Summary:
It's been seven years since the war, five years since Hermione and Ron broke up, and...oh dear Merlin, two years since Hermione went on a date.
But it's fine. She has friends. She has her work.
Very complicated work that keeps her late in the office one Friday night. That takes her down to the Department of Mysteries, and back to the Hall of Prophecies for the first time in ten years.
And in that one night, her humdrum life is thrown completely out of the window.
Suddenly her life is one bizarre twist after another. Prophecies and potions and and caves and cliffs and house-elves and and and-
And being stuck in the past. Stuck ten years in the past with Bellatrix Lestrange.
That bloody prophecy.
Notes:
Hey folks, I'm back with a loooong fic this time. It's my biggest challenge yet, but as usual I've mapped it out, with all it's (hopefully surprising) twists and turns. This is my first fic for Bellamione, and I'm a bit nervous. I've tried to keep them in character as I throw more and more chaos their way, so I hope you enjoy it even though it won't be as dark as some fics. I love the dynamic, and a good slightly twisted bellamione slowburn is a guilty pleasure of mine, but this one won't be too violent if I can help it. I mean, it will be in parts, this is Bellatrix we're talking about...
Anyway, give it a read and let me know what you think! There will be frequent, regular updates, so you won't have to wait long to dive into the story.
Chapter 1: At the Heart of the MysteryChapter Text
"Expecto patronum," Hermione whispers, stepping into the lift.
It's late, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures long empty. But it has taken her long enough to get the centaurs to finally write down a formal request. She's not giving up yet, no matter how late she's going to be for Friday drinks with Ginny. For the third time in a row. Ginny's going to kill her.
Her otter hasn't made an appearance, just some feeble white smoke. She grits her teeth. Come on, Hermione.
She thinks instead of the moment she finally found her parents in Australia, how relieved she was. She thinks of when she restored their memories, terrified they would be angry with her, but they just smiled at her and hugged her tightly. Their family whole.
"Expecto patronum!"
Her otter appears, and a joyful peace settles over her. She watches it fly around the small space for a moment and presses the button for the ninth level. The feeling never gets old.
Then she clears her throat. "Send this message to Ginny, please – Sorry, I won't be able to make it tonight. Work stuff. But have fun with Luna, and maybe we can have coffee on Sunday. Owl me."
Her otter whizzes off through the walls, and the lift falls lower and lower, the floor's blurring past. She takes a steadying breath and grips her wand tightly in her suddenly sweaty palms. Without her patronus, the ghosts of the past are drifting in.
Shield your mind, Hermione. Occlude your thoughts. You can deal with them later. This is just a normal workday.
She fiddles with the roll of parchment in her expanded pocket. Cryptic centaurs. Their writing is mind-numbingly convoluted and nonsensical. Hermione loves a good riddle, but not for twenty feet of parchment on what should be procedural documentation and proof of property rights. She still hasn't quite figured out how to argue that someone can own the rights to a prophecy. Should it belong to the prophet, or those that it speaks of?
And whilst she can see their point that divination is their rightful domain, with many elder centaur seers regarded as direct channels to the divine, their prophecies not to be shared outside the herd, let alone with wizardkind…there needs to be some kind of governing body. Regulation. Why else would the prophecies appear in the Hall to begin with?
It makes her rather uncomfortable that the Hall has begun filling itself again. Slowly but surely, shelf after shelf magically appearing deep in the depths of the ministry. She hates that room. That whole floor.
And that's why she's only just bucked up the courage to do what she should have done hours ago and gone down there.
The doors ping open, and she rolls back her shoulders, setting her jaw and marching determinedly along the torchlit corridor, through the door, and straight across to the door opposite. She's researched the rooms enough by now to know exactly how to get to the offices without encountering brains or veils of death. She's not doing that again.
She still finds it strange that the door opens straight into offices and desks, directly through from the Time room at the far end. With the outer door likely to spin at any moment, she hasn't ever been able to figure out the social etiquette down here. Normally, she would knock before entering.
In fact, normally she wouldn't bother anyone at this hour, but, well…unspeakables are an unusual breed. They're always just…there. At any time. Maybe Luna's right and they are vampires…
She shakes herself from the ridiculous thought, and looks around. Well, that's just perfect. The one time she has a reasonable request and wants to get out of here before midnight, there's nobody around.
She walks over to the nearest desk. There's a note.
Wandering soul, if it is prophecies you seek, then seek them you must; for though your search will be fruitless, it will not be for nought.
More confounded riddles! This is why she's not in Ravenclaw. The constant mind games would drive her batty! If people would just say exactly what they mean, things would be sorted out a lot faster and more efficiently.
She looks around at the other desks. No more notes.
Grumbling to herself, she shoves the note into one of her expanded pockets and heads further into the room. Prophecies are through the other end. She remembers that from fifth year.
She can't help holding her wand at the ready as she passes through the Time Room. Her senses are on full alert, and the scar across her chest seems to tingle in memory. She'd almost died in this room. If she hadn't cast that silencio on Dolohov…
She shudders at the thought.
Quickening her pace, she finally reaches the expansive Hall of Prophecies. And holds back a laugh. The pitiful number of prophecies, tucked away in a corner, is somewhat comical. Oh dear. What a mess they'd made of the place all those years ago.
She wanders over to have a closer look.
Bane was right – they do almost all seem to have been made by centaurs. None from Trelawney, at least, thank goodness. Her last one caused more trouble than it was worth.
Hang on.
Hermione Jean Granger & Bellatrix (née Black) Lestrange – Firenze to Bane (Hogwarts Herd)
What?!
No. That can't be, it—
But these prophecies are new! And Lestrange is definitely dead.
Hermione's heart begins to hammer, and she clutches at her arm subconsciously, leaning to steady herself on the shelves.
Calm down, Hermione. Breathe. Occlude.
She lets out raspy, dragging breaths, staring down at the black stone floor.
She's dead she's dead she's dead she's dead.
She can't hurt you now.
And yet…
Her eyes are drawn back to the prophecy.
It has to be an old one. It's the only explanation. Maybe it says Bellatrix will torture her and then die…or that Hermione would impersonate her, but it would fail…or that they would duel at Hogwarts before Molly kills her.
Her eyes slowly move down to the plaque on the shelf - they're organised by date now as well as alphabetically. It makes much more sense. Of course Hermione would have also…
Oh no.
2004
Last year.
How is that possible? What's it going to say, Hermione attacks her corpse?
It could just refer to Lestrange. Maybe a new law…some kind of family compensation…
It's a bad idea to pick it up. Prophecies are self-fulfilling. It could drive her mad. Look at Voldemort, or Snape.
She picks it up.
Firenze's voice echoes throughout the room.
The stirring sand could foundations sink, if bones are not left buried. A battle lost, lest drunk on love, imagined chains held steadied. And if, these two, through sand and sea, do not drift asunder, then both, now lost, shall be returned, though not without the other.
…well.
She doesn't know what she had been expecting but…
…though not without the other.
Fantastic. She knows exactly which prophecy that part reminds her of. Way to go, Hermione, you had to pick it up. You had to come here, you couldn't have just gone to drinks like a normal person.
Sand and and sea and bones and…drunk on love? What in Merlin's name does that mean? She certainly holds no love for the witch, and the idea that Lestrange would have any love for her at all is laughable. Even if she wasn't long dead.
Because she is. Dead.
How—?
Now what?
She slips the prophecy into her pocket, looking around self-consciously. Nobody's around…as the note suggested. And the prophecy is about her. It's hers. She can take it if she wants.
Hmm, that does seem to make up her mind on the whole prophecy ownership debate. It's obviously hers, not Firenze's. Although he's definitely going to be getting a strongly worded letter about this whole—
She tuts to herself. Just stop thinking for one minute and get those legs moving. Time to leave, Granger.
Her shoes tap against the floor as she hurries from the hall, back into the Time Room, one hand in her pocket holding the prophecy and the other reaching around for the scroll. She needs to remember to leave it on a desk so she doesn't have to come back on Monday and do this all over again.
And that's why, when something pushes into her from behind, she has no hands to steady her fall.
She lets out a shout, crashing into a cabinet, glass falling around her. And the world goes dark.
Chapter 2: Nowhere to HideNotes:
Wow, I can't believe how many kudos and comments this has already, thank you all so much!
Here's another chapter, didn't want to keep you waiting, the fun has just begun!
Also anything you recognise was stolen from JKR bla bla bla
Chapter Text
Hermione blinks her eyes open, squinting against the light and groaning as she staggers up from the floor. Everything is glittering. She raises a hand to her head. Ouch. Gods, her head is thumping, what—
The time turners. They're back. How are there time turners? They'd destroyed them all, they can't have reinvented them in just ten years…could they? No. No they hadn't been there earlier; she would have noticed. Then how—
A thunderous crash interrupts her thoughts. She pulls out her wand and heads back towards the door to the Hall of Prophecies. Maybe whoever had hit into her is still there.
She peeks around the door, and her mouth falls open in disbelief. No…
Thousands of prophecies are crashing to the floor, splinters of glass filling the air and the sound roaring through the room. And yet, under all the noise, she can just about make out voices. Shouts and screams. Wandfire.
No no no no it can't be.
She ducks behind a grandfather clock. A clock that shouldn't exist anymore.
"…Come on, Neville, hurry, we're nearly there."
Hermione hurriedly casts a notice-me-not charm and a muffiliato on herself, backing away towards the entrance door, watching in horror as first Harry and then herself and Neville run through the door to the Hall of Prophecies.
Luckily they're looking the other way and haven't spotted her, too busy with the door.
"Colloportus!" her past self gasps as the door slams shut.
Okay. Okay, Hermione has to leave. She can't see herself, she just can't. She can't affect the timeline. Oh, this is dreadful!
She sprints for the other door, knowing that the others will decide to do the same at any moment and needing a head start.
The door is still open, and she throws herself through it, rolling sideways so she's no longer visible as she hears voices. The Death Eaters have found them.
She sits against the wall, heart pounding.
She's travelled through time. This is…this is horrific. She doesn't have a time turner! How will she get back? How will she not be spotted by anyone? No one can see her. Nothing can change; it would be catastrophic. Everyone here is a key player in the war.
Oh she wishes she had Harry's cloak right now.
Shouts of stupefy and the sound of toppling desks come from the doorway, and she desperately tries to remember what happens next, where she should hide. Maybe she should leave through the entrance…
Yes. No. Oh, she can't think properly, it's all too sudden.
No. The entrance is long and narrow with no exits, leading straight to the lift. She could easily run into the Order, even Voldemort. Who knows how long he was waiting out there?
But she can't stay here.
She gets to her feet in the circular space, staying out of sight of the Time room. All of the other doors are shut, one engraved with an 'x' . She'd done that. That's the Brain Room. Probably not the best idea, she knows Ron was attacked by a brain, even if she was unconscious at the time. So not that one.
Shouting comes from a nearby door, followed by a crash and a scream.
"Ron? Ginny? Luna?" she hears Harry yell out, followed by her own terrified "Harry!"
She desperately wants to help them - they all sound so young, so helpless - but she can't. The consequences would be dire.
Speaking of which. She's about to get caught. She needs to choose a room. Now.
Okay, Ron and the others are in that room, not far from the Time room. They then end up with the brains, so what's left?
She runs towards a random door, throwing it open and closing it behind her as she hears heavy footfalls. The next two Death Eaters. Dolohov and Jugson. Her past self is about to be cursed unconscious, which means she has no idea what happens next.
She turns around in the silent room. Oh.
The veil.
Well, she does know what happens in here. So she can't stay.
Think, Hermione. What other rooms do you know about? Some safer ones. Process of elimination.
The Department of Mysteries studies Time, Space, Death, Thought and Love.
So not Time, that's out. She's in Death. Thought must be the Brain Room.
So that leaves Space and Love.
She opens the door a crack and peeks through. Harry and Neville are standing in the centre of the circular entrance room, her younger self flung over Neville's shoulder. Merlin, she looks dead.
Oh gods, the crosses have all faded from the doors. Okay, the Time Room was three along, so the entrance is three in the other direction. And—
Ginny, Ron and Luna come falling through a door opposite her.
"Ron!" Harry croaks, dashing towards them. "Ginny — are you all —?"
"Harry!" says Ron, giggling weakly, lurching forward, seizing the front of Harry's robes, and gazing at him with unfocused eyes.
What is wrong with him?
Luna looks her way, and she hurriedly shuts the door as Ron falls forwards, laughing.
"…what happened…think her ankle's broken…four of them…room full of planets" come the muffled voices through the door.
Okay. Sounds like the Death Eaters have the Space Room. So she has to go into the Love Room as soon as they leave.
A shrieking voice fills her ears. "There they are!"
Bellatrix. Oh no. Oh—
Her breathing gets faster, and she feels herself slide down to the floor, adrenaline flooding through her leaving her hot and cold and shaking.
Filthy mudblood! How did you get into my vault?
She curls up in a ball. We didn't. It's a fake. Please. I don't know, I don't know I—
Tell me the truth! Crucio!
The floor is cold against her face. Cold wood. No, stone. Her chest is so tight. She begs Bellatrix to get off her, but she won't listen, she—
She opens her eyes. She's alone.
Bellatrix isn't there. Oh.
She slowly gets to her feet, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Stay with it, Hermione. You need to get out of here.
There's no sound through the door now. She cautiously slips out, listening to shouts and spellfire coming from a door that must lead to the Brain Room, so the Love Room must be…this one!
She tries the handle. Locked. Just like she remembered.
"Alohomora," she whispers. Nothing.
She looks around. Nobody.
She takes a few steps back from the door. "Bombarda!"
The door jolts, and a resounding crack echoes through the corridor, causing Hermione to flinch in anticipation, but the door remains unharmed.
She leans her forehead against it, groaning. "Please…" she whispers. "Please open, I can't be seen. The Order will be here at any moment."
"And what…do we have here?"
Sweat trickles down her back and her breath gets stuck in her throat.
No no no no. Not her. Anyone but her.
She doesn't even dare turn around, curling in on herself protectively against the door.
"Come now, pet, show Bella your face…don't be fwightened."
Hermione's wand is still in her hand, but she's frozen. Useless. Her nightmares brought to life.
The woman tuts. "Doesn't matter. I know who you are. That hair of yours is rather distinctive. You're the ickle mudblood girl, Potter's Know It All friend. He's quite attached to you. Perhaps he'll trade…your life, for the prophecy."
Her thoughts are whirling, long repressed memories springing to the forefront and blurring through her mind. Everything's fuzzy.
Occlude. Rationalise. You are not a schoolgirl anymore. You've lived through more. Learnt more. You can bloody well open the door at least and get away from her.
What's the most powerful way of sealing a room?
Blood magic.
How do you counteract blood magic?
More blood magic.
Her left hand is pressed against her chest. She's wearing a necklace.
She slowly tilts her wand towards her neck, focusing on a wordless transfiguration. Difficult, but not impossible.
She feels the necklace transform in her hand. A dagger.
"Well girlie? Nothing to say? I expected more fight from a Gryffindor."
She has to distract her somehow. She needs time to carve the rune.
She pushes away from the door slightly, knife awkward in her left hand, pressing into the wood as she begins talking, pitching her voice higher so Lestrange won't get suspicious about her age.
"Why do you want the prophecy? Why is it important?"
The woman scoffs from behind her. "So you are a Know It All. Questions questions questions. Draco is right. You are a teacher's pet."
Okay. Keep her talking. But don't mention Voldemort. She might decide to just kill her, or petrify her to drag her body to Harry for the prophecy.
"Why have you been running around? The only exit is here…why not guard the door?" Hermione asks, as casually as she can.
The rune is almost complete. She hopes simply 'open' will be enough; the dagger keeps slipping in her sweaty palms.
"You dare tell me what to do, mudblood? How dare you speak to your betters this way!" Lestrange shrieks.
Finished! Now she just has to cut her palm and—
"Maybe it didn't occur to your freakishly enlarged monkey brain, but we can't waste our time waiting whilst children hide away amongst the mysteries! Incarcerous!"
Hermione suddenly finds herself bound and gagged, sliding to the floor, only just managing to wipe her bloody palm across it as she falls. It doesn't open. She must need more blood.
The dagger. She dropped the dagger as she opened her hand. It must be near her somewhere.
A hand grabs hold of her hair and wrenches her around, pulling a muffled yelp from her gagged mouth as it rips at the roots.
She stares up into Bellatrix's glaring eyes. Which widen in shock when they see her face.
Hermione's wand is still in her hand. She points it up at the witch.
Stupefy she thinks with all her might.
A weak jet of red light flies out. Bellatrix blocks it with a distracted flick of her wrist and snatches the wand from her hand before she can so much as blink. She's Voldemort's right-hand for a reason.
"…Your face…what happened you…how old are you, girl?" Lestrange whispers.
Hermione rolls her eyes at her. Gagged, remember? She reaches around the floor with the tips of her fingers for the fallen dagger. It must be there somewhere.
Lestrange rips the gag from her mouth. "How. Old."
Hermione shrugs. "I think I'm sixteen, but I used a time turner for a while, so I might be seventeen by now."
Bellatrix frowns. "Then what's wrong with your face?"
Think, Hermione. Why would she look ten years older? "The Time Room! I crashed into something in the Time Room. A cabinet. Think it aged me or something." Or sent her back in time, but the other witch doesn't need to know that.
Bellatrix opens her mouth in question, still frowning, but Hermione's done it. She's found the dagger.
And instead of cutting herself, she leans on her left hand and gets enough momentum to jolt up and to the left, plunging the dagger into Bellatrix's side.
Take that! You disgusting, evil excuse for a witch. See how you like it!
Bellatrix lets out a gasp of shock, which quickly turns into a growl as she lunges forwards at Hermione. Uh oh.
Hermione grips the dagger as tightly as she can, stabbing anywhere she can reach as they struggle against the door, Lestrange scratching at her and fighting for the dagger with a wild fury.
And then they both let out panicked squawks as the door swings open behind them, and they're falling.
Chapter 3: A Sinking FeelingNotes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione loses her grip on Lestrange and the dagger, her limbs flailing out instinctively to catch herself as she falls through the air. Well, her hands. Her arms are still pinned to her sides by the rope.
She hears the other witch yell out an arresto momentum, but it's obviously only for herself. Hermione continues to fall, her wand probably sat uselessly in Bellatrix's robes.
She can't even see the ground, falling backwards, and her heart drops to her stomach. She hopes it's not stone. Please at least be—
She's submerged in a thick liquid, drowning in it. She tries to open her eyes, but it burns, and she quickly squeezes them shut.
Okay Hermione, you're about to die. You have to lift the incarcerous. It must be weak by now; it doesn't last forever. Her chest tightens, she's sinking. She's sinking and trapped and she can't move and—
Stop panicking and do it. Wordless, wandless, magic. Or you will die.
Relashio! She thinks. Relashio, relashio, relashio. Emancipare, please!
Her arms come free and she would sob with relief if she wasn't still drowning, her lungs burning. She thrashes towards what she prays is the surface.
It has to be. She's nearly there she just knows it. She outlived Voldemort. She won't die like this.
Her hands break the surface and she splashes up, huffing out a breath and—
And she's dragged onto a stone floor.
"Where are we, mudblood? What did you do? How have you trapped us? What…amortentia?"
Hermione gasps in a breath, and then another. Wait. Amor—
She quickly wipes the liquid from her face before it gets in her mouth, blinking her eyes open.
Lestrange is crouched before her. The room is like a cave, dark and lit with only candles. A soothing crashing fills her ears. Lestrange is still gripping her upper arm like a vice, but Hermione can turn slightly to look around at—
A waterfall of amortentia crashing into a large pond. Lestrange is right. That pearly sheen could be nothing else. And the smell! It's…her head is going fuzzy, overwhelmed by the most wonderful, soothing, nostalgic smells she can think of.
And then her head cracks against the stone floor, Lestrange pinning her down, wand to her throat.
"I don't ask twice, mudblood. Why. Can't. I. Leave."
She can't leave?
Well the door must be rather high up…
"I don't know. I've never been in this room before, I swear. Did you try aloho—"
"Yes I tried it! How did you open the other door? They must both use the same mechanism."
Other door?
So there is one down here.
"I— I don't know why it worked, it only happened when you— it was an accident I—"
The walls are closing in again. This is too familiar, Lestrange crouched above her, crooked wand drawn, eyes frantic.
She curls her arms over her face to protect herself, twisting inward.
Bellatrix grabs her arms, panting. "Stop. Wriggling. Answer me. There is no time for this. Tell me what you did, mudblood. My Lord is waiting."
Hermione lets out a sob, breathing ragged and lost in the dark, eyes scrunched shut.
Bellatrix shakes her. "Tell me! Tell me how to leave!"
She lets go and Hermione thuds back onto the stone floor.
"Crucio!"
Hermione screeches, lungs burning and spine twisting until it feels like it will pop apart.
No no no no
No!
She wrenches her eyes open and throws herself at the crouching woman, elbowing her in her already wounded side so she loses her balance, with a grunt. Not again. This is not happening again. She is not going to lie there and let the witch torture her.
Hermione shoves into her again, screaming with years of built up rage, watching as she falls back towards the pool, feet skidding for purchase on wet stone and mouth open in shock.
That's it. Amortentia.
The other witch finds her balance, but before she can steady herself completely, Hermione dips one hand into the pool of amortentia and pulls Lestrange towards her with the other.
Lestrange opens her mouth in outrage, and that's when Hermione strikes, smacking her love potion filled hand over the witch's mouth.
Lestrange's eyes widen in horror.
Oh yes. From now on, Hermione is in charge. Amortentia isn't just a love potion. It causes obsession. An obsession for whoever administers it. Now Lestrange will do everything in her power to please Hermione. It's perfect.
The other witch is still frozen beneath Hermione's hand, apparently catatonic at the thought of loving a muggleborn. Hermione just grins at her.
And then her eyes seem to…change. Glaze over. Get darker.
Hermione swallows. Now what?
The idea made sense in theory…but she's not sure she wants to see it play out.
She cautiously removes her hand and backs away from the woman. Who smiles at her. It would be a nice smile if it wasn't for the rotten teeth. And the person attached to them.
Hermione shudders. It's just plain wrong, Lestrange looking at her like that.
"Uh…Lestrange? How are you feeling?"
The other woman tilts her head to the side, a confused look spreading across her face. She almost reminds Hermione of a puppy.
"Why are you calling me that, Hermione?"
Wow. Now that feels really weird. She didn't even know Lestrange knew her name. She's always just mudblood, girl, pet.
"Umm…because it's your surname. What would you like me to call you?" Best to play nice. The woman is volatile at the best of times.
But Lestrange just smiles once more, sauntering closer. "You can call me whatever you like, what do you want to call me? What do you want me to do? I'll do anything for you, I swear it. Whatever. You. Want," she grins. And then winks.
Hermione backs up another step and swallows. Okay, this is a bit much. She'd wanted obsessed, but…
Given the woman's track record with obsession, she should have known this would get intense fast.
"Uh, okay, Bellatrix, I'd like— right now I just need to think for a moment. I like thinking about things. Alone. I need some time alone. So just…wait for me. Just a moment."
The other witch pouts at her. "I don't want to leave you alone! I want to be with you. Always with you." She stamps her foot. "I can think too! I can help you, let me help you, please!"
Alright. The witch is clever, maybe she can help. But with what? What do they need to do?
Well they have to get out of here…and then…
Oh dear. Bellatrix has to kill Sirius. That has to happen tonight. As much as she hates it, as much as her heart breaks for Harry at the thought, Sirius is a wildcard. If he survives…
She reaches into her pockets for her wand before it hits her. Well, two things hit her. One, Bellatrix has her wand. Two, there's a prophecy in her pocket.
The stirring sand could foundations sink, if bones are not left buried. A battle lost, lest drunk on love, imagined chains held steadied. And if, these two, through sand and sea, do not drift asunder, then both, now lost, shall be returned, though not without the other.
Stirring sand, hourglass sand. Time travel. She could sink foundations…so the past. She could break the timeline if bones are not left buried, that must mean Sirius.
So what does it tell her to do?
Someone grabs her chin and she jerks back to reality as dark eyes gaze into hers from a sunken, waxy face. "You're ignoring me! You hate me! What did I do wrong? Tell me!"
How is this witch still yelling at her?! You'd think a love potion would mellow her out a bit.
"I don't hate you. I'm not ignoring you, I'm thinking about what you need to do for me. You'll do something for me, won't you Lest–Bellatrix?" she says soothingly, hoping to calm the woman slightly.
The witch is so close. A hand strokes across her cheek gently.
And then a soft kiss is pressed to Hermione's lips before she can move.
Wha—
Hermione scrambles backwards.
"Oh yes! Anything! Name it, and I will do as you say, follow every word that falls from your lips."
Blargh. Hdjk. What just—?
Hermione shakes herself. Just…block that memory out. Forever. And hurry up and decipher the prophecy before she gets sulky and kisses you again.
Okay. Nothing can change. Sirius has to die. And then…A battle lost, lest drunk on love…Well. She knows exactly who's drunk on love now.
A battle lost, lest drunk on Love, imagined chains held steadied.
Imagined chains. Chains of servitude? Of imprisonment? Bellatrix is already drunk on love, so who can steady her chains? Voldemort? He's not very steady…
"Tell me what to do!"
Oh. Oh no. Hermione has to—?
Her heart clenches. Why? Why did this have to happen? It was over. The pain, and the killing, was over. And now she has to make more horrible decisions? Has to cause a man to die?
She sighs, nodding to herself in resignation.
Fine. She has to. Time cannot be rewritten, not really. Perhaps Hermione did this all along…
She looks up at the witch. "Okay, Bellatrix, I have an important mission for you, so listen carefully and do exactly as I say. It will make me very happy if you do this for me."
Bellatrix skips towards her, smiling widely and reaching for her hands. Hermione grits her teeth and lets her take them.
"Right. I'm going to use my blood to open the door, and then you are going to run, as fast as you can, to the Death Room. The room with the veil, do you remember it?"
An eye-roll. "Of course! I know where all of the rooms are, silly. Rookwood told the Dark Lord everything about the department. I memorised the floor plan and all of the objects he mentioned. This is the only sealed room."
…right. Now who's the Know It All?
"Okay, good, umm…well done. So, once you're there, you have to fight Sirius and stun him so that he falls into the veil. After that, Harry will chase you. Don't hurt him, just run. Harry's my friend."
Bellatrix frowns. "If he's your friend then maybe I should help him. I don't want you to lose a friend."
"No!" Hermione shouts, and Bellatrix flinches.
"No," she says more softly. "Nobody can know about…you and me. It's a secret. You have to act like you did before. Exactly like you did before, so no one gets suspicious. Just, run to the atrium, and leave as soon as you can."
And…then what? She can't just let her go now. She'll remember all this. Change what she does next. Tell Voldemort.
Maybe she can keep Lestrange somewhere, just for tonight. Just while she thinks of a plan. Where can they go? A safe house?
Not Hermione's house, that's for sure. Or any of the Order houses.
Oh. Maybe there is one they can use.
"And when you leave, meet me at a place called Shell Cottage. Just shout it into a floo, and I'll be there waiting."
Somehow…
How is Hermione going to get out of here?
She needs her wand.
Lestrange tugs on her hands, pulling her close and then wrapping her arms around her neck, hugging her tightly. Hermione suddenly has a faceful of frizzy hair. Looks like the gods are playing 'get a taste of your own medicine' today. As well as some even sicker games.
She brushes some hair away from her mouth. Bellatrix hugs her tighter.
"I don't want you to go. What if you get hurt? Stay with me. I can protect you," the witch in her arms whines.
Hermione holds back a slightly hysterical laugh. Oh, she'd love to see the look on everyone's faces if Lestrange started protecting her in battle. They might faint on the spot.
"Can I have my wand back please?" she murmurs into the witch's ear.
A sigh greets her. And then a kiss against her jaw. Hermione grits her teeth and stubbornly ignores it. Not happening not happening not happening.
She pulls away, and Lestrange hands her back her wand from who knows where.
"Thank you. Now, let's get out of here. You have a mission to complete."
Before the potion wears off.
Or Sirius makes it out of here alive.
Notes:
Well some of you guessed it, amortentia!
This was really good fun to write. Oh dear. What has Hermione got herself into?