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Hermione
It looked like an old American speakeasy. Smoky. Dark. Haunting.
Electric sconces lit the room with a low, buzzing glow. Mismatched rugs covered the floor. Soft velvet couches and chairs lined the walls, with tall tables in the center of the room. Bottles of nearly every spirit imaginable stood in rows, ceiling to floor, almost completely obscuring the mirror behind them. And, though it was a magical establishment, the drinks were made by hand—no foolish wand-waving or softly simmering cauldrons—and used only muggle ingredients.
That, of course, was one of the reasons Hermione liked it here. She’d only just made it to the loo before she was sick the first time she tried an Unsupported Flight. No one had warned her that particular cocktail included Syrup of Hellebore. There was a reason most poisonous plants tasted bitter; they weren’t meant for consumption. She’d sworn off Magical cocktails after that particular experience.
Moreover, she liked the ominous environment. She liked how it made her feel a bit like an outsider, like she didn’t belong there. And, though she knew the building was perfectly safe, an air of dark magic always seemed to hover over the room.
Hermione knew this pub.
So, the fact she hadn’t noticed Bellatrix Black when she first arrived was beyond her.
They’d only seen each other a handful of times since the war, yet the woman was always—well...there was just something about her that Hermione couldn’t ignore. Luna might say something about the small unseen magical creatures flying about. Parvati would undoubtedly say something about auras. Lavender would grin and wax poetic about an invisible string.
But here, now, as Hermione stared across the dark pub? All she could see was how well the woman fit in the room, how right she looked as she surveyed the crowd, how she blended in with the nearly foreboding ambiance—No, that wasn’t right, though, was it? Bellatrix Black could never blend in. Really, none of the Black Sisters did.
Andi captured a room—usually a Muggle pub—with warm sweetness. Narcissa ruled a room—upscale Magical establishments—with cold allure.
Bellatrix…she commanded a room.
Her face was passive—having adopted an almost bored look—but her eyes were calculating. Hermione could see the pulse beat against the line of her throat that ran from soft jaw to sharp collar bones. How would that fluttering pulse feel against her lips? Would the skin be as soft as she imagined?
Hermione shook her head of those thoughts. The woman across the room may look relaxed, but she was scanning the room for a threat. Anticipating an attack.
It was, of course, a move Hermione knew all too well. Even now, years after the war, she found herself a bit twitchy in certain situations, certain crowds. Eventually, she’d forced herself to break the habit. The war was over. True loyalties had been revealed.
Everyone had done things they never thought they’d do.
And yet Bellatrix—all slim form and Pureblood grace—still sat and observed the room with her back to the corner. It was strategic, no doubt. Strangely, though, the chair was low, and she looked beautifully—no, annoyingly—casual as she leaned back with her long legs crossed, the full skirts of her black dress cascading over her heeled boots. Again, it was all so different from Andromeda’s worn jeans or Narcissa’s fitted pencil skirts.
But—no, Hermione needed to stop comparing Bellatrix to her sisters, didn’t she? Because they were different. So, so different…
The woman stiffened minutely. Anyone else might’ve missed it, but Hermione was staring so intensely that she saw lithe muscles go tense, the hardening of dark, heavy eyes, the way thin red lips drew flat. Her eyes darted around the room, seeming to search for a threat, scowl increasing with each passing second.
And then Bellatrix’s gaze met hers, and Hermione felt it: that warm heat she always felt when the other woman was around. A shiver ran through her body, signalling…something—something dangerous, surely. Captivating. Tempting—
No. No, temptation was not a word she could afford to associate with Bellatrix Black. And yet…word or no, here Hermione was, fighting off the feeling in the middle of a smoky pub.
Then Bellatrix’s face returned to neutral, reverting to that bored, apathetic mask she always wore. She looked away—fucking looked away—moving the focus of those intense eyes elsewhere and continued to scan the room as she’d been doing before. It was subtle. It was sudden.
It was infuriating.
Hermione was nearly halfway across the room before her brain caught up with her actions. She halted, grateful that one of the pub’s few magical additions was shatter-proof glasses because she might’ve broken her wine glass otherwise. The fingers of one hand curled around the stem while the other remained clenched at her side.
Bellatrix merely swirled her glass, taking sips at irregular intervals, and continued her appraisal of the other patrons. No, not appraisal—passing judgement. That seemed the more likely scenario, given her response to seeing Hermione.
Circe, what was she doing? What did she care if the woman looked away from her? Yes, of course she found Bellatrix…attractive. But what did it matter if Bellatrix had done the one thing that no one ever did now that she’d been labelled one-third of the so-called Golden Trio? No one looked away from Hermione Granger now. No one brushed her aside or called her a nightmare—within earshot, at least—or let her walk into a room unnoticed. She did not get treated like that swotty little girl anymore, and she liked it. Not that she would admit that to anyone. And certainly not one Bellatrix Black.
Hermione watched as a drop of liquid, left behind from one long swallow, quickly disappeared with a quick swipe of the tongue. She warmed, skin heated and face flushed.
Anger. It was anger and nothing more.
Still, here she was, walking across the pub—which felt even more ominous now than it ever had—and wondering when she’d started moving again.
Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself before sitting on the short round pouf in front of Bellatrix.
“Predictable,” the woman said after an endless, frustrating moment, taking a sip of her drink.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Of course Hermione had heard her, but that didn’t mean it made any sense. “I merely came over to say ‘hello.’”
Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “There have been exactly fifty-three words spoken between us since the war—”
“Does that include this conversation?”
“—all in passing and all at Andi’s house.” When Hermione didn’t respond immediately, Bellatrix sighed dramatically, then continued. “You’re only here because I bated you.”
“Bated me?”
“You’re impossibly easy to read, princess.”
“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, pointedly ignoring how her stomach fluttered at the pet name. “I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.”
She smirked, a spark in her eyes. “Exactly.”
“I’m not—” She started to protest, but Bellatrix stopped her with a bored look before shrugging.
“There are only two bookshops that cater to both Muggle and Magical London—you own one of them. A bit stereotypical, if you ask me. The bookshop owner who wears cardigans, looks after her godson every Tuesday, and hasn’t been on a date since the Weasley boy left. Those are hardly things that scream unpredictable.”
“I left him! I—” Hermione narrowed her eyes, realizing the trap Bellatrix had set. “That’s nothing.”
“When you go out, my nephew orders a glass of sugar. Potter drinks rum and coke because it reminds him of my cousin and because he never had soda growing up. I’m not sure about Longbottom,” she paused, sipping her drink, but she didn’t break eye contact. Bellatrix merely continued to look at her, to stare at her as if she had Hermione under a microscope—and she was enjoying it. “Nothing too sweet. Gin, maybe. A Gin Fizz or a Tom Collins. Given this is what North Americans would call a Speakeasy, all are classically acceptable drinks.”
When Bellatrix stopped there, a mischievous look on her face that would’ve made her cousin proud, Hermione couldn’t help but huff in irritation. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because you? You order wine.”
“Alright,” Hermione nodded, a bit confused. Bellatrix’s eyes brightened at her concession, and it looked like she might be trying to hide a smile. Butterflies filled Hermione’s middle as irritation shifted to frustration—because certainly, that was the only cause for this hot, fluttery feeling—and she tried to sound calm and cool when she continued. “So I drink wine. That’s true, but plenty of people drink wine. And it’s not like I always get the same one. I’m not that—”
“You drink Malbec. The label may change. The year may change. The price may change.” Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, looking pensive. “But always Malbec.”
Hermione swallowed thickly, staring at the dark red liquid in her glass. It was all true, but it wasn’t necessarily un common knowledge, was it? They’d seen each other a handful of times, and, given the number of articles published about them all in Witch Weekly, their preferences were likely stated at some point. The price of wine she drank was a bit of a stretch, perhaps, but Bellatrix was obviously just a good guesser. She could read people. It made sense, after all—a spy wasn’t successful otherwise.
Bellatrix swirled her glass, the large sphere of ice clinking against the side before falling into a quiet rhythm. A delicate wrist controlled the motion. Nimble fingers gripped the edges in a near caress. Hermione knew those hands, knew they were strong and capable. They could cause pain, yes, but now…now she couldn’t help but wonder what else they were capable of.
Hermione searched for something to say—anything to break the painful silence. She thought she’d gotten better at this since the war, better at conversation and filling awkward silence with seemingly effortless charm—not that it ever was, of course. Interactions could still be awful to navigate, but…perhaps that’s what she needed to do? She just needed to find something easy they could discuss, a sort of common ground.
Only…what common ground did she have with this woman? Or, more accurately, what could they both discuss that wasn’t about the war or their shared past or their families…Circe, this was a mess.
Alright, so maybe her new approach to conversation wouldn’t work here. What else did she have? Just after the war, she hadn’t really spoken to anyone for a while. While in school, she’d—
“Did you know that mixers became very popular in Speakeasies during the Prohibition Era in the States? Since alcohol was made illegally—and in less-than-ideal conditions—it was often too bitter and, quite frankly, disgusting. So, they started mixing it with different things. Fruits, juices, and…” She trailed off, realizing she’d reverted back to her childhood habit of spouting off facts. Her awkward conversation starter was just that: awkward. Still, white-hot anger spiked through her at the amused smirk, the knowing glint in her eye, the taunting raise of the woman’s brow. “I am not predictable! Just because I enjoy interesting facts, it doesn’t mean that I’m—I’m boring or that my every move can be anticipated!”
“Name one.”
“What?”
“Name one unpredictable thing you’ve done in your life.”
Hermione opened her mouth, a myriad of answers on her lips.
She’d brewed Polyjuice potion at just thirteen years old…but most would argue that wasn’t exactly surprising—she was the Cleverest Witch of Her Age, after all. She’d used a time-turner to save Sirius at the end of Third Year. Though even the man himself would attribute that to her near-compulsive need to save others, wouldn’t he? She’d snuck out after curfew more times than she could count. But that surely falls in the same category, doesn’t it? Saving others. So when had she done something unpredictable? Out of character? Surprising?
“I broke into Gringotts!”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her mouth went dry, and she felt sweat bead at her temples. Cleverest Witch, indeed. Though apologies had been tendered years ago—Severus’s and Narcissa’s loyalties weren’t the only ones revealed at the final battle—it was not a subject discussed often. That day in the Manor, however? The day Hermione still bore the reminders of? It was something none of them spoke about. Ever.
Bellatrix merely smirked.
“That’s—I—” Hermione stumbled, trying to recover. She ran a hand through her hair and bit her lip.
The other woman laughed, throwing her head back and exposing the long line of her throat. “And who do you think gave you that chance? Wild as our hair may be, I’ve a feeling neither of us has the habit of leaving it…unattended by accident.”
Hermione’s eyes went wide, and she leaned forward in interest. “You…”
“Made sure to leave behind a hair or two? Of course. Just as I made sure to mention my vault so often, I thought even Cissa would scream at me for stalling.”
Enough time had passed that Hermione had come to terms with what happened during the war. She understood Severus and his need to protect and avenge his best friend. She understood Draco’s loyalty to his family and how that fierce loyalty extended through the Black line. The three sisters had their own reasons for doing what they did, but this? This was…
“Why—”
Bellatrix swept her hand in a great motion as if waving the subject away like a particularly annoying fly. “You’re supposed to be proving you’re not predictable.”
She huffed as Bellatrix took another sip of her drink. It was slow, just a touch of bronze liquid to red lips. Hermione mirrored the action, red liquid to pink lips.
She finished her wine and stared into the glass for a long moment. Then, with an air of nonchalance that she wasn’t sure she was pulling off, Hermione looked at the other woman. “Perhaps I’ll try an Old Fashioned. I’ve never had one before. In fact—I’ve heard they’re quite good here, so—
“Predictable, yet again.”
“—yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll have an Old Fashioned. Would you like to recommend a satisfactory bourbon, or shall I order something that will most certainly disappoint you?”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“Meaning?”
Hermione’s casual tone was a bit forced, and a shiver ran through her at Bellatrix’s glare. Dark eyes fixed on her, though there was a spark in their depths. Lips thinned in mild frustration, but there was a ghost of a smirk. Hermione was getting to her, ruffling those carefully-placed feathers. This was one of her favorite pastimes—banter, debates, arguments. Everyone else hated it, so the fact that she could throw Bellatrix off her game—and that the other woman actually seemed to be enjoying herself—was…thrilling.
“First off, if I have to tell you one more time that you’re predictable, I’ll walk away.” Bellatrix leaned forward in her chair and pointed her glass at Hermione for emphasis. “Second, you only want to order an Old Fashioned because you think it’s surprising. It might shock your friends, but I’m no fool, princess.”
“Are you quite sure? If the drink isn’t my usual order, then—”
“And third, you wouldn’t like it—you’re not the type.”
“Type? ” Hermione bristled, sitting up, her back going ramrod straight. “And what makes you think you know what my type is? I’ll have you know—”
“You like Malbec. It’s classic. The Malbec grape grows in many countries, but France and the US tend to use it in other ways, mixing it with other grapes to make Bourdeaux- or Merlot-style blends. But Argentina—where true Malbec is bottled—knows how special that particular grape truly is. Full-bodied, dark, robust. It doesn’t need altered or changed or hidden.”
Hermione couldn’t argue. In fact, she’d said nearly the same thing to a French winemaker just a few weeks ago. He hadn’t taken it well, of course, but she stood by her opinion. Malbec was perfect all by itself. How Bellatrix knew this was a bit of a mystery, and it annoyed her. To know she liked wine—even Malbec specifically—could be easily explained, but for her to know the details? It unnerved Hermione. But that was, perhaps, something for another time. Of course, the idea of another time with this woman had her face warming. Although…
Was Bellatrix hinting at—at something ? The banter, the shared looks, the smirks. And were those double-entendres? Was Bellatrix intending for there to be another time, so to speak? Was she, like Hermione, hoping for—
“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat, leaning forward once more. Perhaps she should try as well. It should be easy enough, right? “That doesn’t mean I can’t…try new things.”
Apparently, subtlety wasn’t her strong suit.
Bellatrix snorted, that dark glint beginning to fade. “It’s not enough, princess. Not worth spending your money on something you won’t like.”
“Draco orders them sometimes, and even Neville has had a few. I don’t see the harm in trying—”
The woman looked away, drink stalled partway to her mouth. Her gaze was far away as she stared off to her right. It seemed as though she was looking at everything and nothing all at once. Slowly, after an endless moment, she cleared her throat and let her arm fall, resting the glass in both hands.
“They’re not enough for you.”
Yes—Yepp. Okay, they definitely weren’t talking about the bronze liquid in her glass anymore. Except…Bellatrix was pulling away. The response was certainly a confirmation, but it wasn’t a positive one, was it?
“But—they have sugar?” Hermione felt herself flush red. Circe, she was really grasping for straws now, wasn’t she?
“Then drink one of my nephew’s horrid concoctions.” Bellatrix still wasn’t looking at her.
“They have bitters to even out the sweetness.”
“Far too much.”
“For me.”
“Yes, for you.”
Hermione paused for a moment. As she considered what to say, she took in the woman’s profile. Bellatrix was no longer as sharp and angular as she had been during the war. In fact, the years since had been exceedingly good to her. Pale skin, long lashes, the same straight nose that seemed to favor the Black family. Her jaw tensed rhythmically, lips pursing and shoulders rigid. She was anxious, flustered.
But didn’t Bellatrix know just how ridiculous this argument was, even for a friendly one? And…yet Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to stop. There was just…something about Bellatrix that brought it out in her—this need to fight, to win, to meet her opponent head-on.
“It has bourbon,” she finally said. “Bourbon certainly can’t be too sweet or too bitter—at least, not to someone like me since I’m certainly no connoisseur.”
“Too rich.”
“Merlin, Black, you’re just as bad at convincing me as I am you.”
Bellatrix met her gaze again, a growl breaking through her façade. This time, the fire in her eyes wasn’t from amusement or pleasure. No, this was an angry kind of heat. “Granger—”
“Perhaps I like ‘rich’. Did you ever think of that? As you said yourself: I like Malbec. It’s robust. Dark. Full-bodied.”
Bellatrix
Robust. Dark. Full-bodied.
Fuck. Did Granger even know what she was implying? What she’d just put out in the open? Is that even what she’d meant?
Bella fought to keep her composure, to hold her neutral expression. Granger’s face flushed. Her pupils went wide. Her hands began to fidget, twirling the empty wine glass. Yes. Yes, she most certainly did know what she’d said. The question was, though: was it accidental, or, Merlin forbid, intentional?
Perhaps I like ‘rich’ .
Unpredictable, indeed. Flirting certainly hadn’t been on the list of things she expected when Granger had approached, but here she was: Hermione bloody Granger was looking at her like she wanted things. Flirting, heated looks, implications. It was surprising, unexpected. It was all a bit fumbled, perhaps, and their shared metaphors perhaps a bit heavy-handed. Still, it was endearing, in a way.
Granger swallowed thickly. Bella tracked the movement of her throat. She continued to watch, enthralled, fascinated as Granger set the empty wine glass on the floor and leaned even closer. Golden flecks in brown eyes. A smattering of freckles across tan skin. Plush lips reddened from dark wine. It seemed that the mouth on this woman was a thing of beauty whether she was silent or engaged in rapid-fire discussion.
Bella would never call her ‘predictable’ again. That idea went tits-up when Granger’s eyes dropped to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. It flew out the window when Granger’s tongue darted out to wet her own lips. It Apparated away as Granger shifted slightly, thighs pressing together. And when that movement caused her dress to slide up, revealing more—
Fuck.
Fuck. This wasn’t happening. Nothing was swirling around her middle. Goosebumps hadn’t broken out over her skin, and she certainly wasn’t fighting off a shiver at what the younger woman was saying. Her words may be indirect, but her body language wasn’t.
Granger wanted to kiss her.
No. That couldn’t happen. That wouldn’t happen. There was no bloody way she was going to kiss Granger.
So Bella gathered it all in her mind. She picked out all the lovely images of Granger and the fire in her eyes. She took the elation of verbally sparring with someone who could match her. She put names to the worst parts of it all: allure, attraction, arousal. And she packed it up, and she shoved it behind the steel wall in her mind, leaving only indifference and callousness and cruelty.
“Surely, that’s not the best you can do?”
The heat, the passion, the bloody gorgeous look of want slid from Granger’s face and morphed into something far more familiar. Those golden brown eyes narrowed. Lush red lips thinned. Elegant hands twitched as she tried to stop from clenching them into fists. That was better. Bella knew this look. She knew how to deal with this side of her. It was the look she’d worn in every fight, every battle, every duel—even the first time they met at Andi’s after it was all over. Bella’s comment had hit its mark.
And she regretted it immediately.
Tears filled Granger’s eyes as she went impossibly silent. Bella couldn’t think of a time she’d ever seen her at a loss for words. Without their innocent arguing, there was only quiet between them. It was a loud, telling, uncomfortable thing that drowned out even the low hum of people around them.
Bella hated it. She hated that she could see every emotion on Granger’s face—the embarrassment, the confusion, the hurt.
The crux of it was: Bella didn’t know what to say, what she could say. She didn’t know how to handle the fact that the most famous woman in the Wizarding World was sitting there, looking at her like she meant something, like she was worthy of being wanted, like she was hurting just because Bellatrix might not want her back.
The bloody idiot.
Like someone wouldn’t want Granger.
Because Bellatrix did want Granger, didn’t she? And she couldn’t form the words. She could only stare at Hermione, unable to put together a response to anything that was happening. A multitude of thoughts spiralled and swirled and flitted through Bella’s mind.
She should apologize.
She should continue her scathing remarks.
She should flirt back.
She should leave.
Granger awkwardly shifted in her seat, not meeting Bella’s eyes. She opened her mouth, surely about to say something that would break Bella’s resolve, something that would have her lowering her walls and letting the smallest of smiles through. Bella had stood before countless enemies and won. She’d stared down death and won. She’d even lied to the Dark Lord himself and won. Yet it was Hermione Bloody Granger who had the ability to rattle her, to shake her, to break her down. If Bella wasn’t careful, Granger could bring her to her knees.
And she couldn’t have that.
So, she stood, effectively cutting Granger off.
“Go home, princess. Walk back home to your little flat above your little shop. Listen to a sad, angry song while you prepare for bed, drink a glass of water, then sleep it off.”
Granger managed a smile, though it was a brittle, self-deprecating thing. “How did you—”
“Like I said.” Bella tried to ignore the heavy weight in her chest. “Predictable.”
And then Bella walked away.
Just like she said she would.