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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

A Whisper to the Stars

The sky held a heavy gray, thick clouds rolling endlessly and smothering what little sun dared try to peek through over Davenport & Co. The small office windows hardly allowed daylight into the cramped building as it was; the dreary weather only seemed to deepen the sense of monotony that lived inside those walls. The roar of phones, the shuffle of papers, the droning murmur of coworkers, it was all Hermione heard, every single day.

When she’d first started working as a filing assistant for the company, a business older than most of the shops in town, the eerie buzz of lifeless conversation had nearly driven her insane. She couldn’t understand how anyone could survive eight hours a day in this place, tucked into gray cubicles, running on stale coffee and small talk that never went beyond the weather or what was on television the night before.

That was why, on the worst days, she found herself almost grateful for her position. For as low as it was on the ladder, it gave her a reason to move around the open floor instead of being chained to one square of carpet. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t fulfilling. It certainly wasn’t what she’d imagined herself doing at twenty-six. But life didn’t always care for plans, and hers… hers had not turned out the way anyone, including herself, would have expected.

“Granger!”

The gruff bark of her boss snapped her out of her spiral. Hermione glanced up to see Mr. Mercer’s balding head sticking out from his office door.

“I needed those copies twenty minutes ago!”

“Just a second!” she called back, fumbling the last of the sheets as the decrepit copy machine spat them out.

“Didn’t he ask for those five minutes ago?” Neville’s voice was dry as he fell into step beside her, brows drawn low.

“Yes,” Hermione muttered through clenched teeth, hugging the stack of pages to her chest as they threatened to scatter.

“I hate the git,” Neville grumbled.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she shot back under her breath, veering off toward Mercer’s office.

“Here you are, sir,” she said briskly, handing the papers over.

Mercer didn’t even look at her, just snatched the pages and grunted, already turning away. Hermione didn’t bother waiting for any other acknowledgment. She spun on her heel and went back to the routine, the motions so familiar they almost felt mechanical.

The rest of the day crawled by in the same endless loop: file archives, retrieve archives, make copies, repair the temperamental copier, fetch coffee, fetch lunch, restock supplies. Same old, same old. Her friends told her she should find something better, something worth her time. Something worth her. But they didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Not anymore.

~~~~~~~~~ESF~~~~~~~~~

Her apartment wasn’t much different from the office.

Dull cream walls boxed her in. Bare furniture that spoke more of function than comfort. A television in the living room she rarely bothered to turn on. The kitchen was stocked with the essentials, though she hadn’t cooked a proper meal in longer than she cared to remember. Her bathroom held only the basics. And her bedroom, plain, stripped of any personality, boasted the one “luxury” she allowed herself: a full-sized mattress.

The curtains stayed drawn most of the time. The dresser held only a few creams, a bit of concealer. A mirror sat against the far wall, one she avoided on purpose. There had been nights she’d come close to throwing an old flannel over it entirely, just to escape the weight of her own reflection. But she knew what people would say if they saw that, finally lost it, and the last thing she needed was someone locking her up for “observation.” So instead, she ignored it as best she could.

There were no plants. No pets. Not a single thing alive in the space, not even the hum of a stray fly.

Hermione was as lonely as a person could be.

The fridge door creaked as she opened it, reaching for the one thing she always kept in stock: a six-pack of Grainstone Lager. The cans were cheap, the alcohol content generous. They served their purpose. She could buy enough to last her through the week, enough to make sure she never went to bed fully sober.

Cracking open the first can, Hermione padded to the bedroom window. The curtains slid aside to reveal the last threads of daylight bleeding into the horizon, the city glowing faintly under the encroaching night. She opened the window and stepped onto the tiny balcony, balancing carefully on the narrow strip of concrete.

It wasn’t built for much. A few flowerpots at best. But she had none, and so it had become her nightly perch, her ritual: sit outside, drink, let the cold settle into her bones until she felt nothing at all.

By the sixth can, the chill barely registered. A hiccup burst out of her and she held her breath until it passed. She held it longer than was necessary, seeing just how long she could last until her lungs begged for oxygen once again. She held her ground for several moments until her heart thudded painfully and her stomach twisted. She lurched forward just in time to vomit over the side of the balcony.

The coughing came next, tearing at her chest until her eyes burned with tears. And with the tears came the memories, the ones that never left her alone, the reasons she did this to herself night after night.

When she finally stilled, shaking and raw, she caught sight of her shoes, now splattered. Disgust twisted her gut. And then the crying came for real, sudden and suffocating.

She sobbed until her throat ached, until her face burned red and slick with salt. The tears weren’t pity. They weren’t even sadness, not really. They were pain, deep and unrelenting. Longing. Sorrow. Rage.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered to the empty night, her voice breaking on the words. “I can’t do this.”

How many nights had it been? How many times had she sat here, made the same promises, the same bargains with herself, that it would be the last time, that tomorrow would be different? But every morning, the only thing that got her through the day was the thought of these cans, this balcony, and the quiet permission to fall apart.

Time slipped without her noticing. The city below quieted, traffic dwindling to a soft murmur. Midnight, maybe. She should sleep if she wanted to function tomorrow.

The sobs had dried to uneven breaths by then. And as always, when the storm had passed, she found herself tilting her head back, searching for the one thing that could still steady her.

There it was. Orion’s Belt. Three perfect stars in a perfect row. But her eyes didn’t linger there. They always wandered higher, to the brilliant blue star above them all.

Bellatrix.

It burned brighter than any of the others. Steady. Unreachable.

A beacon of hope. Or maybe just a cruel reminder.

“If anyone’s out there…” Her voice cracked, barely a breath. “Please. I can’t keep living like this.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. “Please.”

The night gave no answer but the wail of a passing car. The sharp honk jolted her, startling her half-awake. She blinked around in a daze, realizing she’d dozed off where she sat. Her legs were pins and needles, useless. There was no way she could stand, not like this, not with the alcohol buzzing in her blood and her brain foggy as cotton.

So, she crawled. Clumsy, graceless, dragging herself back inside and collapsing onto the carpet with a soft thump.

“Fuuck,” she groaned, letting her head fall back, stomach roiling.

The bathroom came next, a familiar pilgrimage in the dark. She didn’t bother with the lights. Cold water on her face, the faint smell of soap. The mirror loomed above the sink, and she was glad the darkness hid her from herself.

Back in her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and made her way to bed on heavy feet. All she wanted was oblivion. She pulled the blankets back and dropped onto the mattress, muttering a curse when the world spun violently around her.

Her eyes had barely closed when it came. A sharp white light. It seared through the room, cutting through her eyelids, humming in her bones.

“Bloody hell,” she groaned, rolling over and squinting through the glare.

Not the window. Not the lamp. Not the street outside. In the room.

A column of white fire at the foot of her bed, rippling like liquid. And from its heart, something began to take shape. Hermione jerked upright, her vision swimming. “What the-”

The voice came like a blade through silk. Low. Smooth.

“Oh, relax, darling. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

The figure stepped out of the light, and Hermione’s breath snagged in her throat. Wild black hair. A sharp, dangerous smile. Eyes so dark they seemed endless.

“No,” she whispered, pressing into the headboard. “This… this is not real.”

The woman tilted her head, lips curling wider. “Not real? Tsk, tsk. You wound me.” The light suddenly collapsed behind her, leaving the room in shadow. “But I assure you, sweetheart,” she purred, “I’m very real.”

Hermione’s fingers twisted the blanket tight. “What are you?”

The soft chuckle that answered sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, we’ll get to that, little one. But first…” The smile turned wicked. “You and I have some catching up to do.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but the room tilted, the edges going soft. The last thing she saw was the gleam of those dark eyes before everything slipped sideways.

The alcohol in her veins and the sheer impossibility of what she’d seen dragged her under. She hit the mattress with a soft thud. And the world went black.

Chapter Text

Eight Minutes Late

The first thing Hermione registered was the headache. The second was the taste in her mouth; dry, stale, with the obvious reminder of ale.

She groaned from her bed, rolling onto her side, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Never again,” she muttered to the empty room. Which was fair, considering how last night had gone, or hadn’t gone, depending on whether you counted the part where she imagined a woman in her bedroom.

She snorted softly at herself. Yeah, right. A woman appearing out of nowhere, talking in riddles, looking like she’d stepped out of some cosmic Vogue spread. Obviously, a dream. Or maybe a hallucination from cheap liquor and skipping dinner. Either way, not real.

With great effort, she swung her legs over the side of her mattress, wincing at the cold floor under her feet, and shuffled to the kitchen. Two aspirins. A big glass of water. She even added a slice of lemon because apparently, she was the kind of person who made small, pointless gestures toward “self-care” when hungover.

Walking over to her stove as she gulped down her glass, Hermione managed to put the kettle on with just one, albeit trembling, hand. Sighing, she squinted her eyes out her small kitchen window. The sky was starting to turn a lighter shade of blue as the first streaks of sunlight began to appear. Would it be too hard to stave off the alcohol for one night and manage to enjoy the sunrise at least once? She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she last saw the dawn without her head pulsing like crazy.

Hearing the kettle whistle, she tore her gaze away from the window and poured herself some coffee, inhaling the bitter steam like it was life itself. With a quick glance at the small counter clock, she realized she had twenty minutes to get ready for work, which meant the usual routine: quick shower, clothes that didn’t look like they’d been slept in, hair pulled back, and maybe a smear of concealer to hide the sins of the night before. She grabbed her mug and padded toward the living room to find her shoes-

And stopped.

Someone was standing by the window.

The coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim at her harsh brake in step.

It wasn’t a dream.

The Vogue woman was very much there, hands clasped loosely behind her back, eyes traveling over the room with an expression Hermione couldn’t quite decide was boredom or disgust.

“This is it?” the woman said finally, her voice smooth but dripping with disdain. “Your… home?”

Hermione blinked. “Uhm….”

Speechless, that’s what she was. Strange yes, she’d only been left in that state a handful of times in her life, the last having scarred her for life. But now, try as she might, all the brunette could do was stare dumbfoundedly at the stranger standing amidst her living space and observe the critical expression on her face.

The dark-haired woman turned to her fully, one dark brow arching. “It’s small. Cluttered. And it smells faintly of… something fried.” She tilted her head, as though that explained everything. “How do humans live like this?”

“I-….” What could she possibly respond to any of that? The woman spoke as if she wasn’t from this world. Criticizing her flat as if it were the world’s ungodliest place to live. Sure, it wasn’t in the greatest state possible, but it made do. How did this woman get into her apartment in the first place?

‘Who are you? Why are you here? How’d you get in? Why are you criticizing my flat? Who do you think you are?’

“You’re…not real,” Hermione finally managed to stammer out, realization hitting her, that what she’d witnessed the night before had actually happened. But that was impossible. People just didn’t appear out of nowhere, especially with some great big bang behind them!

Turning her hand over and observing her palm, the dark-haired woman shrugged. “I look pretty real to me.”

Hermione felt as if her brain was about to be fried. She needed answers and the shocked state that she was in was not helping.

“Who are you?” she almost growled, angry at her own self for not being capable of formulating a dignified question.

The strange woman just sighed before walking towards the dark brown sofa and plopping down. “Oh well, I’m Bellatrix,” she smiled, waving her hand as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, before letting her eyes to continue roaming the room they were in.

“Right…” Hermione slurred. Taking a cautious step closer, she carefully leaned down to place her coffee on the worn-out coffee table before standing back up, her eyes never leaving the stranger in her home. “…and why are you here?”

Bellatrix, as the woman had presented herself, took one last look around the room, as if the décor personally offended her, before snapping her eyes back to Hermione. “I’ve been sent to help you… because you are spectacularly bad at helping yourself.”

Hermione blinked. “I-… what?”

“Consider me an intervention,” Bellatrix added smoothly, “with better cheekbones.”

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again, before leaning down to grab her cup to take a long sip of coffee, partly to buy time, partly because she was suddenly very aware that she might actually need the strong liquid for more than just the hangover.

“I-… I don’t understand.” Deciding to take a seat on the other sofa, Hermione carefully placed herself down on the edge of the cushion and took a deep breath, thinking her next words carefully. “You appeared in my apartment last night.” The words were absurd, she wasn’t sure she believed them herself.

“That’s correct,” came the confirmation from the other woman.

“You appeared out of thin air,” Hermione frowned, recalling exactly how this strange woman had entered her home.

“Excuse me? I am a star, one of the most famous in this sorry excuse for a galaxy. I did not appear out of thin air,” Bellatrix scoffed, severely insulted at the way the brunette had described her grand entrance.

“You’re a-…..a……what?!” Hermione exclaimed, her hands once more regaining their shake from just moments ago. It appeared the aspirins weren’t going to help in the slightest.

“Allow me to explain,” Bellatrix sighed before rearranging herself on the couch as if it were her thrown. “You,” she pointed at the brunette, “are a lowly human being who has been wasting their life away. I,” she motioned to herself with a pale hand on her chest, “am a star, sent here by the higher power to help you get your life back in order,” she spit the word ‘help’ as if the simple thought of it filled her mouth with bile.

What could Hermione make from all of this? A star? On earth? In her home? In her living room, talking to her? “This isn’t real….” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and begging whoever was listening to wake her from the confusing nightmare.

“Oh, no need to try and wake up little human, this is all real,” she hears the woman say in a sing-song voice. Whether amused at the brunette’s reaction or at the situation, Hermione wasn’t sure. What she was sure of though, was that the whole setting was too much for her. How could any of this be possible?

“I don’t understand,” Hermione whispered again, slowly opening her eyes and lifting her eyes back at her companion. “I just, don’t.”

With an exasperated sigh and a frustrated look upon her features, Bellatrix focused her smoldering gaze on the human before her. “I have been sent here to keep you from wasting whatever’s left of your potential.” Her glare was steady, too steady, like she could see straight through Hermione’s skull and into all the messy bits she kept shoved in the back. “You’ve been treading water for so long you’ve convinced yourself drowning is just another word for floating.”

Stunned, Hermione couldn’t help but shoot back. “How do you know that?!”

Bellatrix simply cocked a perfect eyebrow at her and smiled, daring her to continue to defy her. Hermione though, wasn’t sure if fighting her words would do her any good, much less get her answers she was desperately looking for. She decided to change tactics.

“Ok, sure, you’re a star sent to help me sort my life out. Right. Uhuh. And I’m secretly the Queen of England.”

Bellatrix’s smile faded slowly, her eyes gleaming with something unknown as she suddenly stood up, never once straying her gaze grom the younger woman. “You think I enjoy this? Being crammed into your atmosphere, breathing your thin air, listening to your refrigerator hum through the walls?” She stepped closer, taking a few steps until she was standing before a still sitting Hermione; close enough that the brunette caught the faint, unsettling scent of something burning. The woman’s scent was a curious blend of smoky fire and wet earth, like a campfire smoldering deep in a rain-soaked forest. It was the kind of smell that lingered long after you left, like a star’s heat trapped in the cool earth. The temperature is what came next. It was a strange warmth radiating from her; not like body heat, something deeper, like standing too close to glowing coals.

“This isn’t a hobby, Dustling. I was pulled from the sky for one reason- you,” she almost spat. “I don’t need you to like it. I don’t even need you to like me. But you will believe me, because every second you pretend I’m not real, your life is burning away.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Bellatrix cut her off.

“Tell me, when you were seven, did you or did you not hide under your bed for three hours because your father forgot to pick you up from school?”

Hermione instantly froze. “How-”

“I know,” Bellatrix said simply. “And that’s only the beginning.” She took another step, and the strange heat intensified, like the air between them had shifted, like the oxygen was being consumed all around them. “You still have the birthday card your grandmother gave you when you turned ten, the one with the crooked handwriting and the pressed daisy inside. You haven’t opened it in years, but you keep it in the back of your sock drawer.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened.

Bellatrix’s eyes didn’t waver. “You move your fingers in a letter ‘M’ pattern when you’re anxious. You tell yourself it’s random, but it’s always the same movements, over and over. You’ve done it since you can remember.”

“That-” The brunette’s voice cracked. “That’s not-”

“And you keep the light in the hallway on at night, not because you’re afraid of the dark, but because you hate waking up to a shadow you can’t immediately name.”

Hermione’s grip tightened on her mug. Her hands were trembling even harder.

Bellatrix stepped back then, as if she’d made her point. “I don’t need your faith, Dustling. Just your cooperation.”

The younger woman swallowed hard, the weight of her coffee mug suddenly too much. “This is… insane.”

“Perhaps,” Bellatrix said, tilting her head toward the clock again. “But it’s also real. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can begin.”

“Begin what?” came Hermione’s soft question.

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “Begin fixing the mess you’re so determined to drown in.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again, the words caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to surrender.

The older woman stepped closer, now toe to toe with the still sitting brunette, voice low and unyielding. “You have eight minutes before you’re officially late.”

As if a bucket of ice-cold water had just been dumped on her, Hermione immediately shot up and ran to her room, effectively shouldering the celestial being in the process. There was no way she would manage to shower and still be on time. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Hermione worked through her routine, managing to focus her brain on the actions at hand and not on the mysterious ‘star’ that currently continued to survey her living quarters. Hot shower and a fresh set of clothes later, Hermione grabbed her backpack and headed back into the living room.

“I have work,” Hermione murmured.

“Thrilling,” came Bellatrix’s reply as she placed a picture frame back down. “Run along then Dustling.”

Hermione frowned. “Dustling? Why do you keep calling me that?”

Turning to look back at her, Bellatrix gave her a nonchalant shrug as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A fitting name,” she explained. “You’re made of it. You’ll return to it. And in the meantime, you scatter everywhere.”

This was too much. “I have to go,” Hermione sighed, deciding she couldn’t take any more information for the moment. “I-…you-…. can you leave?”

This earned her a throaty chuckle from her companion, and she couldn’t deny the way the sound provoked something deep inside her. Turning to look at her, Bellatrix smiled wickedly before sauntering over to where the brunette stood. “You could lock that door with all the deadbolts in the world and I could still get in with a snap of my fingers.” As if to prove her point, Bellatrix snapped her fingers and disappeared instantly, leaving Hermione floored and feeling as if last night’s contents were coming back up her throat.

“Boo.”

Hermione jumped a mile at hearing the other woman whisper from behind. Spinning, Hermione was face to face with her unwanted guest once again. “How…. What…” she spluttered, trying her best to stop her racing heart. Good lord, she felt she was going to have a heart attack! “How did you do that?!” she bellowed.

“What more do you need to hear me say, see me do, in order to believe that this is indeed happening?” came Bellatrix’s unamuzed reply. Hyperventilating, Hermione stared at the dark-haired woman just stand there, arms crossed, stock still and a glaring look sent her way.

“I… I can’t deal with this right now,” she whispered more to herself than to her companion. Focusing on regaining control of her breathing, Hermione rounded the older woman and headed to her door. “We’ll talk later,” were her last words before she closed her flat door, effectively locking it, knowing fully well it would do nothing to keep the celestial being from coming and going.

Feeling her body go limp, Hermione slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her back pressed hard against the cold wood. The hallway felt smaller somehow, suffocating, the slightest shadow suddenly sharp enough to cut.

A star.

A star was standing in her living room, uninvited and impossible, and nothing about it made sense. Her mind raced in circles, disbelief, fear, exhaustion, and a strange flicker of something like awe, tangled up with the bitter taste of defeat. Could she really pretend this wasn’t happening?

No. Because some things, once set in motion, don’t care if you’re ready; they just keep burning, relentless and bright, demanding one to face them head-on.

And Bellatrix was the brightest blaze Hermione had ever seen.

Chapter Text

The key in the lock sounded louder than it should have in the quiet of the hallway, echoing sharply in Hermione’s ears. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, a takeaway bag dangling precariously from one hand, her work bag slipping down the other arm. The dull ache in her feet was nothing compared to the relentless buzzing in her brain, a tangled mess of disbelief and exhaustion.

A star.

A literal star.

In her flat.

Hermione had cycled through denial, quiet panic, and finally grim acceptance throughout the workday. Grim, because it was easier to surrender to insanity than to try untangling the impossible truth. Her internal turmoil had not gone unnoticed, colleagues approached with concerned looks, asking if she was alright. Her pale complexion and distracted gaze betrayed her far more than she wanted.

She nudged the door shut with her foot, her shoes kicked off into the corner with a soft thud. She let out a long sigh, then froze.

Bellatrix was sprawled across the couch like she’d never intended to move again, legs stretched out, boots still on. The magazine in her hands was glossy and unfamiliar, held upside down as if reading it the normal way was beneath her.

“You’re late,” the older woman said without looking up, voice calm but laced with a challenge.

Hermione blinked, the exhaustion flickering across her face. “Late? I work. It’s called having a job. Humans do it to pay for things, like food. Rent. Electricity.”

Bellatrix finally lifted her gaze, amusement dancing alongside contempt in her eyes. “So, you spend your daylight hours pushing bits of paper around, shuffling them into different piles, and you’re proud of that?”

Trying her best not to let irritation take hold, Hermione stepped fully inside and set the takeaway bag down on the coffee table with a thud that echoed her frustration. “Well, I suppose it’s more productive than sitting on my couch flipping through outdated magazines you probably stole from the neighbor’s bin.”

“I didn’t steal it. It was there. Abandoned. I rescued it.” The dark-haired woman tossed the magazine onto the coffee table, where it slid to rest just shy of Hermione’s dinner. “Besides, it’s fascinating what you people waste your time on. Articles about… lettuce. Recipes. The mating habits of celebrities.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, counting to three to keep from snapping back. “Welcome to Earth. We’re terribly uninteresting. Now, if you don’t mind-”

“Oh, I mind.” Bellatrix leaned forward, chin resting on her palm as if studying a particularly dull puzzle. “You left this morning in such a hurry we didn’t finish our conversation. I believe I was in the middle of explaining why your species is hopelessly average.”

“Fantastic. Can’t wait,” Hermione sighed, dropping herself onto the living room sofa with a weariness that felt bone deep. She pulled the takeaway container toward her, flicked open the lid, and jabbed at a piece of broccoli as if it had personally offended her. Bellatrix shifted her boots onto the coffee table, eyes fixed on Hermione with the lazy intensity of a cat observing prey.

“You’re very prickly for someone who’s just had a long day of… what is it you do again? Filing? Typing? Pretending your work matters?” Bellatrix’s tone was teasing but edged with something sharper.

Hermione leveled a flat look at her. “Office administration. And yes, it matters. Some of us keep the wheels turning while others,” she waved her fork vaguely at Bellatrix, “sprawl around critiquing others without lifting a finger to help.”

Bellatrix smirked, a flash of genuine amusement breaking through her usual smugness. “I am helping. I’m here to fix you, remember? You’re just making it terribly unpleasant.”

Hermione set her plastic fork down carelessly. “Right, because insulting me every other sentence is part of your grand rehabilitation plan?”

“It works on some living specimens,” Bellatrix shrugged, voice smooth and confident. “Shock therapy for the ego. Tear someone down to rebuild them better.”

Hermione snorted, the sound dry and bitter. “If you think I’m letting you rebuild me, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

Bellatrix leaned forward, elbows on her knees as she placed her boots back on the floor, eyes sharp and unyielding. “And yet here you are. Eating your overcooked broccoli. Talking to a star instead of having me committed. You haven’t thrown me out. Which means, deep down, you know you need me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, spearing another bite of food. “Or maybe I’m just too tired to deal with you.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, studying Hermione like a puzzle she was determined to solve. “Tired, yes. But not just from work.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, the muscles aching with tension. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”

“Not psychoanalysis,” Bellatrix said smoothly, voice dropping into something softer, more observant. “Observation. You carry yourself like someone who’s been in a fight they didn’t win. Your eyes look for exits even when you’re home. And you drink like,” she gestured vaguely toward the bedroom door, “Well, like someone who thinks the bottle is a shield.”

Hermione’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through the cracks of her defenses. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Bellatrix’s smile was slow, sharp, and knowing. “Oh, little human… I know more than you think.”

Hermione paused, eyes fixed on the stranger in her living room, her mind racing with questions she desperately wanted answered, but also feared. She leaned back into the sofa, arms crossed protectively.

“Look… I’m not saying I don’t believe you’re… whatever you say you are. I saw enough this morning to convince me I’m not having a psychotic break.”

Bellatrix arched an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “High praise.”

“But,” Hermione continued firmly, “that doesn’t mean I need you. I’ve managed just fine on my own.”

Bellatrix’s mouth curved into a smile that was equal parts smirk and pity. “Ah, yes. ‘Just fine’, the rallying cry of the barely functioning. You think scraping by and numbing yourself every evening is managing? That’s adorable.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, fierce and defiant. “You are insufferable.”

“I’m effective,” Bellatrix corrected with a hint of smug satisfaction. “Big difference.”

Hermione let out a long breath, setting her fork aside like surrendering a small battle. “Fine. Let’s say I humor you for a minute. Why me? You say you’re here to ‘fix’ me, but what does that even mean? Did you draw my name out of a celestial hat? Was there a committee meeting somewhere? A vote? Did I win the universe’s worst lottery?”

Bellatrix chuckled, low and throaty. “Not far off. You were… selected.”

“By whom?” Hermione pressed, leaning forward.

“That’s classified.” Bellatrix leaned back, folding her arms behind her head with an air of casual superiority. “Let’s just say there’s a… overseer. A watcher. They note when someone has gone completely off the rails and,” she gestured elegantly toward herself, “they send me.”

Hermione tilted her head, skepticism painted across her features. “So, you’ve done this before? Popped into some poor sod’s living room to criticize their life choices?”

Bellatrix’s eyes glittered with mischief. “A few times. I’m very good at it.”

Hermione’s lips twitched despite herself. “And how many of those people wanted you around?”

“Oh, none,” Bellatrix said breezily. “But they all thanked me in the end.”

Hermione gave her a skeptical look that challenged the claim. “Did they, though?”

“Hey, they all lived a long and happy life. Well, as happy as a human can manage,” Bellatrix replied, as if that settled the matter.

Hermione shook her head, unease creeping into her chest. “Lived? As in, they’re dead? I thought you said you’d helped them!”

“Well of course they’re dead! The last time I had to help a measly human was two hundred years ago,” Bellatrix scoffed, as if her explanation needed no defense. “Unless they managed to find the fountain of youth, I doubt they’re still alive.”

Hermione stared in shock, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Two—two hundred years ago?”

“Give or take,” Bellatrix shrugged, unfazed.

Hermione blinked rapidly, as if sheer disbelief might bend reality. “Two hundred years… Bellatrix, that’s… that’s insane. You’ve been doing this since before-”

“Before your great-great-great-grandparents decided to exist? Yes.” Bellatrix inspected her nails, clearly unimpressed with Hermione’s grasp of time. “Time flows differently for me. Two centuries is… a long nap.”

Hermione dragged her hand down her face in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake… I’m sitting in my living room talking to a… a celestial babysitter who thinks two hundred years is a nap.”

“Not a babysitter,” Bellatrix corrected sharply, voice cutting through the tension. “A guardian. Although… I suppose in your case, the distinction is minimal.”

Hermione glared at her, irritation flaring. “You are unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.”

Bellatrix’s smile widened, all teeth and mischief. “You have no idea how unbelievable I can be.”

Hermione shifted in her seat, exhaling slowly as if to steady herself. “I still don’t understand why it’s me. Surely there are billions of other people in far worse shape.”

“Oh, there are,” Bellatrix said without hesitation, voice cool and assessing. “But you, Dustling… you’re a particularly stubborn knot in the tapestry. You pull at the wrong threads, you cling to the frayed edges, and you refuse to let anyone untangle you. A challenge. I like those.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping in. “You mean you like winning.”

“Exactly.” Bellatrix’s gaze swept over her like a predator sizing up its prey. “And I always win.”

Hermione let out a short, incredulous laugh that trembled with defiance. “I’m not a puppet you can pull strings on. Others have tried; it doesn’t work that way.”

Bellatrix snorted, quite unladylike, but Hermione suspected this celestial being never was much of a lady to begin with. “You’re funny. I like funny. A bit ignorant, but funny nonetheless.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, a spark of something dangerous lighting her eyes. “You’ve mentioned that before. Are you hoping I’ll change?”

Hermione refused to rise to the bait. Instead, her eyes flicked over Bellatrix, for the first time taking in her appearance. She eyed the absurd, tightly laced corset and layered skirts that seemed to belong to a different century altogether. The fabric hugged Bellatrix’s form in an exaggerated silhouette, accentuating a figure Hermione found both frustrating and oddly captivating.

“Speaking of things that never change… what are you wearing?” Hermione’s tone hovered somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. “Honestly, what is all that?”

Bellatrix glanced down at herself with a slow, deliberate gaze, then back up, one brow arching in mock insult. “The height of elegance. Silk, whalebone, and craftsmanship you wouldn’t understand. It’s commanding, dignified-”

“It’s a corset,” Hermione cut in, gesturing pointedly at the tightly laced bodice that visibly pinched Bellatrix’s waist. “And not even a modern one. You look like you stepped straight out of a Victorian portrait.”

Bellatrix placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated offence, the faintest smirk playing at her lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. This is timeless.”

“Timeless?” Hermione scoffed, the word tasting bitter. “Maybe back in the 1850s. Here, now, it’s… well, it’s not exactly blending in.”

Bellatrix sniffed, chin tilted like a queen dismissing a courtier’s objection. “Blending in is for prey. I am not prey.”

“Good,” Hermione said dryly, voice laced with sarcasm. “Because walking down the street dressed like that is going to get you stared at. And possibly arrested for public anachronism.”

Bellatrix smirked, clearly unbothered by the warning. “Let them stare. Mortals are always drawn to beauty they can’t have.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint twitch of a smile that betrayed her amusement. “You do realize you’re in my flat, right? My rules. Which means, if you’re going to be seen outside, you might want to consider something a little less…” She waved a hand at the layers of lace, brocade, and rigid structure. “…dramatic.”

Bellatrix leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr that sent an involuntary shiver down Hermione’s spine. “Are you telling me you want to dress me, Dustling?”

Hermione’s face flushed hotter than she cared to admit, the heat rising to her cheeks with a familiar mix of embarrassment and something else, something more unsettling. “I’m telling you I don’t want my neighbors thinking I’m harboring an escapee from a historical reenactment society.”

Bellatrix’s grin curled slow and dangerous, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker. “Very well. Tomorrow, I’ll wear something that pleases you.”

“I didn’t say-” Hermione started, but Bellatrix had already leaned back, looking maddeningly pleased with herself.

The star tilted her head, dark eyes sparkling with a challenge. “Oh, but you did. You’d like me to look… approachable. Ordinary. Something that doesn’t make your neighbors whisper about the scandal in 4B,” she gasped dramatically, voice dripping with faux shock.

Hermione scowled, crossing her arms defensively. “It’s called avoiding unnecessary attention.”

“Mmm.” Bellatrix let her gaze sweep slowly over Hermione, lingering in ways that made Hermione shift uncomfortably in her seat. “Pity. You’d be surprised how thrilling unnecessary attention can be.”

Hermione grabbed her fork again and stabbed at her food with more force than necessary, the tension coiling tighter in her chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you can’t seem to stop talking to me.” Bellatrix’s smile was all provocation, daring and unapologetic. “Tell me, Dustling, do you prefer me dressed to stand out…” She plucked at the corset’s laces with a languid, teasing touch. “…or to fit in?”

Hermione’s throat tightened, the question catching her off guard. “Neither. I prefer you dressed in something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m living with a stage actress from the nineteenth century.”

Bellatrix’s lips curved knowingly. “So you do think about me in my clothes.”

Hermione nearly choked on her broccoli, eyes widening in sudden panic. “That’s- …not-…” She shut her eyes briefly, willing the flush in her cheeks to fade. “You are insufferable!”

Bellatrix leaned forward, voice low and silken, the room suddenly charged with something electric. “And yet, somehow, you still want me to please you.”

Hermione snapped her eyes open, pointing her fork like a weapon as if daring Bellatrix to push further. “Clothes. We’re talking about normal, acceptable clothes!”

“Of course,” Bellatrix purred, settling back with a satisfied smirk that made Hermione’s skin prick with irritation and something more complicated.

Hermione stabbed another bite of food, trying to focus on the bland meal, but Bellatrix’s smirk lingered in her peripheral vision like a persistent itch she couldn’t scratch.

“While we’re talking about rules,” Bellatrix said suddenly, her tone shifting to something deceptively light, “we should establish some.”

Hermione swallowed hard, unease curling in her stomach. “Rules? This isn’t a sleepover, Bellatrix.”

“No,” Bellatrix agreed, stretching languidly like a cat as she placed her boots on the coffee table once again. “It’s an intervention. Which means we need boundaries. My first rule: you stop drinking yourself into oblivion every night.”

Hermione froze mid-bite, fork hovering in the air. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Dustling.” Bellatrix’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding. “It’s tedious, it’s pathetic, and it’s one of the main reasons I was sent here. You keep thinking you can drown what’s inside you, but all you’re doing is letting it rot deeper.”

Hermione’s grip on her fork tightened, knuckles blanching. “I don’t recall inviting you to judge my coping mechanisms.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, a cold smile curling on her lips. “I’m not judging. I’m diagnosing.”

“I thought we weren’t psychoanalyzing?” Hermione spat back, voice trembling with defiance.

“Think what you will, my rules go,” Bellatrix said, her tone slicing through the room like steel.

Hermione’s laugh was short, humorless, filled with bitter disbelief. “Oh, that’s rich. The intergalactic fashion disaster thinks she’s my therapist.”

“Not your therapist,” Bellatrix spat, eyes flashing with quiet fury. “Your guardian. And I don’t do therapy. I do results.”

Hermione set her fork down with a clatter, leaning back as frustration tightened her chest like a vise. “And what exactly do you expect me to do instead? Knit? Take up yoga?”

Bellatrix’s smile was slow, cold, and full of promise. “Face your demons. Starting with fire.”

Hermione pushed herself up from the sofa with lightning speed, the air thick with tension. Frustration coiled tight beneath her ribs, burning and raw. “I think I’m done for the night.”

Bellatrix stretched languidly, following her with unblinking eyes sharp as knives. “Oh, but Dustling, you can’t run from this forever.”

Hermione shot her a pointed look over her shoulder but kept moving toward the bedroom. “I’m not running. I’m… changing into something more comfortable.”

Bellatrix’s voice drifted after her, teasing yet persistent, curling around the edges of Hermione’s resolve like a cold breeze slipping through a cracked window. “Comfortable? Is that what you call burying yourself in soft fabrics while pretending everything’s fine?”

Hermione ignored the remark, the sharpness of it slicing past like background noise she was desperate not to hear. She pulled open her wardrobe, the familiar creak of hinges oddly grounding amid the turmoil swirling inside her chest. Fingers trembling just slightly, she grabbed a pair of worn pajamas, soft cotton, faded at the seams, frayed just enough to feel like an old, safe friend.

She slipped behind the bedroom door and shut it firmly, as if the solid wood could keep the chaos out or at least keep Bellatrix’s voice at bay. From the other room came Bellatrix’s soft chuckle, rich and amused, like a cat watching a mouse futilely circle a trap. “You’re adorable when you try to avoid the hard stuff.”

Hermione took a deep, shaky breath, the tight knot of anger and pain coiling inside her like a living thing. She tried to will it to loosen, just a fraction, just enough to breathe. But it clung stubbornly, sharp and relentless. Who did this thing, this celestial interloper, think she was? The question burned in her mind, as fierce as the memories she wished she could forget.

It took all of Hermione’s strength not to let tears spill over. Instead, she yanked her sleeping top over her head with more force than necessary, the fabric catching on her hair and scraping her skin in an urgent, desperate way. She tossed her work clothes into the laundry basket, cursing when it tilted over and scattered a few socks onto the floor. The small, mundane mess made her grit her teeth, the physical act of cleaning up offering a strange, grounding relief.

Minutes later, she emerged. Bellatrix was waiting in the living room, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, like she was savoring every moment of this slow unraveling. “Well?”

Hermione barely registered the question, her mind elsewhere as she made a beeline for the small fridge tucked into the corner of the kitchen. The cool metal felt foreign under her fingertips, but familiar in purpose. She pulled out the six-pack of beer she kept hidden away like a secret lifeline, the cold cans a fragile anchor in the storm inside her head.

Without looking back, she stalked toward the bedroom balcony, each step heavy with the weight of the day and the weight of Bellatrix’s unyielding presence.

Bellatrix’s voice followed her, sharp and amused, carrying a tone that was both accusation and challenge. “You really think drowning yourself in booze is a solution?”

Hermione yanked open the balcony window. The cool night air rushed in, wrapping around her face like a bittersweet caress, smelling faintly of smog and distant cooking. She settled onto the rough concrete ledge, the surface cool and unyielding beneath her fingers. Cracking open her first can, the hiss was a bitter comfort, an old friend in liquid form.

For several long, silent minutes, Hermione stared out into the night sky, the stars distant and indifferent above her. The world felt heavy, layered with shadows she couldn’t quite escape. Then, Bellatrix appeared on the other side of the window, leaning on the sill with arms crossed, eyes dark and unblinking, watchful, relentless.

“Distraction or avoidance, it all looks the same. You’re running in place, little human.”

Hermione’s gaze stayed fixed on the scattered lights of the city below, refusing to meet Bellatrix’s sharp eyes. She took another slow sip, letting the cold liquid burn down her throat.

“Maybe running is better than standing still.”

Bellatrix leaned her elbows on the windowsill beside her, voice low but firm, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the cool night air. “Or maybe you’re just too scared to face what’s waiting when you stop.”

The cool night air wrapped around Hermione’s pj-covered arms, a sharp contrast to the heat simmering in her chest. The city lights blinked distantly below, indifferent to the quiet war raging on this small balcony. The can of beer felt heavier in her hands than usual, as if the weight of every unopened drink was a reminder of every night spent hiding behind the buzz. Still, she took a slow, deliberate sip, hoping the bitter taste would dull the growing storm inside her. But it didn’t.

Behind her, she could hear Bellatrix standing back up and leaning against the window frame, arms crossed like a queen surveying her territory. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight, sharp, unwavering.

“You think that’s helping?” Bellatrix’s voice was low, but each word cut through the night air like a blade. “You’re not solving anything by drinking yourself into oblivion.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She swallowed hard, setting the can down on the railing with more force than necessary. “It’s not about solving, Bellatrix. It’s about surviving.”

Bellatrix leaned closer, the faint scent of wet forest radiating off her. “Surviving by numbing yourself doesn’t count. It’s just postponing the reckoning.”

Hermione turned to face her fully now, eyes flashing with anger and exhaustion. “You think I want to feel this pain? To carry this weight every single day?”

“Maybe you do,” Bellatrix said softly, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. “But truth is, you’re just too scared to face it.”

The word hit Hermione like a slap. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. “Scared? You don’t get to call me scared.”

Bellatrix’s smile was slow, cruel, and somehow almost tender all at once. “Are you going to deny it, Dustling? Are you going to tell me you faced that fire like a hero?”

The night seemed to hold its breath as Hermione’s eyes darkened, the simmering rage boiling over.

“Coward,” Bellatrix spat, her eyes expressing just how low she thought the brunette to be.

“How dare you?” Hermione growled.

Bellatrix didn’t flinch. Instead, she matched Hermione’s glare with one of her own, unwavering and sharp as a star’s edge. “You are. Because every night you run from the memories, from the guilt, from yourself.” The word echoed between them, heavier than the city’s distant hum.

Hermione’s breath hitched as she willed herself not to cry. Instead, the anger cracked, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath. But then she shook her head fiercely, leaning back. All fury gone in a second.

“Maybe I am,” she whispered. “But at least I’m still here. Still fighting.”

Bellatrix’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “That’s why I’m here too.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed again, but the fire inside her had changed. It wasn’t just anger anymore, it was a complicated mix of pain, defiance, and something she wasn’t ready to name.

She reached for another can of beer, opening it with a snap. Bellatrix watched her, waiting, knowing this battle was far from over. It wasn’t until Hermione was on her third can that Bellatrix finally turned and left the brooding brunette alone with her thoughts. Pushing the topic any further would result in nothing good.

~~~~~~~~~ESF~~~~~~~~~

The morning sun barely filtered through the thick curtains, casting a soft, pale stripe across Hermione’s bedroom floor. The city outside was already stirring; distant car horns, muffled footsteps, the faint hum of early traffic weaving its familiar soundtrack. But inside, the quiet held a fragile weight, like the calm after a storm no one dared speak of.

Hermione lay tangled beneath the rumpled sheets, eyelids heavy and reluctant to open. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, the lingering residue of last night’s drinking mixing with the sharper pulse of her restless thoughts. She could still hear Bellatrix’s words echoing, the accusations, provocations, truths wrapped in cruelty.

For a long moment, she simply breathed, willing herself to forget. To push all of it away.

Not today, she thought. Not now.

She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The weight of yesterday’s anger and vulnerability settled like a stone in her chest, but she refused to let it grow. Instead, she focused on the small, mundane details of the morning, the faint scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen, the way the sunlight caught a dust mote drifting lazily in the air, the familiar creak of the building settling.

Hermione’s fingers brushed over the empty space beside her, a place that hadn’t been occupied for a long time. Her mind drifted to the last time a stranger had shared her bed. It had been a while. Over a year if she remembered correctly. It had been a late and drunken night, the alcohol igniting a bravery within her she hadn’t felt in forever, enough for her to invite the attractive blonde she’d been talking to all night to go from the bar, back to her apartment.

It had been a rather bland experience. Her mind fog clearing halfway through their shag, her morals hitting home which denied her the release she so desperately wanted. After some awkward fumbling and a stiff goodbye, she found herself alone once again, with nothing but the stars in the sky as witnesses.

Blinking into her dim room, Hermione dispelled the memories from her head, not needing another disaster to make her feel even more pathetic than she already did. Unknowingly, her thoughts drifted to Bellatrix, her presence already a strange kind of normal. She debated whether to bring up last night’s conversation, but the thought felt too raw, too tangled.

Let it rest, she told herself firmly. Some things don’t need to be unpacked all at once.

She pushed herself up, the dull ache in her head reminding her of her own fragility. In the bathroom mirror, she met tired eyes that held both defiance and exhaustion. Maybe Bellatrix was right, maybe she was running. But today, she would choose to stand still. At least for a little while more.

With a deep breath, Hermione showered and dressed for the day, her movements automatic yet steady. The world outside waited with all its chaos and challenges, but inside, she carved out this fragile moment of peace.

As she opened her bedroom, Hermione paused in the doorway, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected sight. Bellatrix stood leaning casually against the kitchen counter, clad in a sleek black leather jacket over a simple white blouse and dark jeans that hugged her long legs just right. The stark contrast to last night’s elaborate corset was impossible to ignore.

A flicker of something, admiration?, brushed Hermione’s features before she quickly masked it with dry indifference.

“Well, Dustling,” Bellatrix’s voice carried that familiar teasing lilt, “I figured I’d give the neighbors a break from Victorian fashion.”

Hermione crossed her arms, eyes narrowing playfully. “And here I thought you’d give me an encore performance.” She tried to sound unimpressed but felt heat creep up her neck.

Bellatrix smirked, stepping closer with a confident swagger that made Hermione’s pulse skip in a way she didn’t quite like. “I save my grand entrances for special occasions.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering down to Bellatrix’s legs before snapping back up. “So… modern clothes suit you.” Her voice was low, just barely hiding the surprise and something else she didn’t want to name.

Bellatrix’s smile deepened, a slow, knowing curve that made Hermione’s skin prickle. She stepped closer, the scent of fresh pine wrapping around Hermione like a challenge.

“Of course they do, Dustling,” Bellatrix murmured, voice silky and teasing. “I like to keep things interesting. Wouldn’t want you to get bored with me already.”

Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close Bellatrix stood, how the morning light caught the sharp angles of her face, the mischievous glint in her eyes. Thinking quick, Hermione stepped around the older woman and busied herself with picking a coffee mug from the cabinet, her fingers tightening around the handle as if it anchored her to something real.

Walking to stand behind her, Bellatrix reached out, brushing a stray lock of Hermione’s hair behind her ear,  just the faintest touch, but it sent an electric thrill skittering up Hermione’s spine.

“You’re too easy to tease,” Bellatrix whispered.

Hermione’s breath hitched, a flush creeping over her cheeks. “Maybe I let you,” Hermione said as confidently as she could as she turned to look the star in the eye.

Bellatrix chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, Dustling, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around them, the world narrowing until it was just the two of them, the scent of coffee, the quiet hum of the city beyond the window, and the sharp, delicious tension humming in the space between their words and touches.

Hermione forced herself to look away, down at the empty mug in her hands, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace.

“So,” she said, voice steadier now, “What’s on the agenda today? Another lecture on how I’m failing at life?” She asked as she helped herself to a generous serving of coffee.

Bellatrix simply hummed. “I have plenty to say, but I’m willing to start with coffee and see where the day takes us.”

Hermione allowed herself a small, genuine smile. For now, that was enough.

She moved quietly through the small kitchen, the soft scrape of cabinet doors and the faint clink of a spoon against a cup breaking the stillness. Her apartment was modest, a reflection of her life pared down to essentials, the chipped mugs, the half-empty jars of tea, the solitary loaf of bread that had seen better days.

Hermione pulled out a carton of eggs, eyeing it skeptically before turning to her uninvited guest. “Do you want any?” she asked curiously. ‘Do stars even eat?’

As if having spoken her question out loud, Bellatrix simply smirked and shook her head. “No need to worry about my diet, Dustling. I may be bound to your planet for now, but I have no intention on taking up any of your species’ customs.”

Slowly nodding at the answer, Hermione resumed her cooking, cracking two into a battered frying pan. The sizzle was comforting, a mundane ritual that grounded her in the present. Outside, the city murmured with Saturday’s slow awakening, the distant honk of a car horn, the murmur of neighbors beginning their routines.

Bellatrix lingered near the counter, watching with a curious tilt of her head. “I assume your paycheck isn’t what’s keeping you in stale bread and eggs?”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of defensiveness in her tired eyes. “It’s enough.”

Bellatrix’s lips quirked in a teasing smirk. “Then why does your fridge look like a survivalist’s emergency kit?”

Hermione sighed, flipping the eggs carefully. “I’m not much of a cook. And I don’t really spend much on… things.”

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. “So where does it go? Clothes? Nights out? Books?”

Hermione considered the question, setting the plate down on the counter with a soft clatter. “Mostly bills. Rent, utilities, stuff for work. I’m pretty frugal.”

Bellatrix crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You mean you throw money at obligations while starving yourself emotionally.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

Bellatrix softened, stepping closer with a measured grace. “What about hobbies? Something that makes you you beyond the grind?”

Hermione hesitated, her eyes flickering toward a stack of worn notebooks close to her on the counter, pages filled with half-finished sketches and scribbled notes. “I draw sometimes.”

Bellatrix’s gaze sharpened, like she’d uncovered a secret treasure. “Why don’t you do it more?”

Hermione shrugged, a shadow crossing her face. “Life gets in the way.”

Bellatrix reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over one of the notebooks. “Maybe that’s something we can fix. Small steps. You don’t have to face everything all at once.”

Hermione’s fingers twined nervously around her mug. “I’m not sure I’m ready for big changes.”

Bellatrix’s smile was slow, patient, and just a little challenging. “No one expects you to leap. But even the smallest step can start a journey.”

The eggs sat cooling on the counter, their warmth fading into the quiet hum of the morning. Hermione and Bellatrix remained still for a moment, the soft morning light filtered through the window, casting gentle shadows that danced across the worn wood of the table and the faded paint of the cabinets. Dust motes floated lazily in the golden beams, untouched by the chaos of the city beyond.

Hermione’s fingers curled tightly around the chipped mug, knuckles white, grounding her in the present while her mind wrestled with the weight of unspoken fears and cautious hope. She met Bellatrix’s steady gaze; the usual sharpness softened into something almost tender, a silent promise that she wasn’t alone in this fight.

Bellatrix’s smile lingered, patient and unwavering, as if willing Hermione to believe that small steps could indeed lead somewhere new. The air between them thrummed with possibility, fragile but real, like the first tentative shoots of spring breaking through winter’s frost.

In that quiet, fragile moment, Hermione let herself imagine a future where the heavy burden of the past didn’t crush her, where the nights didn’t end in numbness, and where she could find pieces of herself again, one careful breath, one hesitant step at a time.

Chapter Text

The laundry basket dug into the crook of Hermione’s elbow as she shuffled down the narrow hallway, socks and shirts threatening to spill over the rim. Saturday mornings in her building were usually hushed, the kind of silence broken only by the hum of pipes or the creak of a stair. She tried to match her steps to that quiet rhythm, but it was difficult with the awkward weight she carried.

Bellatrix trailed just behind, her heels clicking softly against the wood. “You’re dragging your feet,” she murmured, not unkindly, but in that perpetually dissatisfied tone she carried like perfume. “If you walked a fraction faster, you wouldn’t feel the strain so much.”

Hermione exhaled through her nose. “The basket is heavy. I’m not racing anyone.” She adjusted her grip and kept moving, determined not to let the comment linger in her head.

They reached the stairwell, the air cooler here, smelling faintly of damp stone. Bellatrix leaned against the railing, watching as Hermione maneuvered the bulky basket down one step at a time. “And your choice of soap…” she gestured vaguely toward the packet perched on top, the cheap brand Hermione always bought at the corner shop. “You do realize it barely cleans? The residue will linger on the fabric. A harsher detergent would make your clothes last longer.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, though her tone was breezy. “It’s what I can afford. And it gets the job done.” She shifted the basket again, the wood biting into her palms.

The basement was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb and the metallic clatter of pipes in the ceiling. Rows of old washing machines lined the wall, their enamel chipped from years of service. Hermione set the basket down with a relieved sigh, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

Bellatrix stepped around her, brushing invisible dust from a machine with her fingers. “These machines are barely functional,” she remarked, frowning. “The clothes won’t wash evenly like this.”

Hermione snorted softly, shaking out a tangle of socks. “What do you suggest then? That I buy the latest washing machine on the market? I don’t have the luxury.”

Hermione tipped half the basket into the drum, pressing down the heap of shirts and trousers until the door would close. The machine gave a reluctant groan as she twisted the dial.

Bellatrix hovered close enough to cast a shadow over her shoulder. “You’re supposed to separate the darks from the lights,” she said softly, as though imparting some delicate secret.

Hermione slapped her hand over the latch and punched the start button. The machine shuddered to life with a low rumble. “They’ll survive together. It’s not the end of the world if my socks fade a shade darker.”

Bellatrix arched an eyebrow, a curl slipping forward as she tilted her head. “You’re terribly defensive this morning.”

“I’m terribly busy,” Hermione countered, straightening up and brushing her hands on her jeans. The basement’s chill was seeping into her skin, and the fluorescent light hummed irritably above them.

For a few moments, only the churn of water filled the silence. Hermione perched on the hard plastic chair pushed against the wall, arms crossed. She caught Bellatrix’s reflection in the machine’s glass window, restless, pacing, as though the act of waiting was a foreign torment.

“You know,” Bellatrix said at last, stopping in her circuit to look at her, “Your fridge is appallingly empty. You can’t live on tea, eggs, and stale bread.”

Hermione rubbed at her temple, the beginnings of a headache tightening there. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is.” Bellatrix’s tone was decisive. “When we’re done here, we’ll go out. Buy something green. Something that has at least a fraction of nutritional value.”

Hermione gave a low groan, tipping her head back against the cold wall. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” Bellatrix said smoothly, a spark of satisfaction in her eyes, “are malnourished. Consider it as part of the intervention.”

Hermione didn’t bother replying. The washing machine rattled violently, shaking in its corner, and she watched the blur of colors spin behind the glass. She would finish this load, she told herself, then buy her groceries like an ordinary person. But she already knew, with Bellatrix at her side, nothing about today would be ordinary.

~~~~~~~~~ESF~~~~~~~~~

The bell above the grocery door gave a half-hearted jingle as Hermione pushed inside, the rush of warm air and the smell of ground coffee and ripe fruit enveloping her at once. It was busy for a Saturday, families with small baskets, a couple of elderly neighbors in padded coats, a harried mother tugging a child by the hand. The aisles gleamed under their fluorescent strips, stacked high with tins and packets in cheerful rows.

Bellatrix lingered just inside the entrance; lips curved in faint disdain. “Charming,” she murmured, her gaze sweeping the scuffed linoleum floor and hand-lettered sale signs. “A temple to mediocrity.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing a basket from the stack and shouldering past. “It’s a grocery store. People shop here. Normal people. Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to be.”

Bellatrix’s shoes clicked as she followed, elegant as a shadow. Her dark eyes skimmed the produce bins, settling on a pyramid of bruised apples with a critical tilt of her chin. “Is this what you consider edible? You deserve better.”

Hermione bent to select the firmest of the lot, her voice dry. “They’re apples. Not an opera.” She dropped three into the basket with deliberate thuds and moved on to the next aisle.

For a moment, it seemed Bellatrix might press the point further, but instead her attention flicked to something else, a young man lingering near the peppers. He couldn’t have been much older than Hermione, hair tousled in the fashionable way that looked unstudied but took hours to achieve. His gaze had caught on Bellatrix the instant they walked in, and now he straightened, as though gathering courage, before strolling toward them.

“Hi there,” he said, smile bright and practiced. His eyes didn’t even glance Hermione’s way. “I couldn’t help but notice you-”

Bellatrix turned her head slowly, fixing him with the kind of look one might bestow upon a cockroach that had scuttled across the carpet. The faint smile she offered didn’t reach her eyes. “Congratulations,” she drawled, her voice silk over glass. “You’ve mastered the art of stating the obvious.”

The man blinked, thrown off balance, but rallied with a nervous laugh. “I just thought maybe-”

“-that your interruption was welcome?” she cut in, her tone low and cutting now, each word sharpened to a blade. “It isn’t. Run along before I decide to be less merciful.”

Whatever charm he’d entered with evaporated at once. He muttered something incoherent and retreated, face flushed, leaving his peppers behind in the basket.

Hermione, caught between shock and delight, clapped a hand over her mouth, but a laugh escaped anyway. It burst out before she could stop it, echoing faintly against the shelves. Bellatrix tilted her head, a sly satisfaction curving her lips.

“You didn’t have to scorch him quite so thoroughly,” Hermione said when she caught her breath, though her eyes were still bright with amusement.

“I was tactful,” Bellatrix replied coolly, glancing at her nails. “I could have made him weep.”

Hermione shook her head, chuckling as she tucked a box of pasta into the basket. Still, under the fizz of laughter, something unexpected had stirred low in her chest when the man had first approached. A taut pull, sharp and sour, that had tightened the moment his gaze landed solely on Bellatrix. She tried to push it aside, absurd really, there was no reason for it, but the echo lingered as they moved on down the aisle.

She told herself it was irritation. That it was because men like him always assumed they could interrupt. That it wasn’t… anything else.

But the tight knot in her stomach, the flicker of possessiveness she couldn’t quite name, that felt like a lie even as she tried to believe it.

They continued down the aisle, the rhythm of their steps weaving between the shuffle of other shoppers. Hermione paused at the shelf of pasta sauces, weighing two jars in her hands.

“This one’s cheaper,” she murmured, half to herself, scanning the label.

Bellatrix plucked the other jar from her fingers and held it aloft like evidence. “This one actually contains tomatoes. The other is colored corn syrup with delusions of grandeur.”

Hermione made a face, snatching the jar back. “Sometimes I think you’re incapable of compromise.”

Bellatrix smirked faintly, her eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Sometimes I think you mistake compromise for surrender.”

Hermione dropped the jar into her basket with a clatter, but she was smiling despite herself. She reached next for a packet of biscuits, the plain kind she often bought when she wanted something to nibble with her tea. Bellatrix raised an eyebrow but said nothing this time, trailing her fingers idly along the stacked boxes as they moved on.

At the dairy section, Hermione crouched to examine the shelves, her breath fogging faintly against the cold glass. “Milk, eggs… yogurt.”

“You don’t even like yogurt,” Bellatrix observed, leaning against the case with arms crossed.

“I like pretending I’ll eat it,” Hermione countered. “It makes me feel… balanced.”

Bellatrix’s laugh was quiet, genuine, and it caught Hermione off guard. She straightened too quickly, knocking her basket against the cooler with a clang. The sound earned her a glance from a passing shopper, which she ignored as she shifted the basket to her other arm.

They meandered toward the bread aisle, the scents of yeast and flour rising faintly above the chatter of shoppers. Hermione ran her hand over the loaves in their crinkling plastic, trying to select one that wasn’t already stiff.

“White bread is useless,” Bellatrix declared, picking up a loaf with distaste. “It collapses in your mouth like ash.”

Hermione chuckled softly, setting the loaf back. “It’s affordable. And it makes decent toast.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, her gaze unreadable as she studied Hermione’s expression. For once, she didn’t counter with another barb. Instead, she reached for a darker, denser loaf, and dropped it silently into the basket. Hermione gave her a sidelong look but didn’t remove it.

For a few minutes, the tension softened. They moved more easily through the aisles, Hermione gathering basics, tea, onions, flour, and Bellatrix commenting here and there, not always critically. At one point, she recounted a memory sparked by a jar of honey, her voice low and distracted, as though she had slipped sideways into another time entirely. Hermione listened without interrupting, her basket growing heavier by the moment.

By the time they reached the final aisle, something like a rhythm had emerged: Hermione choosing, Bellatrix observing, a fragile thread of civility between them. Hermione could almost imagine this was ordinary, that she was shopping with a friend rather than with someone who unnerved her at every turn.

Almost.

And then Bellatrix’s gaze snagged on the biscuits nestled between tins of tea, her mouth tightening.

“Empty calories,” she remarked, plucking the box from the basket as though it had offended her. “Flour and sugar pretending to be nourishment. You might as well chew cardboard.”

Hermione turned sharply, hand outstretched. “Give that back.”

Bellatrix raised the packet high, examining the list of ingredients with theatrical disdain. “Not a single element in here does you any favors. Glucose, preservatives, processed oil, do you know what that does to a body already running on fumes?”

Hermione snatched the box from her grip and shoved it back into the basket, her voice clipped. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

Shoppers moved past them with the practiced indifference of city dwellers, their carts squeaking on the linoleum. Hermione forced herself to step forward, but Bellatrix fell into stride beside her, voice low but persistent.

“You mistake existence for survival,” Bellatrix continued, as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “You choose what is cheap, easy, safe. You settle for keeping yourself just barely functioning, when you deserve-”

“-deserve what?” Hermione cut in, louder than she meant to. A man at the end of the aisle glanced over before pretending not to. Hermione lowered her voice, her words quick and sharp. “What do you know about what I deserve? You don’t live here. You don’t pay rent, you don’t keep a job, you don’t know what it’s like to balance what I want against what I can afford. Don’t act like you understand.”

The fluorescent lights above seemed to hum louder, beating down on the narrowing space between them. Bellatrix’s eyes were hard, unblinking, but her voice carried a heated edge. “I understand enough to see you’re cutting yourself down piece by piece. Hiding behind excuses. Pretending this,” she gestured at the basket, the store, the narrow aisle of tins and teas “…is enough.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She gripped the handle of her basket until the plastic dug into her palm. “I’m trying,” she hissed. “Every day. I get up, I work, I pay my bills, I keep breathing, I try. And if all I can manage at the end of it is cheap soap and biscuits, then that’s good enough.”

Bellatrix didn’t flinch, but something flickered behind her eyes, an emotion Hermione couldn’t read before it was shuttered away. “Good enough for whom?” she asked softly.

The words struck deeper than Hermione wanted to admit. For herself? For the expectations of everyone who thought she should be stronger, better, unshakable? For the version of her life she’d lost and could never quite get back?

Her chest burned. “I don’t need your approval,” she said, her voice rough, uneven. “And I don’t need you telling me how to live my life.”

For a moment, they stood locked in the middle of the aisle, shoppers flowing past them like water around stone. Hermione’s pulse drummed in her ears. Bellatrix’s lips parted, as though to deliver another retort, but then she closed them again, eyes dark and unreadable.

Without a word, she turned. One blink, she was there, standing rigidly in the aisle; the next, she was gone - vanished as though the air had swallowed her.

Hermione’s breath caught. The basket felt suddenly heavier in her grip. She stood frozen, staring at the empty space where Bellatrix had been, her heart hammering as the silence around her deepened. Her pulse still throbbed in her ears, the echo of their quarrel ringing louder than the hum of the store around her. Someone brushed past her with a muttered apology, and only then did she realize she was blocking the aisle, clutching her basket so tightly the plastic handle cut into her palm.

With a sharp breath, she forced herself to move on. The basket rattled against her knee as she walked, heavier than it should have felt. She tried to shake off the hollow sting Bellatrix had left behind, tried to focus on the practical. Vegetables. Pasta. Flour. The things she had come for.

She paused at the end of the aisle, scanning shelves of canned tomatoes, tins of beans, jars of sauce. Her fingers lingered on labels, moving more slowly now, distracted. The words Bellatrix had thrown at her ‘good enough for whom?’ lodged themselves in the cracks of her mind like thorns.

Her chest tightened. She knew the truth, though she hated herself for knowing it. It wasn’t just about cheap soap or plain biscuits or bruised apples. It was about the way she punished herself without saying it aloud, scraping by with the bare minimum, as if she didn’t deserve better. As if she had forfeited the right.

Her hand hovered over a jar, then drew back. She didn’t want to think about why. Not here. Not with the crush of people around her, not with the fluorescent lights bearing down like interrogation lamps. She shoved two tins into her basket at random and moved on.

By the time she reached the back of the store, her basket was nearly full. Bread. Vegetables. Eggs. Tea. Enough to pass for normal, enough to keep her going another week.

She turned into the final aisle, the one she always left for last, her steps heavy now. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and dust, the floor colder underfoot. She crouched and slid six cans of beer from the bottom shelf, their metallic clink loud in the hush around her. For a moment, she held them in her hands, the cold seeping into her fingers. Then, with the same automatic resignation as always, she lowered them into her basket.

The cans settled at the bottom with a dull weight, dragging the basket down, dragging her down with it. Hermione straightened, the knot in her stomach refusing to ease. She forced herself to walk toward the checkout, her face carefully blank, as though she hadn’t just unraveled in the middle of a grocery store.

The plastic bags bit into Hermione’s fingers as she made her way down the block, her pace brisk against the bite of late afternoon air. The city moved around her, cars shuddering past, the hiss of brakes, voices spilling from a café on the corner. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, not on the faces or the windows she passed, not on the glass that reflected her own hunched figure carrying groceries like they were a burden.

By the time she reached her building, her arms ached. She nudged the door open with her shoulder, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting her. The stairwell smelled faintly of polish and dust. She climbed slowly, each step an effort, groceries swinging against her thighs.

Inside her flat, silence pressed close. She set the bags down on the counter and stood there for a moment, her breath uneven, fingers red from the weight. The place felt too large, too empty, the stillness broken only by the hum of the fridge.

She unpacked mechanically, bread in the breadbox, tins stacked in the cupboard, eggs in their place on the shelf. Vegetables crowded the bottom drawer, milk slotted against the door. Each movement felt rote, practiced, as though she were performing a role she hadn’t rehearsed but had played for years all the same.

The last bag remained on the counter. She opened it carefully, drew out the cardboard case of beer, and slid it into the fridge. The cans clinked together, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She shut the door firmly, too firmly, and leaned against it for a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Her gaze drifted to the counter which separated the kitchen from the living room. Two high stools stood next to each other, one tucked neatly in, the other skewed slightly aside. She pulled the skewed one closer and sat down, elbows on the countertop, her head falling briefly into her hands.

Bellatrix’s absence was a louder silence than the flat had ever known.

Hermione lifted her head again, forcing herself to walk over to the window and look out to the street below, the shifting glow of the late afternoon. She pressed her lips into a thin line and whispered to the empty room, as if to anchor herself: “One step at a time.”

The words felt hollow on her tongue, but she clung to them all the same.

She had set her groceries away, but the silence clung too tightly, so she filled it with motion. She pulled the rag from under the sink and began wiping at the counter, though it was already clean. From there, her attention caught on the narrow shelf above the radiator, its rows of books dulled under a film of dust. She set to work with determined briskness, dragging the rag along the spines until her wrist ached.

One shelf became two, then three. She climbed onto one of the stools to reach the top, muttering under her breath when the legs wobbled under her weight. By the time she stepped down, the room smelled faintly of dust and open air, the window cracked at last, letting in the brisk breath of early evening.

That was how Ginny found her.

The door rattled once, then swung wide, as though boundaries had never applied to her. “Bloody hell, it smells different in here!” Ginny’s voice filled the flat before Hermione had time to turn around. She strode in with her hair loose from its tie, cheeks flushed from the wind, radiating that restless, uncontainable energy that always seemed to follow her.

Hermione blinked, rag in hand. “You might try knocking.”

“I did. Twice.” Ginny grinned, flopping her coat over the back of a sofa. Her eyes swept the room with quick, assessing brightness. “But look at you, window open, shelves dusted. Did I wander into the wrong flat?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to straightening the row of books. “I’m just… catching up. Things I’ve fallen behind on.”

Ginny walked passed her and leaned her back against the counter, arms folded, her grin softening into something more perceptive. “Right.” She tapped a finger against the wood. “Or maybe you’re finally deciding you deserve to breathe fresh air once in a while.”

The rag stilled in Hermione’s hand. She turned the words over carefully, refusing to let them sting, refusing to let them land too close to where Bellatrix’s had cut earlier. “Don’t get carried away. It’s just dust.”

Ginny nodded, not pressing further, though her gaze was steady and knowing. Instead, she reached out, plucked a book from the shelf, and set it back askew just to earn the inevitable huff of irritation from Hermione.

“There,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Now it looks lived in again.”

Despite herself, Hermione laughed, a short, dry sound that cracked the tension in her chest. Ginny grinned wide in triumph, the moment light again, but her eyes still carried that glint of support: quiet, unwavering, and far more than her words admitted.

“So,” Ginny began, still leaning casually against the counter, “How’ve you been? Really?”

Hermione glanced out the window for a moment, watching the street bathed in early evening light, before turning back. Her mind flickered briefly to someone she couldn’t mention, a memory she wasn’t ready to unpack aloud. Instead, she forced herself to answer with the safer, mundane truths.

“Work, mostly,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And groceries today. Might try taking up drawing again. I’ve been meaning to.”

Ginny’s eyes lit up. “Drawing? That’s brilliant! You should absolutely do it. Don’t let it sit there collecting dust with the rest of your things.”

Hermione allowed herself a small, wry smile. “I’ll try. How about you?”

Ginny smiled, hands on her hips, energy uncontainable. “I’ve been busy. A few parties here and there… seeing a guy, well, dating, I guess. And spending time with everyone else. You know, the usual chaos.”

Hermione nodded, as she slowly walked over to her friend, listening while her fingers absently traced the edge of the counter. She kept her voice light, careful. “Sounds lively.”

Ginny tilted her head, curiosity sparkling. “So, anyone special on your end? Or is it all work and groceries?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not really. I’m not interested at the moment.”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose in playful disbelief. “No one at all? Come on, there’s always someone.”

“Well…” Hermione hesitated, before mentioning the obvios. “There’s Fleur, of course.”

Ginny’s grin widened mischievously. “Ah, Fleur! Always flirting, always teasing. So why haven’t you taken her up on it?”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed slightly, though she kept her tone steady. “It’s not that I’m not attracted to her. I just… don’t feel ready to date yet.”

Ginny laughed softly, warm and approving. “Fair enough. That’s honest. Better to wait than dive in when you’re not ready. But trust me, the girl’s hot, anyone would be lucky.”

Hermione gave a small smile, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, feeling the faint ease of this moment settle around them. Ginny’s presence was steady and comforting, letting Hermione speak in small, safe truths while other thoughts remained unspoken.

Ginny’s eyes flicked to the kettle sitting idle on the counter. “Tea?” she asked, nodding toward it.

Hermione straightened, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, please. I, uh, haven’t put it on yet.” She reached for the kettle, fumbling slightly with the stove.

Ginny stepped in with effortless ease, lifting the kettle and setting it on the burner. “I’ve got this,” she said, turning the knob with a practiced twist. The flame flickered to life, warm and orange against the cool light of the late afternoon, sending a small flicker of relief through Hermione.

“Thanks,” Hermione murmured, as she moved a stack of mail and papers aside and onto the coffee table. She caught herself pausing, noticing the thin layer of dust along the edge, and reached for a soft cloth. Ginny’s eyes caught the motion instantly.

“Coffee table, huh? Looks like it’s been waiting for a dusting forever.” Ginny grinned and knelt down beside Hermione, taking one end of the cloth. “Team effort?”

Hermione hesitated, then allowed it. They moved in sync across the surface, wiping away the film of neglect. The smooth wood reflected the muted light of the window, streaks of shine where they’d passed. Ginny hummed softly under her breath, the sound oddly grounding, filling the quiet spaces Hermione usually left empty.

“So,” Ginny said, pausing to scrub a stubborn corner, “What else have you been up to? Besides work, groceries, and plotting your dramatic return to drawing?”

Hermione smirked faintly. “I’ve not much to report. Mostly the same routine. Work, a few errands. The usual.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, smirk widening. “Merely the usual, huh? No spontaneous adventures, wild nights, or accidental disasters?”

Hermione chuckled quietly, shaking her head. “Not lately. I’ve been focusing.”

“Good,” Ginny said, nodding firmly. “You’ve got to make time for yourself, Hermione. Not just surviving.” She glanced up at her friend, eyes warm and teasing. “And don’t tell me you’ve been hoarding flour and biscuits for self-pity dinners either.”

Hermione laughed, the sound softer now, and she felt a flicker of ease. Was it really that noticeable? How she had given up on living and was merely surviving? Did everyone know?

They continued, wiping the last streaks from the coffee table, moving in comfortable, casual rhythm.

Steam from the kettle began to curl lazily into the room as Ginny poured the water over the tea bags, filling the mugs with warm, earthy aroma. The simple domesticity, the clink of spoons, the hiss of the kettle, the soft light fading outside, made the apartment feel less empty, less heavy.

“Do you ever think about… doing something completely different?” Ginny asked, twirling a spoon in her mug. “Like moving somewhere else, changing routines, trying something wild?”

Hermione stirred her tea thoughtfully, the warm cup comforting between her hands. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But… I don’t know if I’m ready for anything like that yet. Small steps feel… safer.”

Ginny nodded, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Small steps are still steps, Hermione. Even the tiniest ones count. Trust me.”

The room was quiet for a moment, save for the hum of the calming kettle and the distant sounds of the street below. Hermione let herself breathe a little, letting the comfort of Ginny’s presence settle around her, a gentle anchor against the tension she hadn’t quite shaken from earlier. Her best friend always knew how to calm her down, always knew how to broach subjects without being too harsh on her. Why couldn’t Bellatrix do the same?

Hermione’s mind inevitably drifted to the star that had entered her life. Bellatrix. The thought prickled at her consciousness like static electricity, irritating, impossible to ignore. How infuriating she was, with her sharp remarks, her unrelenting confidence, and the way she seemed to appear and disappear at will.

Yet beneath the irritation was an undeniable intrigue. There were questions Hermione wanted to ask, questions she dared not voice aloud, even to herself sometimes. How old was she? How many humans had she helped before, and what had their lives been like? What problems had driven them to need her? And that higher power she mentioned, what was it really? God? Something else entirely?

And then there was the part that unsettled Hermione the most: the sudden disappearance, the way Bellatrix could vanish at the blink of an eye, leaving Hermione stranded in the middle of a thought or a moment. Why had she left? Was it punishment, a test, or something else she wasn’t ready to understand?

Hermione swirled her tea absentmindedly, watching the amber liquid catch the light. The questions piled up, stacking like bricks in her chest, heavy but compelling. She couldn’t ignore her fascination, even as it mingled with exasperation. Bellatrix had arrived in her life like a comet, dazzling and dangerous, and Hermione didn’t know whether she was supposed to run from it or follow it wherever it led.

For all the infuriating contradictions, all the sharp edges that cut too close to the truth, Hermione felt the pull of curiosity stronger than any caution. She wanted answers, wanted to know what Bellatrix had seen, what she had done, why she had chosen her, but the words lodged stubbornly in her throat. How could she ask questions like that without sounding completely mad?

And so, she let the thoughts swirl in silence, letting the questions hover in the space between intrigue and frustration, unanswered but relentless.

Ginny’s laughter lingered in the doorway as she slung her coat over her shoulder. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Don’t let the dust settle completely before I get back!”

Hermione nodded, managing a small, polite smile as Ginny stepped out into the cool hall. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the flat bathed in the soft glow of lamplight and the muted hum of the city beyond. The silence pressed in, heavier now, and Hermione felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders.

She moved toward the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. The soft hiss of the flame, the quiet clink of metal, and the smell of heating water filled the room. The simple domesticity was grounding, but it also made the emptiness of the flat feel sharper.

Coffee in hand, Hermione carried her mug into the living room. Her gaze fell on the laundry basket tucked in the corner, half-forgotten amid the faint clutter of the day. With a sigh, she dragged it onto the sofa and began folding the clean clothes, trying to focus on the small, repetitive motions. Each shirt, each sock, was methodical, a way to anchor herself in the mundane. And then-

“Back so soon?”

The words sliced through her concentration like a knife. Hermione froze, clothing wrinkling between her fingers, and glanced toward the bedroom doorway. There, leaning casually in the dim light, was Bellatrix.

Her chest constricted, a mix of surprise and something Hermione wasn’t ready to name twisting in her stomach. “You’re… back,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Bellatrix’s expression was unreadable, calm, almost amused. “Of course,” she replied softly, stepping into the living room. “I had to come back.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the folded shirt in her lap, the ordinary weight of laundry suddenly heavy in contrast to the shock coursing through her. She blinked, trying to find her composure. “I… I didn’t expect you.”

Bellatrix’s eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. “I never said I’d leave you entirely,” she said, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s… part of my work.”

Hermione swallowed, her mind scrambling to reconcile the quiet evening she’d been trying to hold onto with the sudden intrusion of the star that had captured her attention so completely. Her heart was a fast drum in her chest, a mix of relief, awkwardness, and the tiniest, grudging gratitude that Bellatrix had returned when she had vanished.

Hermione shifted on the sofa, tugging the laundry basket a little closer as if it could shield her from the intensity of Bellatrix’s gaze. “I didn’t think you’d come back so soon,” she repeated, her voice a mix of surprise and lingering irritation.

Bellatrix moved a few steps closer, hands casually at her sides, but the air around her seemed to carry the same quiet authority it always did. “I warned you,” she said, her tone calm, almost gentle. “Running away isn’t part of the plan. I have to see this through.”

Hermione let out a small, frustrated huff. “Right. Of course. Your plan.” She folded a shirt quickly, the movement stiff, deliberate. “I just… I wasn’t expecting you. After earlier,” She gestured vaguely toward the empty space where their argument had ended in the grocery store.

Bellatrix’s expression softened just enough that Hermione felt a flicker of relief and annoyance all at once. “I know,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have left. But I had to.”

The quiet that followed was heavy, almost palpable. Hermione’s fingers hovered over the clothes in her lap. She didn’t quite know where to look, at Bellatrix, at the folded shirts, at nothing at all. The room felt smaller, charged with the weight of unspoken words.

Finally, Bellatrix tilted her head, eyes scanning Hermione’s tense posture. “Are you… glad I’m back?” she asked softly, as if testing the waters.

Hermione paused, heart stuttering at the question. She wanted to deny it, to claim indifference, but the truth pressed against her chest. She could only nod slightly, keeping her voice careful. “I guess.”

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Guessing isn’t enough,” she murmured, though there was no sharpness in her tone. “I know you appreciate it. Even if you won’t admit it.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten, caught between relief, gratitude, and lingering irritation. She returned her gaze to the laundry in her lap, folding another shirt with a little less tension in her shoulders. The clink of mugs from earlier still lingered faintly in the room, a soft reminder that not everything had to be conflict or confrontation.

“I suppose… you’re going to stay, then,” she said carefully, glancing up just long enough to catch the shadow of a nod.

“Yes,” Bellatrix replied simply. “I’m here. And we’ll pick up where we left off. Slowly. If that’s what it takes.”

Hermione let out a quiet breath, her hands resuming the folding of clothes with a steadier rhythm. The tension had not entirely left the room, but for the first time since their argument, there was a small, fragile sense of footing. A sense that they could, somehow, find their way back to a semblance of balance.

Hermione’s hands stilled over the folded laundry, and she took a deep breath, trying to steady the nervous flutter in her chest. The quiet in the flat seemed to press her forward, urging her to speak.

“So… um,” she began, voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

Bellatrix arched an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with effortless poise. “Depends. Will I like the question?”

Hermione hesitated, then plunged on. “How old are you? I mean… how long have you been… helping people?” Her words tumbled out in a rush, awkward and clipped. “And… how many humans have you helped before me?”

Bellatrix’s lips curved into that faint, teasing smile Hermione had come to recognize. “That’s quite a barrage,” she said softly, lifting herself up to sit on the edge of the counter. “Let’s see… age is irrelevant, really. As for how many… more than a few. And you’re far from the first to need… guidance.”

Hermione blinked, a flush creeping up her neck, and pressed on despite herself. “And… the higher power you mentioned, what is it? God? Or… something else?”

Bellatrix tilted her head, as if weighing how much to reveal. “It depends on what you believe, Dustling. Some call it God, some something different. Names are less important than understanding the role it plays. And the why of it… well.” She let the pause hang, letting Hermione fill it with her imagination. “Some answers you must see for yourself.”

Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing the partial answers. Her mind spun with more questions, but something in Bellatrix’s calm, almost playful manner made her dare to ask one final thing. “Why did you disappear earlier?”

Bellatrix’s eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and quiet authority. “Because sometimes even I have to remind humans why they need help. Leaving you to stew for a moment… teaches patience. Or irritation. Either way, lessons aren’t always pleasant.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh softly, the tension easing slightly. “Infuriating,” she muttered.

Bellatrix shrugged, a glint of mischief in her gaze. “You said it yourself.”

With a fluid motion, she pushed off the counter and crossed to the opposite sofa, perching gracefully on its cushion. The small shift in position made the room feel cozier somehow, giving Hermione a chance to relax further against the other sofa with her mug in hand.

“So,” Bellatrix said, tilting her head with a sly grin, “You’ve been folding laundry, drinking tea… planning to tackle the dust bunnies under the sofa next?”

Hermione laughed, a little louder this time, shaking her head. “Maybe not tonight. But don’t tempt me.”

Bellatrix’s smile deepened. “Good. Small steps, right?”

“Yes,” Hermione said quietly, the word carrying a hint of relief. “Small steps.”

They settled into the quiet banter that followed, simple, domestic, and strangely comforting. The room hummed with warmth, the tension of earlier dissipating as they began to rebuild their rhythm, awkward at first, then slowly, comfortably, like two stars learning to orbit each other without collision.

The laundry had been finished for a while, and the coffee exchanged with easy conversation when Bellatrix leaned back against the sofa, stretching her legs lazily, a faint grin tugging at her lips. “You know,” she said, voice low and teasing, “There was this one time, many years ago… helping someone. Let’s just say the method wasn’t entirely legal, but it was fun.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, wary. “Not legal?”

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Oh, I was having a bit of fun while helping, you see. Ended up breaking a priceless vase in the process.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Blamed it on a passerby. You should’ve seen his face, completely innocent, utterly confused.”

Hermione gasped, half in horror, half in disbelief. “That’s… terrible! You, how could you?!”

Bellatrix’s laugh was low and rich, curling around the room. “Relax. The man turned out to be a wanted criminal anyway. No harm done to the innocent, just a little… creative justice.”

Hermione shook her head, still laughing despite herself. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, incredulous but thoroughly amused.

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a faint, amused smile. “So you keep saying,” she replied lightly, letting the words hang as the room settled into a quiet, comfortable hush.

They lapsed into a soft, companionable silence, the gentle hum of the city outside filling the space. Hermione found herself leaning a little further into the sofa cushions, her eyelids heavy from the day’s activities.

“I’m tired,” she admitted, stretching her arms above her head. Then, almost impulsively, she asked, “Where did you sleep last night? And where will you sleep tonight?”

Bellatrix’s gaze softened just slightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage. You get some rest. That’s more important.”

Hermione stared at her for a long moment, surprised by the simple, caring tone. Somehow, even though her other friends had said similar things countless times, she had never felt the warmth that settled in her chest now. A quiet, inexplicable comfort that made her pulse ease and her mind rest, if only a little.

She sipped her last sip of coffee, feeling the exhaustion of the day weigh pleasantly against the strange, satisfying feeling of being cared for. And for the first time that evening, she allowed herself to truly relax, letting the soft laughter, the gentle presence of Bellatrix, and the calm of the apartment lull her toward the rest she so badly needed.

The soft banter lingered in her mind as she placed the last piece of the laundry into the basket, a quiet echo of warmth she couldn’t entirely explain, but that she knew she wanted to remember.

“I should go then,” she murmured, her voice soft, hesitant.

Bellatrix lifted her gaze from the other sofa, a faint, approving smile tugging at her lips. “You do that. I’ll be fine,” she said calmly.

Hermione nodded, a small, content smile tugging at her own lips. “Goodnight,” she said, rising and making her way toward the bedroom.

From the opposite sofa, Bellatrix’s voice followed her, teasing but warm. “Goodnight, Dustling.”

Hermione paused at the doorway, letting the nickname curl gently in her chest. She smiled faintly, a soft warmth spreading through her as she closed the door behind her. The apartment fell quiet, the echo of laughter and banter lingering in the air, leaving her with a quiet, satisfying sense of comfort she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Predictable Chaos

The memory of last night lingered faintly in her mind. After shutting her bedroom door, Hermione had slipped into the cool night air, six hidden cans waiting where she’d stashed them hours earlier, before Bellatrix’s sudden appearance had disrupted the evening. She’d cracked the first open without ceremony, letting the hiss of carbonation drown out the hum of her thoughts. One can became two, then three, until the moon had sunk lower and the world blurred pleasantly at the edges. Bellatrix would never know; she’d seen Hermione retreat straight to her room, the perfect picture of avoidance.

Hermione tried to wash the thoughts from her mind as she dragged herself through the revolving doors of her office building, coffee in hand, the weight of the weekend still clinging stubbornly to her shoulders. The lobby was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the thud of her soles against the old tiled floor.

As she approached the elevator, she noticed Neville crouched by the security desk, fumbling with the sign in sheet. A small wave and a tired smile were exchanged, enough to remind her that some things had stayed reliably ordinary.

The elevator doors slid open, and a soft voice followed her inside. “Bonjour, Hermione,” said Fleur, her accent wrapping around the greeting like silk. She leaned casually against the wall, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You always seem… so serious, no?”

Hermione blinked, momentarily taken off guard by the blonde beauty that worked a couple floors below her office. “Oh, I’m … just focused, I suppose,” she murmured.

Fleur smiled, a teasing curl to her lips. “Focused, yes, but life is for enjoying, non? Even at work.” Her gaze lingered just long enough to unsettle Hermione, a hint of flirtation dancing in the corners of her smile.

The elevator dinged at Fleur’s floor. “Au revoir, Hermione,” she said, brushing her shoulder with a perfectly manicured hand with effortless elegance. “Try to have a little fun today.”

Hermione watched the doors close, a strange flutter in her chest she couldn’t quite name. She shook it off and pressed the button for her floor, reminding herself that work awaited, and that some distractions were better left unexplored.

Hermione settled at an unused table at the back stock office, the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the faint clatter of keyboards filling the space. A stack of paperwork waited in neat piles on her left, forms that demanded approvals and more than a few corrections. She gently put on her reading glasses and began shifting through them, the rhythm of stamping and filing grounding her in something resembling order.

A familiar voice called softly from the door. “Hermione, do you have a minute?” Neville appeared at her side, a folder clutched under his arm. “I, uh, wanted to check the budget summary for last week. I think I messed up a line item.”

Hermione glanced up, offering a small, tired smile. Even though she was simply a filing assistant, Neville knew she was a genius at statistics, among many more things. If he hadn’t known of Hermione’s past, he’d wonder what was keeping her in that dead end job. “Of course, Neville. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She leaned over his folder, pointing to a figure and muttering a quiet correction. Neville nodded earnestly, grateful, and scurried back to his desk, leaving Hermione to the quieter hum of her work.

The momentary distraction had barely faded when a sharp voice cut across the office. “Hermione!” Her boss stood at the edge of the room entrance, arms crossed, eyes scanning the table critically. “I need these reports revised before lunch. This delay is unacceptable.”

Hermione exhaled through her nose, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I understand Mr. Mercer. I’ll finish them right away,” she said, forcing her voice steady despite the tightening in her chest. She returned to the paperwork, the pen scratching against paper, each signature and correction bringing a sense of small relief and a reminder that she was, somehow, managing.

The day dragged on, punctuated by more papers piling on the table, requests for copies, and the occasional mumbled help from Neville as he apparently kept having trouble with his forms. The light outside shifted subtly through the window blinds, signaling that the afternoon was advancing faster than she had realized. She paused to stretch, glancing at the clock, and then down at the next pile of forms waiting for her.

Hermione pushed the last folder aside, rubbing at her temples as she tried to focus on the final forms. Yet, despite the hum of the office and the scattered papers around her, her mind kept wandering.

Bellatrix.

She couldn’t help but wonder what the star was doing at this exact moment; whether she was patrolling, observing someone, or simply resting somewhere unknown, utterly calm and untouchable. The thought tugged at her, a mix of curiosity and unease curling in her chest.

She shook her head slightly, trying to push the distractions away, but the memory of Bellatrix’s presence, the sharp remarks, the faint teasing smile, the way she could appear and vanish without warning, lingered in her mind like a stubborn echo. It was impossible not to think about her, no matter how mundane the day had been, no matter how many reports demanded attention.

The clock ticked on, the office chatter buzzing faintly behind her, and Hermione found herself tapping a pen absentmindedly against the desk. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from the thought, only that it refused to leave her alone.

By the time Hermione gathered her coat and backpack, the office had thinned out, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. She tucked the last of the paperwork into the awaiting form basket and stepped into the elevator, the soft hum and gentle sway offering a brief moment of solitude.

The ride down was quiet, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Bellatrix, as if the star had woven herself into Hermione’s day without permission. What was she doing now? Watching, waiting? Or had she moved on, leaving Hermione alone again in the mundane rhythms of her life? The questions pressed uncomfortably at the back of her mind, refusing to be ignored.

The elevator doors pinged open, and Hermione stepped into the lobby, expecting silence. Instead, there was Bellatrix, leaning against the wall with her usual effortless poise, dark eyes fixed on Hermione the moment she appeared. She was dressed in similar clothes as days before; plain black ankle boots, form fitting black slacks, a finely pressed long sleeve shirt and an unbuttoned elegant coat to top it off; h er hair tumbling effortlessly over her shoulders.  

“Finally,” she said, voice calm but carrying the weight of expectation.

Hermione paused, blinking. “You’re … here?”

Bellatrix tilted her head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. I have work for you to do tonight, Dustling. We’re not letting your evening dissolve into excuses.”

Hermione’s stomach sank slightly at the reminder, but before she could argue, Bellatrix was already moving toward the door. “Dinner,” she said decisively, “and no debates about this time.”

Hermione hesitated, thinking of her, mostly bare, fridge in her mind. “I-”

“Don’t think. Move,” Bellatrix interrupted smoothly, already heading down the street. “You need nourishment, and I’m not letting you skimp.”

Hermione sighed but fell into step beside her, the late afternoon air crisp against her cheeks. She could feel Bellatrix’s eyes on her, assessing, commanding, and despite the irritation twisting in her chest, there was that familiar pull of curiosity she couldn’t quite shake.

The streets were alive with the early evening rush, neon signs flickering as cars rumbled past, and the scent of street food drifting faintly from nearby vendors. Bellatrix led the way with an effortless poise, shoulders squared, stride confident, as though the city itself was merely a stage for her to glide across. Hermione followed, the weight of her bag and her own indecision slowing her slightly, though she tried to match Bellatrix’s rhythm.

“You move like you’ve been practiced in everything,” Hermione remarked quietly, more to herself than to Bellatrix, as she stepped around a puddle reflecting the neon glow.

Bellatrix’s head tilted slightly, dark eyes glinting. “I have,” she replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Experience is a luxury few humans have. And one I take seriously.”

As they walked, a street vendor approached them, holding out a brightly colored flyer. “Hey, miss! Free samples tonight! Come check it out!”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed, and she waved a hand with sharp precision, the motion almost cutting through the air. “I do not require your pitiful enticements,” she said coldly, stepping around the vendor. The vendor muttered something under his breath and shuffled off.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said softly, managing to gain Bellatrix’s attention long enough for her to turn and look at her. “You’ve been here before, on earth,” she whispered the last bit. “You said you’ve helped people before, which means you’ve had to have had some sort of socialization with humans for an unknown amount of time.”

“Your point being?” Bellatrix arched a perfectly shaped brow and they continued their stride down the street.

“Well, you don’t really seem to have the best social skills.” Hermione turned to look at her companion who appeared as if her question had made no sense at all.

“I’ll ask again Dustling, your point being?”

“My point is, how can a being like yourself have dedicated time of their existence to helping humans better their life without actually knowing how to connect with them?” The question made Bellatrix stop in her tracks and look at her younger companion. Hermione herself stopped as well waiting for a response, but it appeared she wasn’t getting one. “I-I mean,” she stuttered, suddenly feeling hot under the collar under Bellatrix’s scrutinizing gaze. “Well, I haven’t seen many encounters between you and others,” she stepped slightly closer to her companion a passerby bumped her shoulder on his way by. “Still though, I don’t think you have the best interactive skills. And there-…can we move? Jesus, we’re in the middle of the sidewalk,” Hermione grumbled as she made her way to the closest shop and waited for Bellatrix to follow. With a disgruntled sigh and a roll of her eyes, the star walked towards her, pushing a lady to the side as she did so.

“Hey, watch it!” came the angry remark.

“Oh fuck off!” Bellatrix barked, effectively making the stranger turn tale and run. It amazed Hermione the kind of energy the star could irradiate. Apparently, frightening humans away was as easy as breathing for the celestial being. The people around her gave her a large birth as she took her final steps to stand next to the awaiting brunette.

“You were saying?” the dark-haired woman asked sarcastically.

“That’s what I’m referring to!” Hermione sighed as she pointed to the woman who had just ran away. “It’s not normal the way you treat us. How can you do what you do without being understanding or empathetic? You act like we’re beneath you.”

“You are,” came Bellatrix’s bored statement.

Hermione simply deflated. She took the moment to really look at the woman in front of her. There was nothing normal about her. Every inch of her aspect screamed perfection. Even in the damp weather, her curls were shiny and refined. Her skin unblemished, as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Her facial features were as polishedl as a roman sculpture; they seemed carved out of marble as well. And her body … what a body. Hermione’s eyes roamed shamelessly down her companion’s form, honey-colored eyes taking in every detail of the seductive shape in front of her. If anyone would pay her any attention, like really pay attention, surely they would realize she was too perfect to be from this world, wouldn’t they?

Hermione slowly brought her eyes back up to meet the confused ones of the star, a quizzical look adorned Bellatrix’s face and it made her look the most innocent Hermione had seen her. “If you weren’t a celestial being, I’d take that as an insult,” she sighed defeatedly, realizing there was a long way to go in gaining some semblance of understanding from the star.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes dismissively, her expression cool. “I care not for these humans,” she motioned to the passersby with a wave of her hand. “I care for the outcome of who I’m sent to help. Humans are predictable, in their flaws and their triumphs alike. That is sufficient.”

Hermione sighed, a small huff escaping. “Predictable or not, we’re messy, I’m messy. And sometimes, understanding the mess matters.”

Bellatrix’s gaze softened slightly at that, though the faintest glint of haughtiness never left her. “Perhaps. But messiness is tolerated at my discretion. You, on the other hand, need to focus on your nourishment.”

Hermione shot her a half-smile, though the faint tension in her chest remained. “Right. The nourishment that requires me to eat takeout because I’ve barely anything in my fridge.”

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a faint smile, almost approving. “Even after your little field trip to that sad excuse of a grocery store, your refrigerator is still lacking most of its essentials. You’ve learned to survive on the bare minimum long enough. Tonight, survival will be elevated.”

Hermione snorted softly, though a small part of her felt relief at Bellatrix’s insistence. “You really have a way of making even dinner feel like a moral crusade.”

“Do not mistake care for indulgence. I am here to do my job is all,” Bellatrix replied, dark eyes scanning the street as though evaluating every passerby for their utility. “Let’s get moving, there are too many of you out here to have to tolerate any longer.”

As they resumed walking, Hermione glanced at the older woman, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of Bellatrix’s face. “You’re infuriating,” she mumbled but lacked any real malice.

Bellatrix’s smirk deepened, a teasing edge to her voice. “Infuriating, perhaps, but not inaccurate. My concerns are not with the humans themselves, but with the imbalance of their lives. You are mine to guide in this, not them.”

A neon sign of the Chinese restaurant came into view ahead, casting a warm, golden glow across the pavement. The scent of sizzling dishes and garlic drifted toward them, mingling with the faint breeze from the street. Bellatrix slowed, allowing Hermione to catch up, and her posture softened almost imperceptibly as she glanced at Hermione.

“Tell me of your day, Dustling,” she said, voice quieter now, almost curious. “The office, the humans, the mundane.”

Hermione shrugged lightly, still trying to ignore the pull of Bellatrix’s gaze. “It was uneventful. Paperwork, copies, Neville showing up a couple of times, and my boss yelling at me at one point.” She let out a small laugh, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing exciting, really. Just work.”

Bellatrix nodded slowly, her eyes glinting faintly under the streetlights. “Noted,” she said softly.

The warm glow of the restaurant door was just ahead, the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes spilling out into the street. Bellatrix reached it first, pushing it open with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Then let us proceed. Nourishment, Dustling. And perhaps, tonight, a lesson in the proper way to dine as well.”

Hermione followed her inside, the warmth and aroma of sizzling oil, soy, and garlic enveloped them immediately, a sharp contrast to the brisk evening air outside. The small chatter of patrons and the clatter of takeout containers filled the space with a low, steady hum.

They moved toward the line, Hermione shuffling slightly to keep pace with Bellatrix’s longer,  b confident strides. The hum of conversation was punctuated by the hiss of the fryer and the squeak of the floor under the weight of hurried steps.

“So, nothing special about your day then?” Bellatrix asked, her voice softer than usual, almost conversational as she scanned the menu hanging above the counter.

Hermione hesitated, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like I said, just the same old.” She paused, glancing at Bellatrix. “And you?”

“I observed,” Bellatrix replied smoothly. “Nothing particularly taxing. Humans move in predictable patterns during the workday, chaos contained by routine. It’s… tolerable at most”

Hermione chuckled faintly, shaking her head. “Predictable chaos. That does sound like you.”

The line moved forward, a couple of families ahead of them, children tugging at the hems of their parents’ jackets. Bellatrix’s gaze swept the room in her usual unflinching manner before settling back on Hermione. “And yet, you managed your day despite it. That is what counts.”

When they reached the cashier, Bellatrix leaned slightly forward, her dark eyes brightening with a faint amusement. She smiled, just enough to soften the sharp angles of her face and spoke with an effortless charm.

“What menu do you want, darling?” she asked, voice lilting, perfectly polite.

Hermione froze for a fraction of a second, the word “darling” lingering in the air, a spark of confusion flickering across her face. “Uh… number 4, I guess,” she murmured, still a little dumbfounded.

Bellatrix’s smile deepened faintly, as she directed her attention to the cashier and proceeded to place the order with practiced ease. Hermione then handed over the payment and stepped aside, allowing herself to be led toward a small, unoccupied table. Bellatrix, like a complete gentleman, pulled out Hermione’s chair and allowed her to sit first, leaving her even more surprised than she previously was. The hum of conversation, the hiss of steam from the hot food, and the faint smell of sesame oil enveloped them as they settled near a window.

Hermione finally broke the silence, curiosity nudging at the edge of her thoughts. “What was that back there? ‘Darling’? You don’t do that with people.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, dark eyes meeting Hermione’s with that unreadable glint she always carried. “I am perfectly capable of being polite to humans,” she said smoothly. “I simply prefer not to. Most of them are tiresome, irritating, and beneath consideration.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, incredulous, tilting her head. “Because you think yourself better than them?”

Bellatrix didn’t blink. Her gaze sharpened, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at her lips. “I am better than them,” she said plainly, voice calm, almost proud. “It is not arrogance, Dustling. It is fact. That does not mean I cannot operate within their rules when it suits me. Politeness is a tool, not a necessity.”

Hermione stared at her, a mix of exasperation and awe twisting in her chest. Everything seemed to fade into the background as she processed Bellatrix’s words. Somehow, the star’s arrogance was infuriating and compelling at the same time, making her pulse quicken just slightly.

“Although,” Bellatrix sighed in irritation, “Patience is something I most definitely do not entertain.”

Now, it was Hermione’s turn to smirk. “Oh, come now darling, we are but simple humans. We require time to manage the difficult task that is cooking,” she smiled sweetly as she patted one of Bellatrix’s hands. “We must continue waiting with patience.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased just a little. She sank into her chair opposite Hermione, waiting.

Bellatrix carried the takeout bag with one hand, her other swinging loosely at her side as they stepped back into the cool night. The streets were quieter now, the evening crowd thinning into scattered figures and the distant hum of traffic. Streetlights cast long, golden reflections on the wet pavement from an earlier rain, making the sidewalks shimmer like liquid amber.

Hermione fell into step beside Bellatrix, the brush of the bag slightly pressing against her knuckles as they walked. “You know,” she began, hesitant at first, “It’s weird. I used to think quiet nights like this were, lonely. But walking, right now, it doesn’t feel like that. I mean, it’s, different.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, regarding her with that faint, inscrutable smirk. “Loneliness is a construct, Dustling. It is only meaningful if one allows it to be. One can exist surrounded by people and still be utterly alone, or walk alone and feel complete.”

Hermione laughed softly, a breathless, quiet sound. “I wish I had your confidence. Or your lack of care for what others think.”

“Confidence, lack of care… labels humans attach to things they do not understand,” Bellatrix said, voice even, almost teasing. “I simply act in accordance with my desires. The rest is irrelevant.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a few blocks, passing the shuttered windows of closed shops and the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a diner still serving late. Hermione’s mind drifted from her own chaotic thoughts to Bellatrix’s effortless stride, the dark coat brushing past lampposts, the sharp glint in her eyes whenever she glanced at her surroundings.

A few steps later, Hermione slowed, pointing to a small corner store tucked into the corner of the street. “Wait here a second,” she said, as she motioned where she was heading. “You don’t need to, well, humiliate the clerk while I grab something.”

Bellatrix’s lips twitched in a smirk, but she didn’t object. “I am perfectly capable of refraining,” she said, her tone faintly mocking but composed.

Hermione slipped inside, the bell above the door jingling softly. She moved quickly down the aisles, snatching a six-pack of beer without hesitation and paying at the counter, careful to avoid the clerk’s eyes. When she stepped back into the night, Bellatrix was waiting, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she spotted the clinking in Hermione’s bag.

“Ah,” Bellatrix murmured, her voice low, sharp. “And here it is. The indulgence I warned against.”

Hermione froze mid-step. “I-It’s just… one step at a time, okay? I at least ate. I’m not drinking on an empty stomach.”

Bellatrix’s expression darkened. “Dustling, that is a poor excuse. One step? You are wallowing in indulgence and expecting progress to follow. That is not how change occurs. You must act, not justify.”

Hermione’s hands clenched at her sides, her voice rising slightly. “Act? I am acting! Eating, going out, even walking home with you! You think you can just order me around and it’s all fixed? I’m trying!”

Bellatrix stopped in her tracks, her gaze cutting into Hermione’s with a precise intensity that made the air between them taut. “Trying is insufficient. You must do more. You will do more. This is not optional.”

Hermione swallowed hard, feeling a mix of frustration, shame, and anger rising. She kicked at a small stone on the sidewalk, watching it roll into the gutter, before muttering, “I’m trying the best I can, okay?”

Bellatrix’s dark eyes didn’t soften. “The best is meaningless without direction. I will not permit stagnation.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, gripping the bag tighter as they continued walking, the clinking of the cans echoing faintly in the quiet street. Each step forward carried an unspoken tension, the night pressing in around them, heavy with unsaid words and the sharp scent of determination mingling with the city air.

By the time they reached Hermione’s flat, the city’s lights had dimmed further, leaving the sidewalks almost empty. Bellatrix held the takeout and Hermione’s bag effortlessly, the weight of the hidden drinks clearly evident. Hermione unlocked the door with a trembling hand, and the familiar smell of her apartment, the faint musk of old books and leftover meals, hit her like a reminder of all she hadn’t managed to fix.

As soon as they stepped inside, Bellatrix set the bags on the counter with deliberate care, eyes scanning the cramped kitchen like a general inspecting a camp. “Now,” she said, a note of condescension in her voice, “Before anything else happens, be sure to put the leftovers away. And clean that table while you’re at it.”

Hermione flinched, folding her arms defensively. “It’s just dinner, Bellatrix. Take it easy.”

Bellatrix’s gaze slid over her like a blade, sharp and calculating. “Take it easy? Take it easy? That is precisely your problem, Dustling. You approach life as though it were a soft cushion, as if effort were optional, and indulgence harmless. That is why you fail.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, but she forced herself to speak. “I’m trying. I’m doing what I can, okay? That’s all anyone can ask.”

Bellatrix’s dark eyes glimmered with faint amusement, though it didn’t soften the sting of her words. “Ah, your naivety. You are doing, yes, but without discipline. Without direction. One does not merely exist and hope for improvement. That is child’s play.”

Hermione’s voice rose, frustration cracking through. “I am trying! You act like I’m lazy or something, but eating dinner, walking with you, even going to the store - that’s progress!”

Bellatrix leaned closer, tilting her head with a hint of mockery. “Progress? Mere survival? That is not progress, little human. That is the bare minimum. You claim effort, but your actions speak differently.”

Hermione clenched her fists, her anger mingling with hurt. “You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? Always judging, always criticizing, never understanding. You’ve helped humans so much, yet you don’t really get them at all.”

Bellatrix’s smirk flickered but didn’t vanish. “Humans are irrelevant to me. I care not for them beyond what serves the purpose of guidance and correction. Understanding is unnecessary. I direct, I do not coddle.”

Hermione’s eyes filled, frustration bubbling over into bitter tears. She turned toward the counter, yanking open the bag and pulling out a single can of beer. “Well, maybe I need someone who does, then! Maybe I need…” her voice broke, “…someone who gets that it’s not all just black and white!”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed, voice low but sharp, cutting into the air like a whip. “That is precisely why you falter. You cling to excuses, to comforts, to indulgences, expecting leniency where none is granted. One cannot change while drowning in sentimentality and self-pity.”

Hermione slammed the beer can down on the counter. “I’m not ready to just stop yet!”

Bellatrix’s gaze hardened, her voice calm but lethal in its precision. “Then your steps will remain insufficient. Until you commit fully, truly, you will remain in stagnation. I will not tolerate half-measures. And do not imagine I will stay to watch you waste away in indulgence.”

Before Hermione could reply, Bellatrix turned, her coat brushing the floor as she strode toward the door. Without another word, she vanished into the night, leaving a silence heavy with anger, regret, and helplessness.

Hermione sank onto the couch, hot tears spilling freely. The left over takeout lay on the counter, forgotten. Her fingers fumbled for the can of beer, lifting it in a trembling hand, the clinking of the cap a cruel reminder of what she had just defied, and what she was about to surrender to.

The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant rumble of the city outside. Hermione lay sprawled across the sofa, one arm hanging over the edge, her hair a tangled mess around her face. The cans of beer, now empty, had rolled onto the floor. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, caught between drunken slumber and emotional exhaustion.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes; time had lost all meaning. Somewhere deep in the haze of her sleep, a soft pressure nudged at her shoulder. She stirred, mumbling incoherently, but didn’t wake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, warmth enveloped her.

A blanket, thick and heavy, settled over her frame. It smelled faintly of smoke and cold night air, the kind of scent that made her subconscious register comfort even as she remained unconscious. She twitched slightly but didn’t open her eyes, sinking deeper into the sofa as the warmth spread over her.

Bellatrix stood just for a moment, eyes surveying Hermione’s slumped form with her usual haughty appraisal softened by …. something else. Concern, perhaps, though she would never admit it aloud. Carefully, she adjusted the blanket so that it tucked around Hermione without disturbing her further.

Satisfied that she was warm, Bellatrix turned to leave, her footsteps light and deliberate. She paused at the door, her gaze lingering on Hermione for a fraction of a second longer before she disappeared into the shadows of the night, leaving the flat once again steeped in silence.

Hermione remained unaware, her sleep undisturbed, warmth enveloping her like a quiet promise she wouldn’t understand until morning.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Not A Broken Object

Hermione woke to the sour taste of beer on her tongue and the dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes. The blanket draped over her, heavy, warm and strangely comforting, didn’t belong on the couch. She blinked up at it, confusion flickering through her foggy mind before the memories of the previous night hit her in jagged pieces.

Bellatrix, the fight, the accusation, the door closing behind her. And then… nothing.

Hermione groaned softly and pulled herself upright, the blanket pooling around her waist. The apartment was dim, sunlight barely breaking through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor. The empty cans clattered as her foot nudged them aside, each metallic echo slicing through her already pounding skull.

She scrubbed a hand over her face and let it fall, only then noticing her phone on the coffee table, the screen dark except for the faint smudge of fingerprints. For a moment she just stared at it, the shape of it blurring and sharpening as her vision tried to cooperate.

When she finally picked it up, the time punched through the haze in her head, she was late. Very late. Even if she sprinted into the shower right now, even if she swallowed three painkillers and forced herself to look human, she’d never make it to work in time. Her stomach twisted, not just from the hangover, but from the lingering weight of last night. The argument. Bellatrix’s face. The way everything had gone so wrong so fast.

She felt like absolute trash, and for once, she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise. Going in like this would be pointless. Worse than pointless. She could already imagine her boss’s reaction tomorrow, the snap of irritation, the passive-aggressive comments about “commitment” and “professionalism.” She should care. Normally she would. Today though, she couldn’t bring herself to.

Hermione opened her messaging app with a sluggish swipe, thumbs hovering only a moment before she typed out a short, clipped message to work, saying she was feeling ill, that she wouldn’t be able to come in. Then she hit send without letting herself think about the docked pay or the fallout waiting for her.

She touched the blanket again, thick, dark, neatly folded before she’d messed it up. She studied it, remembered she had washed and stored that blanket in her closet 2 weeks ago. And now she had no memory of how it ended up on her sleeping form. Holding it up to her nose, she noticed it smelled faintly like cold air and something smoky and ancient, as if it had been woven from a sky that no longer existed.

“Bellatrix,” she whispered, the word trembling in her throat. Hermione pressed her palms against her face. Shame bloomed hot and heavy across her chest. She’d shouted. She’d cried. She’d clawed for excuses, like always. And yet Bellatrix had returned, briefly, silently, only to cover her and leave again.

“Why… why would she do that?” Hermione whispered into the quiet.

Her heart twisted painfully. Bellatrix must have seen her like this. Drunk. Weak. A mess on the sofa with nothing but cans to keep her company. Humiliation crawled up Hermione’s spine, making her stomach churn worse than the alcohol ever could.

She dragged herself into the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the ache in her chest. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a towel and exhaustion, the morning had crept further along, turning the dim stripes of sunlight into harsh bands of gold.

Hermione dressed slowly, jeans, an oversized sweater, comfort clothes, her mind drifting through the night on repeat. Bellatrix’s voice lingered the loudest:

“Trying is insufficient. One cannot change while drowning. I will not tolerate half-measures.”

Hermione slammed her drawer shut, the sound echoing through the quiet flat. “I am trying,” she murmured bitterly, as if arguing with a ghost. But her voice broke on the last word.

By midday, the apartment felt too small, too tight, too suffocating. Hermione made herself tea but didn’t drink it. She tried reading but couldn’t focus. She paced. She sat. She stood again. Bellatrix had vanished without giving instruction for the day, no cryptic remarks, no orders, no hovering presence that made Hermione both furious and comforted at the same time. For the first time since Bellatrix arrived, the silence felt unbearable.

She was halfway through contemplating a walk when a faint ripple, like a shift in the air pressure, prickled across her skin.

Hermione stiffened.

A soft, almost imperceptible glow pulsed in the corner of the room, not bright, not showy, but unmistakable. The air shimmered like distant heat waves, bending the light until a shape formed.

Bellatrix.

She stepped out of the distortions with her usual seamless grace, though her expression was unreadable, sharper around the edges than Hermione remembered from last night, or maybe Hermione simply saw more now. Hermione’s breath hitched.

“You’re back.”

Bellatrix’s eyes flicked to her, cool and assessing. “I never left,” she said quietly, as though the distinction mattered. “I merely observed from a distance.”

Hermione swallowed. “Why?”

“Because you needed rest,” Bellatrix replied. “And because your… emotional outburst required space. Humans often need solitude to process their immaturity.”

Hermione flinched. “I wasn’t being immature.”

Bellatrix raised a brow. “Then what would you call drinking yourself into unconsciousness after demanding leniency and refusing progress?”

Hermione looked away. “I was overwhelmed.”

“That is evident.” The star moved closer, her presence like a shift in gravity. Hermione’s throat tightened.

“You came back,” Hermione said softly, more admission than accusation. “Even after I yelled. After I… everything.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, dark curls spilling over one shoulder. “You are my assignment, Dustling. Nothing more. My involvement is not dictated by your emotional performances.”

Hermione nodded, cheeks burning. “Right. Of course.”

But Bellatrix didn’t look away. Instead, her gaze lingered, deeper, more searching, like she was peeling back layers Hermione didn’t know she still had.

“You were upset,” Bellatrix said at last, voice gentler in tone but not volume. “Your emotions were… volatile. It is expected, considering your condition.”

“My condition?” Hermione snapped, irritation flaring through the shame. “I’m not sick.”

“You are grieving,” Bellatrix stated simply. “And your grief has become a habit. One you indulge. One you retreat to. One you cling to because it is familiar.”

Hermione’s breath faltered. “You don’t know what I’ve lost.”

Bellatrix stepped closer, too close, until the faint scent of campfire and cold morning air brushed Hermione’s skin.

“No,” she said, voice low, “because you will not allow yourself to speak of it.” Hermione stared, words trapped in her chest. Bellatrix’s expression softened, barely, like frost warming by a degree. “I cannot help you,” she murmured, “if you refuse to let me see the truth.”

Silence fell between them, thick and heavy.

Hermione swallowed hard. “I’m scared,” she said finally, barely a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it because if I do, it becomes real again.”

Bellatrix nodded slowly, her gaze never wavering. “Then we will approach it piece by piece. But not today.”

Hermione blinked. “Not today?”

“No,” Bellatrix said softly. “Today, you will walk with me. Clear your mind. And you will not bring alcohol.”

Hermione sighed weakly, but the fight in her had drained away. “Fine.”

Bellatrix’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Good girl.”

Hermione’s heart stopped. Heat flooded her cheeks instantly, so sudden and fierce she thought she might combust on the spot. Bellatrix’s eyes widened a fraction, realizing what she’d said, but she didn’t retract it. If anything, she seemed faintly amused.

Hermione looked away quickly. “Just… let me get my shoes.” Bellatrix stepped aside, still watching her with a gaze like burning midnight.

As Hermione slipped her feet into her trainers, one trembling hand braced against the wall, she couldn’t stop thinking of the blanket, of the careful way it had been tucked around her, of the ghostly scent of stars lingering on her skin. Or the way Bellatrix had said good girl like it was a verdict, a promise, a crack of light through her battered chest.

When Hermione finally straightened, Bellatrix opened the door with a small, elegant wave of her hand. “Come,” she murmured. “The day awaits you.”

Hermione stepped into the hallway, pulse unsteady, breath uneven, the air cool against her flushed cheeks. Bellatrix followed close behind, her presence warm, powerful, terrifying, and impossible to resist. And for the first time in months, Hermione realized she wasn’t anxious about the day ahead.

Stepping out of the building, Hermione winced as sunlight ricocheted off a passing car, stabbing straight through her skull, as a result pulling her sweater sleeve up to shield her face a little. Bellatrix glanced sideways, brows knitting.

“You are… shrinking,” she observed.

“I’m hungover,” Hermione groaned.

“Hun… gover?” Bellatrix repeated the word slowly, tasting it as something foreign and mildly offensive.

Hermione exhaled through her nose. “It’s a type of human suffering. I… caused it to myself.”

Bellatrix suddenly stopped walking, giving her a confused glance. “Why would you willingly injure yourself?”

“It’s complicated,” Hermione sighed, squinting her eyes to look at the slightly taller star next to her.

“Most human faults are,” Bellatrix replies, resuming her pace with a faint, irritated swish of her hair. “Walk. Slowly, if you must.”

So, Hermione followed, still covering her eyes. Bellatrix watched the gesture with unnerving intensity, not concerned, but curious, like a scientist studying an oddly behaving creature. Her gaze lifted to the sky. The sun glints against her like it recognizes her.

“This light bothers you,” she stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, it’s too bright,” Hermione nodded weakly.

Bellatrix hummed, low and thoughtful. “I have never found the sun unpleasant.”

“Well, you’re a star,” Hermione muttered.

Bellatrix’s head snapped toward her, not offended, but caught off guard. For a moment, her expression fractured into something soft and almost… vulnerable? Then it was gone, replaced with her usual cool detachment. “Do not state the obvious,” she said sharply. But Hermione, through heavy lidded eyes, caught the faintest pink in Bellatrix’s cheeks before she turned away.

Hermione blinked slowly, the pulse behind her temples easing bit by bit as they continued down the path. Bellatrix didn’t speak again, but her pace shifted, slightly faster, as if outrunning the betraying warmth in her cheeks. Hermione followed, keeping a careful rhythm, letting the silence settle into something almost comfortable. The world was still too bright, the sounds still too sharp, yet… walking beside Bellatrix made it feel less overwhelming. They rounded a corner lined with trees, sunlight flickering through the leaves, only for the quiet to be broken by a sudden, sharp burst of noise.

A small terrier yapped at them from the edge of a walkway, straining against its leash as if personally offended by Bellatrix’s existence. Bellatrix in response, froze. Hermione simply rubbed her temples. “It’s a dog.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrow. “It is… miniature.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

The terrier growled, a tiny, ridiculous sound, but Bellatrix stepped back like it was a threat. Hermione bit back a laugh just then. A real one, for a moment, forgetting her headache. But Bellatrix heard it and stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That thing is hostile.”

“It’s literally the size of a loaf of bread,” the brunette chuckled softly.

“Bread is dangerous in large quantities.”

“Bellatrix.” The star turned a glare on her, but Hermione was still laughing, quietly, softly, the sound like warm water slipping over cold stone. It caught Bellatrix entirely off guard. Her shoulders lower, her eyes softer. There was a strange flicker across her features, like she wasn’t sure whether she was angry or… something else.

“You’re mocking me,” Bellatrix said.

“No,” Hermione apologized gently. “I’m… I’m just not used to finding anything funny anymore.”

Bellatrix looked away quickly, but not before their eyes caught for the briefest, unguarded second. It was nothing dramatic, just a flicker, a brush of shared breath, but Hermione felt something warm slip through her ribs, a soft rush she hadn’t expected. She was laughing. Actually laughing. And the startling part wasn’t the sound, it was realizing Bellatrix had caused it.

Hermione saw it then, a tiny tremor in Bellatrix’s expression, something fragile and almost startled, like she wasn’t sure how to handle the sight of Hermione smiling at all. For a moment, Bellatrix’s gaze softened, dark eyes clearing as if she were seeing Hermione not weighed down by grief or hangover, but… lighter. Better.

The moment passed quickly, Bellatrix breaking contact as if the ground had tilted beneath her, but Hermione was left with a strange flutter, unsure where it had come from.

The terrier barked again, causing Bellatrix to nearly jump and Hermione to snort.

“You are insufferable,” the star shot her a murderous look that lacked any real threat.

“And you’re scared of a dog.”

“I am NOT—”

Hermione lifted an eyebrow, challenging the star before her to say otherwise. Bellatrix simply closed her mouth, smirking at the hungover human as silence stretched between them, thick with a new, uncertain warmth.

Walking a couple more blocks, they reached another street, where sunlight continued to filter through tree branches and the noise of the city softened into a dull hum. Hermione slowed her pace and Bellatrix noticed instantly.

“What now?” she asked, exasperation only half-real.

Hermione took a breath as her fingers toyed nervously with the cuff of her sleeve. “I… wanted to say thank you.”

Bellatrix blinked. “Why?”

“For coming back last night,” Hermione murmured. “For… the blanket.”

Bellatrix went very still. Hermione could practically see her thinking, or rather, malfunctioning, as if someone had asked her to solve a puzzle that had no logical answer.

“I did not do it for gratitude,” Bellatrix finally said, her eyes looking all around the street they stood on. Anywhere but at the brunette.

“I know,” Hermione nodded.

“And I do not require it.”

“I know,” Hermione repeated softly.

Bellatrix looked away, her jaw tightening as her mind thought about what to say. Something in her chest seemed to constrict, sharp and unfamiliar. “You were cold,” she finally said abruptly.

Hermione continued to study the star in front of her.

“And I do not…” Bellatrix struggled for the word. “…enjoy seeing you in discomfort.”

Hermione’s heart stopped for one painful, beautiful second. Bellatrix then realized what she said, her eyes flashing with alarm, a crack in the star’s perfect composure. “That is not, I did not mean-” She cut herself off, visibly frustrated with herself as she rubbed her face with a perfectly manicured hand. “Look, humans require blankets. It is merely practical.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, small and sincere. “Still. Thank you.”

Bellatrix’s breath shuddered faintly at her repeated gratitude, a barely-there twitch in her brows she hoped Hermione didn’t notice. But Hermione did.

Bellatrix chose that moment to turn away sharply. “We should continue walking.” She strode forward a step, but hesitated with the next, enough for Hermione to begin walking with her.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the sun pressing down on them both, Hermione blinking through the glare, Bellatrix keeping her gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight. The narrow street curved, and as they followed it, the noise began to swell again: voices, clattering dishes, the hum of a busy corner. They wandered into a small plaza. A few food carts stand clustered in the shade, music drifting from a nearby speaker, spices hanging thick in the warm air.

Bellatrix stopped abruptly, her eyes darted across the scene, people talking, laughing, eating, moving. Too many emotions, too much color, too much life. She inhaled sharply at the sudden change of scenery she found herself in.

Her demeanor didn’t go amiss, and Hermione noticed the tension ripple through Bellatrix’s shoulders. “You okay?”

Bellatrix didn’t answer though, her gaze fixed on a family sharing a meal, hands passing plates, children leaning into their parents, warmth radiating off them like a physical thing. Hermione gently touched Bellatrix’s arm, almost without thinking as her eyes followed the star’s line of sight.  Bellatrix jolted, electricity shooting through her nerves, but she didn’t pull away.

“It’s just a market. It’s meant to be busy,” Hermione commented with a calm in her voice.

Bellatrix swallowed, eyes still locked on the family. “They are… loud.”

“That’s normal.”

“And chaotic.”

“Also normal.”

Bellatrix finally looked at her, a strange expression adorning her features. “I do not understand how humans endure this every day,” she murmured.

“We get used to it,” Hermione murmured as she looked around the plaza. Really, it was what a typical Saturday day would look like. Families scattered all over, lovers walking hand in hand with dreamy faces, a few dog owners walking with their pets on leaches. Bellatrix chose that moment to study her. Watching how a broken young woman simply stood there, in the middle of a weekend chaos as if she did it every day, which she knew she didn’t.

Bellatrix had watched Hermione, observed her long before she had come down to earth. She knew Hermione’s day-to-day routine by heart. There was nothing for the brunette other than work, her flat and the occasional visit to the grocery store. She knew Hermione detested going out and socializing, being caught out and about, having to look at others go about their days without a care in the world. Which is why she found Hermione fascinating at that very second.

For a moment, Hermione wasn’t a person dealing with repressed grief, an alcohol addiction or a loneliness that was rooted deep into her system. No. In that moment, she was just a common person enjoying the perfect Saturday climate, surrounded by others who intended to do the same. Her honey brown eyes raked over the visitors as if curiously studying them, as if she was ready to go about her afternoon just like them all. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she watched a couple of children run towards an ice cream stand with eager giggles. She looked as if she was ready to take a step and go do something herself, when her eyes suddenly shot back to the celestial being observing her.

Bellatrix immediately looked away and shifted on her feet, inadvertently, her body angled toward Hermione as if seeking something she can’t name. Hermione’s fingers lightly brushed Bellatrix’s sleeve where she had grabbed her arm, causing Bellatrix to shift again, tilting her head, motioning for them to continue walking.

By the time they left the plaza, the sun has mellowed into a warmer, gentler glow. The light no longer hurting Hermione’s eyes; her head still ached a little, but the sharpness was gone. She could walk without shielding her face now.

Bellatrix walked beside her with quieter steps than before, her expression distant, as though turning over the entire day in her mind. She hadn’t spoken in several minutes.

Hermione glanced at her curiously. “You okay?” she found herself asking for the second time that day. Bellatrix didn’t answer at first. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, tracking the sidewalk, the passing people, the shifting colors of the city.

Then, softly, “I thought you would be improved by now.”

Hermione blinked. “Improved?”

“Yes. Functional. Corrected.” Bellatrix gestures vaguely in her direction. “It seemed… logical. A walk, sunlight, forced movement, distraction. Humans respond to such things.”

Hermione wanted to laugh, but not unkindly. Was the star really thinking that? “Bellatrix… that’s not really how people work.”

Bellatrix’s brow furrowed, confusion first, then frustration, but muted, almost gentle.
“You are not… a problem with a single solution,” she said carefully, as if the realization unsettled her. “You are not a broken object.”

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. She didn’t know because she was surprised Bellatrix was admitting her problems couldn’t be fixed with the flip of a switch (the way she had been trying previously) or because she was finally seeing the depth of her problems.
It wasn’t friendly, not even affectionate, but it was the most human thing Bellatrix had said all day.

“No,” Hermione says softly. “I’m not.”

They walked a few more steps in silence before Bellatrix exhaled slowly. “It would be easier if you were.”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh under her breath, not mocking, not bitter, just warm. A little surprised by her own voice. “Sorry?”

Bellatrix glanced at her, something unreadable sparking in her eyes. “I am accustomed to tasks with clear solutions. This is not that.” She paused in her tracks. “You are not that.”

Looking at the star, Hermione felt something loosen inside her chest, something that had been knotted for months. She looked down at her shoes, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It’s been a while since I spent a day like this,” she admitted. “A whole day without feeling like I have to pretend I’m fine. Without keeping my guard up.”

Bellatrix sighed, her gaze sharp, focused entirely on Hermione now. “You felt… safe?” Bellatrix asked, in a tone that tried to be flat and scientific but cracked at the edges.

“I felt… good,” Hermione says quietly. “Better than I have in a long time.”

The words hung between them. Bellatrix stared at her, not with superiority, not with analysis, but with something new. Something uncertain and bright and dangerous. Hermione’s cheeks warmed under the scrutiny. She cleared her throat, trying to diffuse whatever tension she felt growing between them. “It was nice…. being with you.”

Bellatrix’s posture stiffened, almost imperceptibly. Her breathing hitching before trying to casually recover. Niceness was not something she was meant to offer. Not something stars are designed to give. So, she looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker in her expression, the one that said she liked hearing it far more than she should have.

“I did not expect today to be… tolerable,” Bellatrix says.

Hermione snorted gently. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

Bellatrix almost smiled at that. Almost.

They continued walking and soon reached the entrance to Hermione’s building. The city hummed around them, soft and distant, as if the world had settled a little.

Reaching the top steps to Hermione’s floor, she abruptly turned to Bellatrix. “Thank you. For… all of it.”

Caught off guard, Bellatrix studied her quietly, eyes searching Hermione’s face. Not analyzing nor measuring. Just… seeing.

“You are welcome,” she says, the words stiff but sincere.

Hermione’s heart gave a small, unsteady skip and she felt another sincere smile crawl over her lips, not missing the way the star’s eyes flickered down to meet them, if only for a millisecond.

Bellatrix stepped past her toward the door, then paused, a hesitation so subtle Hermione nearly missed it. “You may rest when we enter,” Bellatrix said. “Today was a lot.”

Hermione smiled as she took her keys out and unlocked her front door. “Yeah. It was.”

She followed Bellatrix inside, feeling light in a way she hadn’t expected, feeling, for the first time in months, like she wasn’t alone in the world.

Bellatrix walked ahead of her, but her steps were slower now, almost as if waiting. Almost as if she didn’t want the day to end.

Hermione closed the door behind them, the quiet click settling into the dim apartment like a final punctuation to the day. Bellatrix hovered just a few steps ahead, strangely still for someone who never stopped moving, her silhouette outlined by the muted glow from the kitchen window. For a moment neither of them spoke. The air felt different now, calmer, softer, threaded with something tentative and new. Hermione watched the star’s rigid shoulders ease by a fraction, and she felt that loosened warmth unfurl again in her chest. Maybe tomorrow would hurt. Maybe tonight the thoughts would return. But right now, in this fragile pause, she let herself feel the truth of it: today had been good. And Bellatrix, unexpected, impossible Bellatrix, had been the reason.

And as Bellatrix finally turned her head, as if checking that Hermione was still there, still choosing to stay near her, Hermione realized she wasn’t ready for the day to end either.