Chapter Text
The Phoenix Book and Coffee Shop is quaint and cosy. One wall is covered in bookshelves, and the floorspace is filled with an assortment of chairs ranging from the squishiest armchairs to wooden ladder backs. Hermione has worked at The Phoenix since her first year of undergrad - and now she is embarking on the second year of research for her DPhil thesis.
The coffee shop has become as much a part of her Oxford experience as the Bodleian, Duke Humfrey’s, and that little spot by the river that she likes - under a tree, but in the sun, and sheltered from the view of passers by.
Hermione knows anyone who is a semi-regular customer, and is known for her warm greetings and her deep knowledge of the books that line the shelves. She’s just as likely to recommend a good book as she is to divulge which flavour muffin goes best with your hot drink.
So when Hermione looks up from the till and sees a face she’s never seen in person before, she falters a little. Oh my GOD , her brain screams.
This is Bellatrix Black.
Hermione has read all her books, all her articles, everything she has published - though within their field, they are as opposite as two scholars could be. Hermione’s focus is intellectual history, and Bellatrix’s is the history of war, but the way Bellatrix writes, weaving fact, theory, and context together to create a masterpiece, is riveting.
Hermione remembers the first article she ever read of Bellatrix’s. It was in her first year of undergrad, a piece about the forces behind wars, about what made a country, a king, a government go to war. And Hermione had read it through three times before opening a new tab and searching Bellatrix’s name, finding a blurry photo of the black-haired woman from the biography on the dust cover of her first book.
Expecting the author of the article she’d read to be much older, having published a tonne, Hermione was surprised to see that the Bellatrix Black in the newest photo she could find wasn’t a day past 40, and was stunningly gorgeous.
Now, even at eight in the morning, pre-coffee, she is breathtaking, and Hermione stares, her brown eyes locked on Bellatrix’s black.
Ebony curls form a riotous mess atop her head, held in place with more pins than looks strictly comfortable. Her skin is pale, and softly lined, like the most expensive antique porcelain. Eyeliner is drawn in perfectly smudged slashes along her upper lash line, the lashes themselves liberally coated in black mascara, though Hermione suspects they would look just as long and dark without.
She’s wearing all black too - skinny jeans ripped at the knee, and ankle boots with 2 inch heels, enough to make her taller than Hermione, just. Her top is skin tight and sheer black lace with a black camisole underneath and a leather jacket on top. Slung over one shoulder is a big black bag, bulging with papers and books. Hanging around her neck is a thread of leather with a silver bird’s skull resting against the manubrium of her sternum. The only colour on her is the blood red lipstick on her lips.
There’s an obvious commitment to an aesthetic that makes Hermione weak at the knees. She can’t help but wonder if everything Bellatrix Black is wearing is black.
“Espresso. Triple shot,” Bellatrix demands, slamming her black keepcup on the counter and snapping Hermione out of her reverie. Her voice is as captivating as her face. It’s both sweet and gravelly, and her accent could cut glass.
“Sorry. Of course,” Hermione says, scribbling the order on a scrap of paper and handing it and the coffee cup to Nymphadora Tonks, the pink-haired barista and owner. She rings up the coffee on the till. “That’s three pounds, please.” Hermione flashes her signature smile, but Bellatrix isn’t looking. She’s dumped her bag on the counter and is rifling through it, and Hermione watches a curl come loose and tumble down across her face. Bellatrix swipes it away absent-mindedly, then triumphantly holds up her wallet, pulling out her card and waving it above the EFTPOS machine.
“Thanks, that won’t be long. Would you like me to bring it over for you?” Hermione offers. She doesn’t usually bring drinks to every customer, especially the takeaways, but she can see that Bellatrix’s attention is on the bookshelves.
“I’ll be over there…” Bellatrix is already walking away as she speaks, towards the history section at the back that Tonks has been letting Hermione quietly curate since she started working at the shop five years ago, and she feels a burst of pride that Bellatrix Black is looking over her little corner of books.
Hermione takes a deep, grounding breath, and looks up to see that there were no customers lined up behind Bellatrix, who has just plucked one of Hermione’s favourite books off the shelf when Nym slides the coffee over to Hermione with a sly smile. “She’s my aunt, you know?”
Hermione does a double take. “What! You never said!” She picks up the coffee. “We- We are discussing this later!” Hermione points emphatically at Nym as she walks away to emphasize her point, but she just laughs.
“Excuse me, your coffee,” Hermione says, holding the cup out to Bellatrix, who doesn’t take it right away. Instead, she carefully reshelves the book exactly where it came from, her fingers, with predictably black painted short nails, lingering on the spine. Such care for the books, almost a reverence, the same as Hermione treats them. It makes her heart jump.
“Thanks.” Bellatrix quirks her lips in a way that could almost but not quite be called a smile, then she chugs half the coffee before she’s even out the door. Hermione stands and watches Bellatrix leave. Watches her pull a cigarette out of her bag, juggling it with her little box of matches and her coffee for a moment before she gets it lit, alternating between a drag on the cigarette and a sip of the coffee.
A bell dings, and Hermione rushes over to the counter to serve the customer, apologising. She shakes herself internally; this woman has caught her interest, and she’s been distracted and apologising since the black-haired woman walked through the door.
Passing the next order to Nym, Hermione slides closer. “So. Your aunt, hm? You never said, and I am a hundred percent certain I have talked about her work to you. We have all of her books right over there!” Hermione points to the corner of the bookshelf where Bellatrix’s black-leather bound books are sitting snugly on the shelf. The books are beautiful, bound as if they were made a hundred years ago, embossed with silver cursive.
Nym makes the coffee, going through the perfected routine. “She’s my mum’s older sister, they look really similar. My mum’s family disowned her when she married my dad. They’re super posh, and my dad is not. It’s fucked up, I know,” Nym laughs at Hermione’s shocked face.
“They actually disowned her? That’s so old-fashioned!” Shocked that such a learned woman could be so backwards, Hermione leans against the counter. “Wait. If Bellatrix is your aunt, that makes her Draco’s aunt too!”
“Yeah. I think it kinda sucked for her. Her sisters were her best friends, but she loved my dad more, I guess. She doesn’t talk about it much.” Handing Hermione the coffee to deliver to the customer, Nym smiles. “Draco’s my cousin, but his mum didn’t get disowned. And you know mine and Harry’s godfathers, right? Sirius is my mum’s cousin. He was disowned for basically the same reason, for dating Remus publicly. I can’t believe you haven’t met my parents yet, you never seem to be here when they visit.”
“Oh my god. Is everyone in Oxford related? How have I missed all this?”
“Yeah, kinda. It’s a pretty small place once the students go,” says Nym, and Hermione laughs and delivers the coffee to the customer, drifting into her thoughts. She gets back to the counter, and seeing the mostly empty shop, she takes her break. Nym makes her a hot chocolate, and Hermione settles into an armchair, pulling out her phone.
Know-It-All: Hey! Is anyone in Oxford this week and free for a catch-up?
Hero-Boy: Hermione! Good to hear from you! Yeah, Ron and I are in town this week, what day were you thinking?
Know-It-All: Maybe Friday? Drinks?
Ferret: I’m visiting my parents this week, so Friday works for me
Ice Queen: Yep, that works :)
Weasel: Keen
Loony: I’d love to!
Weaselette: Awesome!
Know-It-All: Cool! My break’s over, but I’ll see you all on Friday!
~~~
The rest of the week passes quickly. Hermione splits her time between research at the library and work at The Phoenix. Friday dawns bright and cold and Hermione cycles to the shop wrapped in a big grey coat and a black and grey tartan scarf. Underneath she wears a ruby-red sweater and her favourite blue jeans.
Bellatrix has been in every morning, dressed all in black and ordering obscenely strong coffees, and Hermione remains distracted by her. Even Nym starts noticing, but Hermione lets her put it down to her thesis research. On Wednesday evening, the third day, Hermione googles Bellatrix — and it’s a deep dive. There are articles, profiles, and many of her publications, and even a few youtube interviews. Hermione watches and reads them all, then she picks up her copy of Bellatrix’s first book and starts reading it again.
This particular Friday morning quietens down, and Bellatrix still hasn’t turned up. Hermione didn’t realise how much she had come to expect the black-haired historian’s distracting presence every morning. Hermione only works 8-12, Monday to Saturday, so maybe Bellatrix will just come in later on Fridays.
The shop has emptied out except for two students reading, and Hermione opens her own book until she hears the bell above the door chime, and feels the gust of cold air. Looking up, she sees Bellatrix Black. Fuck . She’s wearing the same jeans as the first day and black Doc Martens, along with a loose black woolen sweater and a long black coat.
Hermione fumbles to mark her page and put the book away before Bellatrix arrives at the counter, but she thinks Bellatrix’s smirk means she recognises her distinctive book in Hermione’s hands as she tucks it beneath the counter. “Er. Hi. Good morning. Your usual?” Hermione’s already scribbling down the order, avoiding Bellatrix’s eyes and hoping the heat in her cheeks is imagined. The historian pays without a word, sliding her cup across.
Like the past four days, Hermione takes her coffee to her as she stands, inspecting the bookshelves, and like the past four days, Bellatrix has downed the majority of her coffee before she reaches the door.
The rest of the day passes quickly. Hermione does a bit of writing, then returns to her studio flat in the Castle Mill graduate student accommodation complex to change, and touch up her basic makeup before she makes her way to the bar Daphne had chosen.
Hermione is the first to arrive, and she claims a table. Next to arrive is Daphne, a fellow historian who works at the Oxford University Museum of Natural History, closely followed by Draco, a hotshot London lawyer. Harry and Ron arrive together; both work in MI6, and that’s all Hermione knows. The five of them had lived across the hall and next door to each other in their first year, and had become tight friends. Hermione and Ron had dated briefly in third year, though that was all behind them, and now he was dating Hermione’s coworker, Luna Lovegood, who did the afternoon shift at The Phoenix and self-published an alternative magazine with her father called the Quibbler. Luna tumbled in after Ron, followed by Harry’s girlfriend and Ron’s sister, Ginny, a football player. The group settled in loudly catching up with each other.
After dinner, Harry goes to the bar to get everyone more cocktails, and Hermione follows him on the pretext of helping carry the drinks.
“Harry. I want to ask you about someone.”
“Yeah?” Harry is grinning, he’s a bit of a lightweight, unlike Ron and Draco.
“Bellatrix Black. She’s a historian. But Sirius is also related to her, isn’t he?”
Harry furrows his brow at her. He’s so sweet natured that sometimes Hermione forgets that he is literally a spy. Like James Bond. Or Eve Polastri. Somewhere between the two, Hermione concludes with a smile to herself.
“Yeah. They don’t talk though, not since before I was born. Dad says it’s because Sirius wouldn't stop seeing Remus, because he’s a guy, and because he’s not as well-off as the Blacks. Nym could’ve told you this?” Harry probes gently, and picks up three glasses carefully.
Hermione picks up the last three and follows him slowly back to the table. “Yes. But I just wondered if there was anything else?”
“Well… Sirius says she’s mad. Like properly crazy. But I don’t know about that. I get the feeling they’re rather similar, and he hates that a little bit, that he has so much Black in him.” Harry hands the drinks out, then continues quietly to Hermione. “I don’t know why you’re interested, but Draco could tell you more than I could, his mother is her sister, and she’s still in the family.”
“She’s just started lecturing at the University. She comes into The Phoenix every morning. I was just interested,” Hermione brushes off his curiosity, and she trusts that he will not push her, because, truthfully, she can’t explain what drove her to ask.
Bellatrix is like something from another world, and as sure as Harry was about her, Hermione felt like every story she heard told of a different side of Bellatrix Black. Her writing hints at a clever, intuitive woman who holds great passion for her work. Nym’s story tells of an elitist who abandoned her sister for the folly of loving someone she shouldn’t have, and Harry’s tells of a volatile woman who makes the best use of the advantages she has been given, of which there seem to be many.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of cocktails and dancing. As hard as she tries to forget about Bellatrix Black, the woman has wormed her way into Hermione’s brain by simply existing. And like a little devil, or an angel, she can't tell which, Hermione hears her voice whispering, encouraging. So she keeps drinking, keeps dancing, if only to get Bellatrix’s eyes out of her head.
Hermione wakes up on Saturday morning at 7.30. Her head is pounding, and she is still wearing the top she wore last night, though her shoes and jeans are in a pile on the floor. She takes some painkillers and chugs a glass of water, and gets dressed slowly, leggings and a big, fluffy, pink jumper. She throws her hair up in a bun and shrugs on her coat. On her way out, she slathers her toast with honey and eats it quickly, so that her hands are free when she gets to her bike.
Just as she comes down the alley next to The Phoenix where she locks up her bike, there’s a bump, and a pop, and her front tire deflates, courtesy of a nail wedged between two paving stones, pointy end up towards the sky. Stick ‘em with the pointy end , Hermione thinks, and laughs to herself. She watches too much tv.
The nail comes free easily, and Hermione drops it in the cardboard box reserved for broken mugs and glasses under the counter when she steps up. Nym takes one look at her and gets to work on a warm and sweet mocha. Hermione is sipping it gratefully, both hands wrapped around the mug, when the doorbell dings.
They’ve only just opened, and it’s a Saturday morning. They don’t usually see customers this early. Hermione blinks. Maybe her hangover is giving her wishful hallucinations. She blinks again, and Bellatrix Black doesn’t disappear, she just gets closer. She is, predictably, dressed all in black, but her hair is loose, tumbling in wonderful stygian curls over her shoulders.
Setting her mug down, Hermione straightens up. “Good morning.”
“Not by the look of you,” Bellatrix replies, quick and sharp, and for a moment Hermione freezes, shocked and embarrassed that her hangover is so noticeable. Then she hears the subtle warmth in Bellatrix’s voice. She’s teasing. She’s being teased by Bellatrix Black. Shit. Say something, you idiot!
Hermione lets out a huffing laugh. “No. Last night was… much later than I would’ve liked to stay out. I haven't seen my friends in a while.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t.” Hermione can feel Nym’s eyes on her, wondering what is taking her so long. Bellatrix is not known as a chatty customer, so there’s no reason why Hermione shouldn’t have passed along Bellatrix’s order and her KeepCup already. “If this is the state you’re in the morning after.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Hermione concedes with a smile. “Your usual?” She starts writing up the order.
“No.” Bellatrix says with assertion, and Hermione’s hand halts. “I think… I’ll have… yes. I’ll have a peppermint hot chocolate, please. Extra marshmallows, the pink ones only.”
Hermione is blindsided by this order. Bellatrix drinks coffee. Strong, dark, unadulterated coffee, and it fits her perfectly. “Uh, of course,” Hermione crosses out what she’d already written and replaces it with the new order. “Anything else with that?”
“Yes. I’ll have a muffin. But… which one’s best?” Bellatrix swirls her hair over one shoulder as she bends slightly to look into the cabinet of baked goods. Hermione’s breath stutters at the long expanse of pale skin that is exposed along Bellatrix’s neck and down to the neckline of her black top, which is embroidered with the occasional silver star.
Hermione takes a breath and centres herself, then follows Bellatrix’s progress along the cabinet. She sees a spark of interest flare in the historian when she sees the orange muffin. Yes, Bellatrix knows that would go perfectly, Hermione thinks, nodding slightly. “The vanilla would pair very nicely, but… the orange muffin would complement flavours in the peppermint hot chocolate beautifully, if you’re looking for something slightly more interesting.”
“I should hate to be boring,” Bellatrix says with a smirk. “Let’s try the orange.” For a moment, Hermione freezes. Did she imply that Bellatrix was boring, because that’s not what she’d meant at all! Looking up, Hermione sees that Bellatrix still has that little quirk on her lips, so Hermione chastises herself for panicking, and sorts out Bellatrix’s order.
Bellatrix claims an armchair in the back of the shop, and she stays all morning, reading the book she’d pulled from her bag. It’s a Poirot novel, Hermione notes. Crime fiction is her vice, and Bella is reading The Big Four , one of Hermione’s favourites.
Bellatrix orders three more peppermint hot chocolates throughout the morning, and Hermione brings each one over, all with only pink marshmallows.
It’s only when Luna comes in to take over for Hermione that Bellatrix’s slips out of the shop, the door dinging behind her, just as Hermione walks through to the backroom. She inspects her bike tyre and sees that the nail has gone right through, so she wheels it alongside her. Just as she emerges from the alley, she catches sight of Bellatrix rounding the corner of the street in a whirl of black.
Hermione shakes off the other woman’s affecting presence and heads down to the bike shop. Harry and Nym’s godfather opened Black’s Bicycles a few years prior, when he retired from MI6 after struggling for years since being captured in Afghanistan while undercover. Eventually Sirius had made the decision to leave MI6, and he settled down, as much as a man like him could. Sirius is a whirlwind of chaotic energy, and she’s loved him for it since Hermione met him in her first year of uni.
Wheeling her bike through the door, Hermione shouts out, “Hello?” She can’t see anyone amongst the rows of bikes and accessories until Sirius’s shaggy head pops up.
“Hi, Hermione. What can I do for you?” Sirius doesn’t bother walking down the laid out aisles, he just clambers over the bikes. His shoulder length hair is pulled back in a bun, a few dark curls escaping and falling around his face, framing his dark eyes. He looks like Bellatrix, Hermione thinks, and she wonders how she never noticed this before. Seeing Bellatrix everyday has meant that Hermione can easily see the historian when she closes her eyes, and Sirius is nearly the spitting image of her. The seed is strong , Hermione thinks. Fuck . Definitely too much tv.
“I went over a nail and punctured my front tyre. I was hoping you could fix it?”
“Course! Easy, come right through here.” He guides her through to the backroom, where he doesn’t usually allow customers, but he knows Hermione. Remus is sitting at the desk in the corner, marking assignments from his undergrads. He smiles softly at Hermione.
“Hi, Remus.” Hermione perches on the bench running along the back wall. “How’s it going?”
Remus puts his pen down and swivels his chair around while Sirius gets to work on the bicycle. “Good, thank you, Hermione. Back to the grind,” he waves a hand at the stack of papers he has yet to grade, “And yourself? How’s the DPhil research going?”
“Not too bad, I feel like I’m well on track so far. I have a meeting with Minerva next week.” Dr. Minerva McGonagall is the professor overseeing Hermione’s research, and she oversaw her Masters two years ago.
“I’ve been seeing someone new around. A new history lecturer?” Hermione pretends she doesn’t know who Bellatrix is, she wants to hear how Sirius himself views his estranged cousin, because Hermione really doesn’t know Bellatrix, only what people have told her, which isn’t very flattering, and the opinion she herself has formed from reading her work, which is entirely too flattering.
“Ah. Dr. Bellatrix Black. She’s-” Remus begins. But before he can say any more, Sirius’s head snaps up.
“Bellatrix? My dearest cousin?” Sarcasm floods his voice. “What about her?”
Remus sighs heavily, as if they’ve had similar conversations before. “She’s tenured at the University. I told you that.” He turns to Hermione with apology in his pale brown eyes. “My husband doesn’t get on with his family.”
Sirius laughs, but not maliciously, and his eyes sparkle a little when he looks at Remus. “As usual, my boyfriend is over-simplifying. My family disowned me when I refused to stop seeing Remus. Because we’re gay !” Sirius waves his hands in the air and pulls a face.
The first time Hermione had heard Remus call Sirius his husband, and Sirius not reciprocating, had been in The Phoenix on one of her first days. Nym had explained it simply - Sirius refused to have a wedding because he was defying his family to the fullest extent, and that included living out of wedlock just to spite them. And she had added that calling Remus his boyfriend made him feel younger. So Remus kept calling Sirius his husband, and they bickered and loved each other like a married couple, and really at this point no one knew if they had secretly married years ago or not.
“Just be careful of her,” Sirius warns. “She’s sneaky and self-serving. It’s always Bella, Bella, Bella, with her” He steps back from the bike and claps his hands, a sudden grin breaking out across his face, the shadow of his estranged family forgotten. “Done! And better than ever!”
“If you do say so yourself,” Remus says softly out of the corner of his mouth, a fond smile teasing his dry lips, and Sirius claps him on the shoulder, bouncing like a puppy.
“My dear Moony, I am the best!” Sirius exclaims, waving off Hermione’s query about the cost of the new tyre and escorting her to the door. Hermione spends the rest of the day in bed, nursing her slowly fading hangover.