is a gentle word. I just want facts." Hermione swallowed the urge to respond with sarcasm.
"And what exactly do you consider 'fact' in Bellatrix Lestrange's case?" Dawlish merely stared at her for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Start with: does she seem cooperative?" Hermione hesitated. The word spun in her mind like a coin tossed in the air. Cooperative? Bellatrix had laughed at her presence. Provoked her. Almost psychologically stripped her bare in a few minutes. And yet… she answered questions. She spoke. She stared.
"She seems… lucid," she finally replied. "And dangerous. Extremely dangerous. But she is willing to talk."
"Perfect," Dawlish said, with a slight raise of his eyebrows. "It's not what the Council expected, but it's something. Continue." He turned and left before Hermione could say more.
Alone, she walked to her office. She closed the door with a soft isolation charm and sat down. The silence inside was almost comforting. Almost. She took a small amber vial with a slightly greenish liquid from her bag—a calming potion. Madame Pomfrey had personally prepared it for her two years ago, telling her to keep it "for emergencies." Was this an emergency? She left the vial on the table, untouched. You're stronger than this. But the next thought came like a dagger: She saw you, Hermione. Inside. And she liked what she found.
Suddenly, the image of the cell returned—the gleam in Bellatrix's eyes, the twisted smile, the way she seemed to savor every word she spoke. Hermione crossed her arms, hugging herself. There was something deeply wrong here. And worse: something deeply familiar. She picked up her quill and began to write the report. But instead of facts, her fingers slipped into interpretations. Impressions. Feelings. She looks at me as if she knows me. Not the public Hermione, the Minister-in-training, the brilliant Gryffindor. She sees me stripped bare. Frightened. Tired. Perhaps because she herself is all of that in raw form. She stopped. Put down the quill.
And for the first time since the war, she wished Harry were there. Not as a hero. Not as a savior. But as a witness. Because something dark was growing inside her. And Bellatrix Lestrange had planted the first seed. The official report lay untouched on the table. Two lines. Nothing more. Hermione spun the quill between her fingers, her eyes fixed on the parchment, but her mind far away. The cell was still inside her—damp, motionless, full of noisy silences and the suffocating presence of a woman who should never have survived the war. Bellatrix Lestrange. The name seemed to carry a spell within itself.
Hermione pushed the report aside and pulled out another piece of parchment. This one would not be sent to Dawlish, nor to the Council. It was a private draft. A sketch of what couldn't be captured in neutral language.
Confidential File – Bellatrix Lestrange Preliminary Observations (not for distribution)
The prisoner's physical state is worse than I expected. She is thin—not from hunger, but from a disinterest in her body. Her hair, though still long, is tangled. There are old bruises on her arms, visible scratches. But her eyes… her eyes are not defeated. She speaks like someone who still possesses power. Like someone playing a game—even without pieces.
She is not a woman in ruin. She is a woman in silent combustion. And, despite everything, there are moments when she seems… lucid. Completely aware of who I am. Of who she is. Of who we were to each other in the war. This disturbs me more than screams. She takes pleasure in seeing me uncomfortable. But also something more. An obsessive attention, perhaps. As if I am the last living thing in her world.
Hermione stopped. The parchment felt more intimate than she wanted to admit. She carefully folded it and sealed it with a discreet enchantment—something that would only open with her wand. Then she gathered everything. She realized she had spent hours there. The Ministry was already emptying out. Outside the enchanted window, the sky was tinged with dark purple.
The floating candles moved at a slower pace, as if whispering: enough for today. Hermione sighed deeply, tucked the papers into her enchanted bag, and Apparated home. Home as a Disguised Prison Her flat in central London was too silent. Everything was in its place—books aligned by theme and alphabetical order, fireplace unlit, armchairs without creases in the fabric. And yet, she felt as if everything was wrong. As if something was out of alignment. She dropped her bag on the kitchen chair, climbed the stairs, and undressed in the dark.
The shower water hit her back hard, but it didn't cleanse her. Nor did it calm her. Bellatrix appeared even with her eyes closed. That voice, that gaze between madness and pleasure, that laugh that made her bones vibrate. "You never forgot me, Granger…" Hermione leaned her forehead against the shower wall. The hot water streamed down her face, but she couldn't tell if it was tears or just exhaustion turning to liquid. Later, in bed, she lay on her side, hugging a pillow as if it could contain the pressure in her chest. The house slept, but her mind didn't. She wondered—and this was the thought that frightened her most—if Bellatrix was really so wrong. If there was something within her that recognized her. That remembered. That felt. Hermione turned to the other side, trying to silence the internal noises. But the whisper persisted. "I am your worst nightmare, your hidden madness. And you know it." She closed her eyes. And dreamed of blood.
The corridor leading to Bellatrix seemed longer that morning. Hermione clenched her fists inside her coat sleeves. The thick fabric of her dress shirt scratched her knuckles, but she didn't loosen her grip. Beside her, Althaea walked in silence, without the severe expression of the day before. There was something softer about her today—or perhaps just more tired. "Are you sure about this?" the Auror asked, as they approached the cell. "We can turn back. You have the authority."
"If I turn back, she wins," Hermione replied without hesitation. Her voice sounded firmer than she felt. Althaea raised her wand, murmured the security spells, and the door slowly creaked open. A sound that seemed more like a warning.
Hermione entered. The cell was in semi-darkness. The only light came from a small magical opening in the ceiling, a gray beam that cut through the air saturated with dust and dampness. Bellatrix was sitting in the corner, her back against the stone wall, legs crossed, arms loose on her knees. Unlike the day before, she didn't smile immediately.
"I thought you wouldn't come back," she said, in an almost disappointed tone.
"I thought it wasn't worth it," Hermione retorted, remaining standing, far away. Bellatrix raised her face. She looked less haggard. Her hair, still a wild thicket, had been pulled back improvisationally, revealing a face of sharp angles and deep-set eyes. But they were alive. Restless. Dangerous.
"Good that you think… and rethink," Bellatrix snapped her fingers, slowly. "Thinking is an underrated virtue among heroes." Hermione sat down. The same stone bench. The same space between them. Everything the same. But the air was different.
"I'm here because I want to understand how such an intelligent woman chose the path you chose." Bellatrix tilted her head, observing her as if she were a fascinating insect.
"The question is poorly phrased. You want to understand how I survived the path I chose." "No." Hermione held her gaze. "I want to know if you regret it." Silence. A silence that lasted too long to be just a pause between speeches. Bellatrix seemed to weigh her words, or perhaps weigh Hermione. "You want me to say yes. That I was consumed by madness. That I lost myself for a dead man. That I regret it. That I want to redeem myself." She lifted her chin, firm. "But what if I don't say that? What if I say I enjoyed it? That I took pleasure in every curse?" Hermione felt her skin go cold. But she didn't look away.
"Then you are worse than I imagined."
"Or just more honest." Bellatrix smiled. This time, the smile came like a cut. "You heroes are obsessed with redemption. You love to think that every monster can be cured with compassion. That it all comes down to visible scars. But do you know the truth, Muddy?" Hermione didn't answer. Bellatrix leaned forward, her eyes gleaming like contained fire. "The truth is, you want us to cry so you can feel better. You want forgiveness to prove your superiority. But you don't forgive me. Not yet." She whispered: "Perhaps never." Hermione swallowed hard. Something in those words cut through her, even as she fought against it.
"I'm here as part of a restorative justice program. I'm not here to forgive you. Nor to hate you. I'm here to understand."
Bellatrix let out a short, dry laugh. "Understand, then. What a foolish word."
"Why?"
"Because understanding is the first step to justifying."
Silence.
Hermione hated how exposed these conversations left her. It was as if Bellatrix had the ability to open drawers inside her that she didn't even know existed. She stood up. The visit time was over—officially or not. "I'll be back tomorrow."
Bellatrix watched her from below, her head against the wall, like a sharp-eyed animal. "Of course, you will."
"Why do you think that?" Hermione asked, pausing for a second.
"Because we've already started, pet. And you don't know how to stop anymore." The sound of the door closing behind her echoed like an un-verbalized spell. Hermione let out her breath, only then realizing she had been holding it since crossing the cell's threshold. She ran a hand over her face, trying to dissipate the tension, but it was ingrained—in her shoulders, in her neck muscles, in her jawbones. Althaea waited for her outside, arms crossed.
"You're pale," she commented.
"And you look surprised," Hermione replied dryly.
Alathea observed her for a second, as if analyzing not a colleague, but an unstable variable. "She gets to you." Hermione hesitated. She could deny it. She could claim objectivity. But it would be a lie—and lying was not part of what she wanted to be, nor of the woman who survived the war. "Yes," she admitted. "She gets to me."
"Will you be able to continue this project? Because, if it's just to collect new traumas…"
"I can handle it," Hermione said, without looking at the Auror. "I've handled worse." She started walking down the corridor, but each step felt harder than the last. The cell was behind her, but Bellatrix wasn't. Her words reverberated in her head like a poorly blocked curse. "Perhaps never."
Flashback – Malfoy Manor Room, Winter 1998
It was dark. Not the darkness of night. The darkness of fear. Hermione gasped, her breath short, her face wet. Blood or tears—she didn't know. The skin on her arm burned, the word "mudblood" still hot, etched with iron and magic.
"So delicate," Bellatrix said, crouching in front of her. "So brilliant, so… noble." The wand passed slowly over her cheek, like a feather. "Let's play a game of answering questions, shall we? I ask and you answer. Easy. Like a test. It's that you try to resist… and yet you feel everything. I see it. You're all broken inside, but you want to appear whole. Like a good book burning slowly."
And then came the pain. Again. A spell that burned from the inside out, and Hermione bit her own fist to keep from screaming.
Present –
She stumbled. She was back in the cold corridor, and her knees almost gave way. Althaea, instinctively, held her by the elbow. "Hey. You need air."
Hermione pulled her arm back. "I'm fine."
"You had a trigger."
"I'm fine, Althaea," she repeated, more firmly. But she wasn't. Her hands trembled. The memory still hurt like raw flesh. "I've handled worse." But how many more times would she have to handle it? The world seemed more opaque when Hermione reappeared on the surface. London enveloped her with its cold wind and the gray sky that seemed to conspire with her thoughts.
The Ministry building disappeared behind her without her noticing, her steps following the path to her flat in Bloomsbury as if automated. She entered, dropped her bag on the sofa, and walked to the kitchen without turning on the lights. The silence of the place was heavy—but it was hers. No screams, no laughter, no threatening whispers. She kicked off her shoes. Only then did she notice her feet were sweaty. Bellatrix Lestrange. Alive. Awake. Watching. There was something unnatural about it. She poured herself some tea. She didn't drink it. She let the cup cool on the kitchen table, while she sat with the notebook on her lap.
"Interview #2 – 4:32 PM
Detainee: Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Classification: Level V Risk
Initial observations: more alert appearance, apparent emotional stability, more articulate speech. No direct mention of the Dark Lord. Expressive willingness to provoke. Ambiguous behavior between lucidity and manipulation. More centered than in the first session. Dominating presence."
She underlined these last words, as if she could bury them. But the pen stopped before the next line. Hermione stared into space for long seconds. She tried to continue. "Interlocution marked by…" what? Domination? A game? An attack? She scribbled over it. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. And then, on an impulse she didn't understand, she scribbled a new line, as if she were writing a note to herself—and not for the Ministry files.
"She remembers. Everything." Further down: "And so do I." The notebook lay on the table, the pen tossed aside.
Hermione slowly rose, her muscles begging for a truce. The wall clock read 9:12 PM. It was still early, but her body felt weeks old. She went to the bedroom, changed her clothes, sat on the bed, and finally allowed herself to fall backward. The bedside lamp was still on, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Bellatrix's words kept echoing. "Understanding is the first step to justifying." "We've already started, Granger." "And you don't know how to stop anymore." Hermione turned on her side, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and curled up. But the cold was internal.
Finally, she whispered in the dark: "You won't win." But she wasn't sure who she was saying that to. To Bellatrix? To herself? Sleep came like a heavy spell, without relief. And the dreams… were stone corridors and sharp voices. The sound of the alarm clock was low, insistent, as if apologizing for waking her. Hermione pressed the button before it completed its second ring. She had been awake for hours. She had tossed and turned all night—her mind trapped in words spoken, in silences unspoken, in dark eyes that seemed to see everything she most wanted to forget.
She slowly sat up. The faint morning light seeped through the curtain gaps, tinting the room with gray tones. An organized, functional, silent room. Empty. She brushed her teeth, tied her hair back, changed her clothes. The mirror returned nothing that looked new. Hermione Granger. Former warrior. Former heroine. Former brilliant girl. Now she was just someone trying to maintain her sanity in a world that wanted to forget what she refused to bury.
On the kitchen table, yesterday's tea was still there, untouched. Cold. She picked up the mug, poured the contents out, and made another—this time, without sugar. She took a sip and sat down at the same notebook. There it was: "Bellatrix Lestrange – Session 2." But she didn't write. Instead, she looked around. The books on the shelves. The plants that wilted even with water. The empty armchair in front of the fireplace.
She remembered when, months ago, Harry insisted she move closer to Ginny and the children. "You're always alone in this flat. It's not healthy." She smiled then. Said she liked the solitude. A lie. What she liked was the absence of witnesses. Here, no one saw her waking up in the middle of the night with a scream stuck in her throat. No one had to deal with the memory lapses, the words that escaped her, the moments when her hand trembled holding a quill. Here, she could pretend she was whole. And she could fail at it without anyone noticing.
She picked up the notebook again. She wrote, in small letters, in the corner of the page: "No one would recognize me if I told the truth."
She left home at 10 AM, with no fixed destination. She wouldn’t go to the Ministry that day nor to visit that mad woman. She walked the streets of London like a ghost among frames. The world functioned, spun, produced, smiled. And she watched from outside. A child played with a toy wand. A wizarding couple gently argued about where to have lunch. A house-elf sold pins of the new minister. Everything was so normal. She sat on a bench, near the entrance to an alley protected by charms. The breeze was light. Bellatrix's face appeared for an instant—the twisted smile, the fixed eyes, the voice coiling: "You're more alone than ever, aren't you, Granger?" Hermione pressed her fingers against the iron bench. She pushed the image away. Breathed. Alone, yes. But alive. And if she was alive, she could write. And if she could write, she could resist. She stood up.
At home that night, she turned on the lights, put on some quiet music (instrumental, no words), and reopened her notebook.
"Session 2 — Preliminary impressions (personal version):
She is… impossible to categorize. She's not just mad. She's not just evil. There's something in her that seems to be waiting. As if she's back in a game that never ended. The most disturbing thing? She seems to know me. Not who I was—the one from the war, from the Order, from the books. But who I am when no one sees. And that version… even I don't understand.
Hermione closed the notebook.
For the first time in weeks, a tear fell without warning. She didn't wipe it away. Solitude, after all, was a place where tears could fall in peace. The house seemed smaller that night. Every wall reminded her that no one else lived there. She sat on the floor, her back against the bookshelf. She wasn't crying. She wasn't thinking. She was just breathing—that kind of breathing that requires effort, as if the body had forgotten how to live outside of combat.
The silence of the room grew thicker, filled with memories she hadn't invited, but which, nonetheless, sat beside her. Harry came first. Harry, who still called her "Mione," even after all these years. Harry, who used to know when she needed space—and when she needed to be dragged out of it. But he had changed too. After the war, his eyes never shone the same way again. She remembered the last time he had been there, in this very flat. Ginny was pregnant with their second child. Harry spoke of his new mission with an air of boredom, as if hunting dark artifacts was a bureaucratic obligation—and no longer a fight for justice. "Are you still on this?" he asked, touching the notebook with the reports on Bellatrix. She nodded. "I don't know if this will help you heal." Hermione just returned his gaze. And she didn't say that she wasn't trying to heal. She was trying to remember. Because to forget would be to betray everything she had lived through. Harry didn't understand. Perhaps he never truly understood.
And then came Ron. She could see him clearly. His freckles. The awkward way he hugged her. The effort. Ron always tried. Even when he didn't know what to do, he tried. They had been together for two years. Two years during which they tried to build something new on the rubble. But there was no foundation. Only guilt. And sadness. He moved to Romania. He wrote a final letter by hand, trembling, with smudged ink at the end: "You are still my home. Only now it's a place I can no longer enter." She kept the letter in a drawer. She never replied.
Hermione closed her eyes. Everyone else had moved on. Harry, with his family, his politically correct Auror career, his insistence on appearing whole. Ron, with his dragons, his hard-won freedom, his gentle distance. And she… She stayed. In the city. In the memory. In the trauma. Because someone had to look the monster in the eye. And, more than that… because a part of her still felt like a monster too. She slowly stood up. Her body ached with the weight of everything that was never said. She went to the window and stared at her reflection in the glass. She was thinner. Her eyes deeper-set. Her shoulders more stooped. And yet, there—behind the worn version of herself—there was a spark. Faint. Almost dead. But alive.
Tomorrow, she would return to the prison. To Bellatrix. To the chaos. Not because she wanted to. But because it was the only place where she felt any truth still existed.