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"Rita!"
Bellatrix’s voice echoed down the corridor, sharp and desperate, her boots striking the stone as she rushed after the blonde storming ahead.
"Rita. Wait, please—"
Rita turned, her breath catching as she faced her. Her green eyes, usually alight with mischief, were brimming with tears—tears she refused to let fall. She let out a sharp, bitter snort, rage flickering through the heartbreak on her face.
"Is it true?" she demanded, voice trembling. "You're going to marry him? Lestrange?" Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "They’ve been saying it all day, your friends. It’s the talk of the school."
Bellatrix stilled, staring at her as if looking right through her. And in that silence, Rita knew.
She nodded. Slowly.
That was worse than words.
"Why?" Rita whispered, her voice cracking. "How can you do this?"
She stepped forward, reaching for Bellatrix’s hand—gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. And for once, Bellatrix didn't pull away. Instead, she clutched Rita’s hand like it was a lifeline, her thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against the back of it. She shut her eyes, inhaling sharply, as if fortifying herself for what she had to say.
"You know why. You know I have no choice." Bellatrix’s voice was softer than Rita had ever heard it, barely more than a breath. "You know this is what’s best."
Rita let out a choked laugh, eyes flashing. "Best?" She wrenched her hand away like she had been burned. "Best for who, exactly?"
Bellatrix flinched, the crack in Rita’s voice slicing through her like a blade.
"But don’t you love me?" Rita continued, her words now frantic, her fury mixing with grief. "Bella, how can you let this end? I thought—I thought I was different. I thought we were different. You said I’d never be a lie to you. I was supposed to be your only truth."
Bellatrix had never been good with emotions. She felt too much, wanted too much—she was always too much. Too happy, too angry, too reckless, too cruel. And now, she was trying—really trying—to keep herself together. But it wasn’t working.
"Rita," she spat, frustration laced in her voice, "you’re a Ravenclaw, for Salazar’s sake! You’re supposed to be smart! You’re supposed to see things, to figure things out—so why can’t you see this?" Her breath hitched, her fury breaking into something raw. "I don’t have a choice. No one does. Choice is a lie we tell ourselves to feel better about the cages we’re in. And my cage was built the moment I was born. My path is set, and I will walk it—whether I want to or not. It has never mattered what I want."
"Then I don’t understand you at all." Rita’s voice was barely above a whisper now. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifting defiantly despite the tears in her eyes. "Because I want to leave. I want to break free. I want you. I don’t care about bloodlines or duty or your damned family’s expectations—I want us. But I don’t know what you expect me to do."
Bellatrix inhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer. Steadier.
"I expect you to stand next to me in two months when I marry Rodolphus Lestrange."
The words were like poison.
Rita stared at her in disbelief, recoiling. "Never." Her hands shook as she clenched them into fists. "Never. What makes you think I could possibly—?"
Bellatrix moved quickly, taking her hands again, her grip stronger this time. When Rita tried to pull away, she didn’t let her. One hand slid up, curling beneath Rita’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.
"Because you love me," Bellatrix murmured, voice almost pleading. "Because this is what keeps me safe. And I may not be a Ravenclaw, but I know things. I know you’ll do this for me. You will stand next to me—not as my bride, but as my maid of honor. And you will smile. And you will laugh. And you will play your part."
Rita was shaking her head, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, her cheeks wet with tears she could no longer hold back.
"You can't ask me to do this," she choked.
Bellatrix's thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping a tear away, her touch so painfully gentle that it made Rita’s heart ache.
"Don't you see?" Bellatrix whispered, eyes dark and unreadable. "This is the scheme. This is the lie. And it will keep us safe—forever. This is how we survive." She swallowed hard, voice breaking. "But you—you are my truth. We are the only thing in this charade that isn’t a lie. And at the end of the day, none of it matters. None of the schemes. None of the pretenses. But you matter. You are my truth, Rita."
And Rita did all of those things.
She stood beside Bellatrix as she married another. She smiled, radiant and poised, her mask flawless. She laughed when expected, her voice light and effortless. She danced, she clapped, she played the part so perfectly that no one ever questioned it.
No one saw the way her fingers trembled around her champagne glass.
No one saw the way her heart shattered when Bellatrix said I do.
No one noticed the way she barely breathed as Bellatrix kissed him.
She did not cry. Not then.
She only smiled.
Because that was the role she had been given.
Later, in the privacy of her own room, she let the mask slip. She tore the pearls from her throat, let the tears spill, let the silence consume her. But when the morning came, she painted her lips red, lifted her chin, and carried on as if nothing had changed.
Because she knew.
She knew that she and Bellatrix were the only truth.
But the thing about truth is that it does not set you free.
It chains you.
And Rita Skeeter was never free again.