Chapter Text
Hermione walked beside Draco in the upstairs corridor. His hand clasped her elbow to guide her, and though the weight of her belly pulled at her spine and slowed her pace, she held her chin high.
She felt safe gripping her wand. She told herself that the feeling wasn’t entirely connected to Bellatrix waiting for them, but she knew better. The wand gave her reassurance.
As they made their way down the hallway, she watched the candles flicker in their sconces, their light making the manor feel alive. It had been a dreary day; late summer rain had dotted the bedroom window all afternoon.
They reached the staircase, and she felt Cassiopeia move, a rolling sensation beneath her ribs.
“If she so much as opens her mouth to utter a curse at you, I’ll end her. I swear to Salazar, I’ll fucking kill her.”
She glanced at Draco. His posture was intimidating, his hair golden in the warm light. There was no shakiness in his voice, no hint of doubt. The man beside her was not the boy she’d known at Hogwarts nor the man who had done Voldemort’s bidding. He was a man remade by his rage and lack of agency, by the very things that should have broken him. She loved him for that.
Her hand tightened around her wand. “If you don’t, then I will.”
Draco’s eyes flashed to hers, cold and murderous, and his mouth curved into a smile, pleased with her response.
Her heart pounded as they began the descent, Draco’s hand hovering protectively at her waist. Every step filled her with dread as it struck her that Bellatrix was below. The thought of that witch being malicious, out to harm her and the baby, made her tremble, though she fought to conceal it. She would not give that woman the satisfaction of seeing her as weak.
Halfway down the steps, a flash of movement caught her attention.
Tilly.
The little elf peered around a column, her enormous eyes curious, her fingers grasping the hem of her tea towel. She ducked back when she noticed Hermione looking, but the flash of her worried face was enough.
At this, Hermione’s chest tightened, filling with both warmth and fear at once. Tilly was loyal in her own stubborn way, though she never disobeyed Draco’s orders outright. But tonight, she looked as though she would rather throw herself in front of an Avada than see Hermione or the baby harmed.
To the right of the staircase, the double doors to the drawing room were already open. As they approached, Hermione could see light spilling out into the hall, along with the shadow of a figure in a dress.
The room was massive and ornate, its ceiling adorned with detailed plasterwork, accented by the crystal chandelier.
Bellatrix, who stood near the fireplace, turned sharply as they entered, the end of her dress catching on the rug. Her gown was made of black lace, and her hair was frizzy as usual. Her eyes gleamed with their typical malice. She reminded Hermione of a vulture as she circled them.
“Draco,” Bellatrix greeted, her hand brushing against his arm. Her voice was smooth, though not quite sincere.
Her gaze immediately cut to Hermione.
“She has a wand? This dirty, filthy—”
Hermione braced herself for the word she knew would follow.
But Draco spoke first. “Don’t,” he snapped. He drew his wand, aiming it at Bellatrix threateningly. With his other arm, he pulled Hermione close to him.
Bellatrix stepped back, but her lips twisted in amusement. “You think it wise to muzzle me now, nephew?”
“I think it wise to set the terms,” Draco began evenly. “If you’re here in this manor, you will not speak to her that way. You will not so much as think of her that way.”
“What did you say?” she squawked, her voice laced with disdain. “This cannot be.”
“You heard me.”
The air grew tense, and Hermione held her wand loosely at her side, though she was ready to use it.
“It is as I suspected,” Bellatrix commented, shrugging her shoulders dramatically. “I said it before, but you have gone soft, Draco. You are confusing her captivity for company, as the Prophecy was an excuse to defile yourself.” Her eyes narrowed on Hermione’s bump. “This baby is an abomination, the soiling of your bloodline—”
“Crucio!”
Bellatrix screamed as soon as the red-hot magic hit her, her body collapsing onto the drawing room floor.
Draco stepped forward as soon as he cast the curse, directing the fiery electric line with precise tugs of his wrist.
“Take that back,” he snarled, looking down as his aunt’s torso thrashed upon the floor. She gasped in pain.
“I don’t have to pretend in my own home. I won’t stop until you’re dead,” he warned. “Take it back.”
“Ah!” Bellatrix cried. “You’re not soft—I, I was wrong!”
Draco lowered his wand only to lessen the strength of the Cruciatus. Hermione could still see the red tendrils flowing, Bellatrix still immobilised on the floor.
He stared at her with accusation. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” he remarked. “I’m not talking about that. You know I’m not soft. I’ve been a murderer since I was sixteen. You think in all this time,” his gaze wandered over to Hermione, “that she would change that?”
“No—no,” Bellatrix wailed, body writhing with the shocks of the curse.
“Was I fucking soft when I killed those Death Eaters for her, including Rodolphus? Or when I taught her how to kill?”
“Taught her…what? I only meant that you’re soft if you’ve taken an interest in her because you are alone—”
“I haven’t been alone in a long time,” he corrected her. His tongue ran along his bottom teeth, and he smirked. “You don’t understand. We might share the same blood, but I’m not like you. I’m no longer some bitch. I hide it well, but I refuse to forever be a dog at the feet of a lesser wizard who inserted himself into my life, the one who killed my father, cursed my mother, and still tortures me, insisting he knows what’s best for me.”
He snapped his wand, and the Crucio ceased.
“Forgive me.” Bellatrix’s body twitched with the after-effects of the magic. “Draco…I don’t…I don’t want to be his dog anymore.”
“Then don’t. Get up.”
She looked a mess as she struggled to sit. Her chest was heaving, and her limbs still trembled. She covered her face, and Hermione could sense that she was seconds away from breaking down.
She let out a pained sob.
“I did everything, Draco, everything for the Infernal King, and this is how he repays me? By excluding me? By not giving me a place in his regime? You were rightfully made Dark Lord. He told me you would be. But I foolishly thought…I thought he’d want me at his side, too. But he didn’t even want me at Necros after my manor burned down! I have nothing now, nothing!”
Draco pinched the skin between his brows. He looked less livid now, more unmoved by Bellatrix’s blubbering.
“I may not let you stay here either,” he said dully.
Bellatrix slumped forward, pounding her fists on the ground. “Is it because of her?”
Draco nodded. “And that abomination you spoke of. Despite what Riddle thinks, despite what you think, I have every intention of being a father. I’m keeping her.”
“Her?” she remarked, surprised. “Oh, it’s…it’s a girl?”
Hermione’s hand pressed protectively against her belly.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
Bellatrix managed to get to her feet. She wiped her hands on her dress, and as she studied Hermione, her face wore a different sort of expression. She no longer looked deranged in that threatening but playful way, but more perplexed. Tilting her head, her black curls dangled to one side.
“Why?” she asked finally.
“Why what?”
Bellatrix shook her head as if it should be obvious.
“She’s ruthless,” Draco answered, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. His eyes blazed with admiration as he turned them on Hermione. “In every way, Hermione is my equal. Her strengths are both the best and the most terrifying parts of me. She’s hot-tempered, cunning, unforgiving, and violent. She looks out only for herself, and that’s what I respect about her. I know she’ll do whatever it takes to protect the child. Riddle doesn’t stand a chance. He shouldn’t even try.”
Bellatrix appeared stunned. “But she is loyal to the Order, to Potter. She—”
“The Order’s long been dead to me,” Hermione interrupted automatically.
“She killed Shacklebolt,” Draco added, pride in his eyes as he looked at her. “That wasn’t me.”
His words, all the compliments, had caused Hermione’s heart rate to accelerate. He was still staring at her, too, those silver eyes practically seeing right into her soul.
She had always known they were so alike, so similar in the worst ways, that they could only be better together in their descent. She adored Draco’s praise, especially the dark reverence in it. He not only accepted but worshipped everything about her that made her awful to the world.
“You are actually with her? This is not some ploy—”
Bellatrix’s words were cut off, a non-question needing no verbal response as Draco grabbed Hermione’s face and kissed her on the mouth.
Her breath was stolen away suddenly as his lips moved against hers, claiming her furiously. His hand slid further up her jaw, then to the back of her head, holding her to him. She felt weak in the knees, as if this was the kind of kiss meant to sear itself into her memory.
Hermione gasped for air as he pulled back, only to taste her again, his tongue now darting into her mouth. He had a way of making her forget the hateful eyes on them, so she kissed him back, mimicking his technique, one hand moving to his chest, the other still closed around her wand.
When they finally broke apart, Draco placed his arm around her shoulder, his eyes never leaving Bellatrix.
“You will not dictate what my actions, what my feelings, ought to be,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve had enough of that from Riddle to last a lifetime. You will not speak to me about purity or blood, do you understand?”
For the first time Hermione had ever seen, Bellatrix changed completely. Her black eyes were no longer wicked, mocking, or distraught. For a brief second, what could only be described as raw sadness, or maybe wistfulness, flickered through them. But as soon as the heavy look appeared, it was gone.
Bellatrix tossed her head back, flipping her unkempt hair, now composed. It was her version of acknowledgement.
Hermione felt Draco’s hand on the back of her arm, his fingers stroking her affectionately before he let her go, stepping forward to stand opposite his aunt.
“I don’t trust you,” he explained. “I need you to make an Unbreakable Vow.”
Bellatrix released a humourless cackle. “Anything for your precious little mud—”
“Say that and I’ll end you,” Draco cut in, his wand raised. He glared at her, fury burning in his eyes. “Not another word against her. If you want to stay here, you’ll do this. You’ll swear to it. You’ll leave Hermione alone. You won’t hurt her or my child. You’ll abandon Riddle, as he abandoned you.”
Hermione watched intently, a rush of relief flooding her as she realised, for the first time, that Draco truly was the master of this manor. Bellatrix, the relative that she was, was only a guest.
Bellatrix raised a brow. “Please accept my apology. Old habits die hard.”
“Old witches die harder.”
At his quip, she laughed manically. “Old? You’ve killed me now.” The lace sleeve of her gown slipped back, and she bared her thin wrist. She stretched her hand out, then bowed her head, as if she were surrendering.
Draco dropped to one knee, and Hermione’s heart jolted as he extended his right hand.
Bellatrix bent as well, kneeling in front of him, and placed her hand in his. Her long, bony fingers grasped his, and those nails, painted black, looked like talons.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Hermione, you’re the bonder.”
Hermione nodded. She came forward, raised her wand, and set the tip against the place where their hands met.
A feeling of anticipation swirled in the air around them, as if the drawing room walls knew that magic was about to be sealed.
Draco began to speak the terms of the Unbreakable Vow.
“Will you vow not to harm or kill Hermione,” he said, “by spell, curse, or any physical injury?”
Bellatrix’s lips twisted almost into a sneer, but she responded, clearly, “I will.”
A thin tongue of fire burst from Hermione’s wand and wound itself around their joined hands, flashing red before settling into their skin. Hermione kept her wrist steady and wand motion controlled, waiting for the next part.
Draco continued. “And will you vow not to harm or kill our child, by any hand, means, or magic?”
Bellatrix lowered her head, her dark hair covering half her face. For a second, her eyes flicked to Hermione’s dress, like she was imagining the baby inside of her. Her smile was strange, a little bitter, but also wistful. “I will.”
Another ribbon of fire wrapped around their hands, sinking deep, the glow illuminating all their faces.
“And,” Draco spoke again, flexing his jaw, “will you vow to accept Hermione as my equal, and to show her familial loyalty, as you would to me?”
Hermione’s pulse raced with surprise. She hadn’t expected him to include this; he didn’t need to, she thought, but she still didn’t quite understand the relationship they had, whether it was good or bad. Bellatrix’s nostrils flared, and she was breathing so heavily it seemed like she might refuse. But after a moment, she narrowed her eyes and whispered, “I will.”
The third tongue of fire burst forth, joining with the others in a rope of burning light.
Hermione thought this was it; these were the same demands she had of Bellatrix. But Draco’s eyes found hers, and the look he gave her said he wasn’t finished.
He spoke once more. “And when the time comes, will you vow your allegiance to us, above Riddle, and stand by us against him?”
Vow your allegiance to us.
This...this request was everything. It was all Hermione wanted to hear. This fantasy that there would be a free life for her to live, a life for her and Draco together with Cassiopeia after the war, a guarantee they could live as a family without anyone dictating their path, dark as it may be…this had been a fantasy turned dream. And now, as he said it, she could feel that it would finally become reality.
Several emotions flitted across Bellatrix’s face. She stared at Draco, long and hard, as if she were trying to figure out where this had come from. Then, with a dark cackle, she said, “I will.”
The final line of fire burst forth, burning brighter than the rest. The four bands intertwined, all four lines circling continuously around their clasped hands. Hermione raised her wand to release the magic.
The red, wispy tendrils dimmed, sinking into Draco and Bellatrix’s hands until they were gone.
It was done.
Hermione stepped back, and Bellatrix drew her hand away, flexing her fingers. She glanced at Hermione, those beady eyes assessing her. The witch didn’t seem any different; she still looked like a bird of prey ready to attack her, perhaps agitated that she couldn’t.
Hermione held her wand steady at her side. She didn’t expect Bellatrix to welcome her with open arms.
Draco rose slowly, brushing off his knees. He looked to Hermione and, without hesitation, reached for her. His hand locked with hers, and he pulled her into an embrace, kissing her delicately on the top of her head. She could sense his emotions in his touch…he was relieved.
Draco nodded to Bellatrix. “If you’re bored, I have a list for you.” His voice was raspy with that sultry edge to it, the one that always made Hermione’s heart skip.
Bellatrix’s eyes grew large. “A list…for me?” She questioned, bringing her hand up to her chin in contemplation.
“Yes,” Draco replied. “A list of men that I need dead, ideally before this baby arrives.”
She rubbed her chin as if she needed time to think about it, but Hermione could see right through her. It was like colour and life came into her face.
“You will obviously need to be covert about it,” he added. “Don’t kill more than one a week. And definitely don't use the same method repeatedly. You could tie one up, stab him, Obliviate him, and let him bleed out, Crucio another one until his heart stops, and then persuade one to duel against you and get it over with fast with an Avada. Don’t forget about poison.”
“How many men?” She arched a brow.
Draco shrugged. “Right now, six. All Death Eaters. Unless you want to assist with my executions of the remaining Order members.”
“Would the Infernal King approve?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I think not.”
“Who cares if he approves? A dead man is a dead man.”
“Tell me about these Death Eaters. Is Rosier one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Greyback?”
“I’m targeting the Acendancy, if you couldn’t tell.”
Bellatrix attempted to look nonplussed, but Hermione could sense that she was secretly thrilled. “I'll see if I can fit this into my schedule,” she responded casually, picking at her nails.
With a flick of her head, she turned and strode toward the doorway. From behind, Hermione noticed her wild hair was matted.
“I’m going to sit with Cissy,” she called.
With Bellatrix gone, Draco walked hand in hand with Hermione out of the drawing room.
He stopped just before the staircase.
“I know you wish you could kill them yourself,” he murmured against her ear, his breath making her shiver. “You’d do it so well, too.”
She placed a hand under her bump. “I know,” she said, sighing. “But I understand I can’t right now.”
It had only been several months, but it felt like forever since she and Draco fought together, since she used the Death Curse. She’d felt so much satisfaction, so much unbridled joy when she’d used the fiery Destruere Sanguinem curse on Shacklebolt. And she hadn’t forgotten Draco’s desire to fuck her as she cast Avada Kedavra...it was ridiculous, probably impossible, but something she thought about nearly every night as she drifted off to sleep naked with him, curled up against his chest.
In the darkened hall, Draco’s eyes were bright as he looked at her with so much longing.
“You’ve been so good,” he said. He still held her hand, and she could feel his thumb and index fingers massaging the inside of her wrist. Even the smallest touches from him made her tingly between her legs. “So good carrying my child.”
He placed his other hand over her bump. Hermione leaned into his body, breathing in the scent that was him. He kissed her neck, and she closed her eyes, drifting into him, feeling weightless, all of her pregnancy aches momentarily dissipating.
Hermione had grown accustomed to Draco’s comings and goings throughout the summer. Every time his Dark Mark flared, she let him go reluctantly, knowing he had executions to conduct. She hated how often it happened, with only a little more than a month left of the pregnancy. But she was so grateful every night when he returned, his Death Eater mask tucked beneath his arm, his mouth twisting into that sexy smile he reserved just for her.
“My Cassie Lilith,” he would say, dropping his mask to the floor before pressing his hands lovingly to her belly.
Draco loved feeling the baby kick, and every time it happened, every time he looked at her with those grey eyes wide with amazement, Hermione wanted to melt.
His little girl already meant the world to him, and knowing this made Hermione uncontrollably happy. She felt fearless, even though she knew a storm was brewing. Every day brought her closer to the moment Harry would have to face Voldemort. That moment was coming, whether they were ready or not. And that event would inevitably lead to her and Draco overthrowing the Acendancy.
“I should be back late tonight,” Draco told her one day in late July. “Riddle’s hosting a dinner at Necros, and he wants me in attendance. He asked me to bring you as he’s deathly curious about your pregnancy. But I told him it’s too risky for you to leave the manor at this stage. The castle has new wards, but as long as Potter still lives, he knows there’s a chance the Order could take you again.”
“Did you tell him it’s a girl?” Hermione asked, wondering how much Draco shared, knowing he detested Voldemort’s interest.
“Alden did. Gave him a memory as proof,” Draco replied with a sigh. He seemed deep in thought, displaying that far-off look he got when he was plotting. “It doesn’t really matter if he knows,” he said, but then he seemed to change his mind, shaking his head. “No, it matters. If it were a boy, Riddle would take some sort of sick liking to him. He’d want to control him, turn him into another weapon like me. He seems disappointed that it’s a girl.”
“So he won’t think twice about killing her,” Hermione said, thinking out loud. “Especially once Harry is defeated, and he thinks he has everything he wants finally. He’ll have won the War at long last. He’ll just murder her to be cruel to me…and then he’ll kill me.”
Draco grabbed his mask, his jaw clenched. He scuffed his dragonhide boot against the floor. “But I promise you, on my life, that I won’t let that happen.”
Whenever Draco was gone, Hermione felt herself acutely aware of Bellatrix’s presence in the manor. She could hear her footsteps clicking down the hall, hear her cackling at only Merlin knows what. Thankfully, the witch resided in the opposite wing. She’d apparently moved into the guest room next door to Narcissa.
Hermione had just finished dinner and now had a few hours to herself before Draco returned. She was really feeling the baby wedged up under her ribs today, plus her back ached, and breathing was taking so much effort. She wanted to lie down, but even that wasn’t so simple anymore. Alden had insisted that short walks after meals would “help with digestion and swelling,” which sounded lovely in theory, less so when her feet looked and felt like overstuffed cushions.
Tilly vanished her plate, wiping sweat from her brow with the corner of her dress. “Will Miss Hermione be needing anything else? A treacle tart?”
“Not yet, but thank you, Tilly,” she replied, holding her bump and attempting to balance, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I need to get up. I just can’t get comfortable.”
The elf looked down at her feet. “The ankles remind Tilly of tree trunks, Miss.”
Hermione let out a groan, dropping her head into her hands, unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry.
“It will all be worth it,” Tilly squeaked, her ears flapping. “All for the little Malfoy girl.”
She managed a small smile. “I don’t know if a walk will hurt or help me. I’ll have the treacle tart, but I’m going to wander down the hall first. Could you look through the supply of potions Alden sent? Bring me a circulatory tonic.”
“Yes. Tilly will do that right away.”
As the elf vanished with a ‘pop,’ Hermione took a deep breath and used every ounce of energy in her to stand.
On the table she used to brace herself was Crimson Bonds: The Ancient Rite of Bloodlines, which she’d started reading, along with a stack of parenting books.
Hermione left Draco’s room, determined to wander down the hall to the guest room at the end of the corridor, the one that was slowly transforming into a nursery, thanks to Draco and Tilly. It was the same room Healer Alden always saw her in, the room where she’d give birth.
She opened the door, and her heart jolted with delight at the progress. The nursery was unlike anything Hermione had ever imagined for her child, but it was perfect. It reminded her of something from a castle, a room fit for a princess.
There were no typical Muggle pastel tones or whimsical decor like in the wizarding children's shops. Instead, the room had been transformed into something dark and elegant, everything deep purple, burgundy, and gold. The walls were even covered in purple wallpaper, patterned with vines and leaves.
A mahogany cot sat at the centre wall, its canopy curtains draped above, tied back with a gold cord.
To the side, a matching dresser held an array of baby garments: tiny buttoned robes in fuchsia and forest greens, various velvet dresses, soft bodysuits, knitted socks, and miniature cloaks. Hermione’s eyes drifted to the open shelf beside it, where Tilly had stacked nappies alongside bottles, the kind that could be charmed to stay warm. A Muggle book sat beside them; it was a children’s picture book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that Hermione had read as a little girl, the one item she had specifically asked Draco to find. She smiled to herself, running her fingers across the cover, imagining how he, hopefully not in his Death Eater apparel, must have looked scouring various Muggle bookshops in London for a copy.
A plush armchair had been added by the window, a blanket draped over the back, and beside it was the guest bed.
She took in the whole room, her arms resting on her stomach, feeling the baby move. It was a beautiful space, a reminder of just how wonderful life could be when the War was no more.
Suddenly, a sneering voice interrupted her reverie.
“Charming.”
Hermione turned sharply.
Bellatrix was leaning against the doorframe, her legs crossed, lips twisted into a smirk. Her hair was even more dishevelled than usual. She twirled her wand in her hand..
“What a charming little room with curtains that sing lullabies, and is that,” she stalked over to the shelf, “a Muggle storybook? How fitting for a half-blood.”
Before Hermione could respond, at that moment, Tilly appeared in the middle of the room, her arms spread wide to physically shield Hermione.
“Tilly is under strict orders to watch over the Miss and the Malfoy baby. Mistress Bellatrix may not come any closer.”
“Oh, get out, you wretched little dust rag,” Bellatrix purred. “I don’t need a minder. I’ve taken the Vow.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Hermione snapped. She turned to Tilly. “It’s okay,” she said more calmly. “I can deal with her.”
Tilly’s eyes flashed with concern, but she reluctantly stepped back, muttering furiously under her breath.
“Tilly will be watching,” she huffed, and then she was gone.
Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
“What do you want?” Hermione crossed her arms.
“I couldn’t help but see the door was open. I’m curious by nature, so I needed to take a peek. I admit, it’s quite the sight, seeing you nesting in my sister’s home.”
Hermione desperately wished she had her wand on her, just to hex Bellatrix. But it was a relief knowing the witch couldn’t harm her, not unless she wanted to die.
“You’ve had your peek, now go.”
Bellatrix smiled wider. “Demanding I leave so soon? Don’t be so sour. We’re practically related now, aren’t we? Unfortunate, but true.”
Bellatrix now sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes glinting as she leaned back, studying Hermione. It was as though she were trying to solve the puzzle of how Hermione, despite her blood, had wormed her way into Draco’s life.
“You’re having his baby,” she said, her tone taunting. “Bet that makes you feel special.”
Hermione could feel her pulse quicken, heat flaming in her cheeks. “So what if it does?”
“You admit it.” Bellatrix’s laugh, high-pitched and cackling, echoed in the room. It was the laugh of a woman who had revelled in torment for far too long.
“I...love him,” she sputtered, not caring if Bellatrix would harass her for it. “I’ve loved him since we first met in this War, since we were united by the Prophecy. I wanted his baby.”
The words seemed to amuse Bellatrix further. “You should know,” she added, her voice dropping low, “he’s finding out tonight that the Infernal King has a wife picked out for him. A Greengrass daughter. I suspect you needn’t worry about that.”
Hermione exhaled. The last time the situation arose, Draco had eased her jealousy by bringing her Thalia’s heart. “I’m not worried. He’s mine. He won’t need to appease Riddle for much longer.”
“You sound so sure you’re not a pawn.” Bellatrix chuckled.
“I’m sure of what I want,” Hermione countered. “And I’ll stop at nothing to get it.”
Bellatrix stood. She spun her wand in her hand once more, then tucked it into a holster on the waist of her dress.
“What is it that you want? Draco? Vengeance?” Her eyes glimmered with real curiosity. “Power?”
“Mostly Draco,” Hermione answered. “And I want my child to be safe. I want power in the sense that I want others to rightfully fear me…it’s just how I am. But I don’t know if I desire to rule over others as some reviled dark queen.”
The admission flowed out of her, surprising even herself. As much as Draco filled her head with seductive talk of Death Eaters at her feet, Hermione saw the irony in how she had already become like those she hated. But it wasn’t like she was going to make Horcruxes.
Bellatrix seemed to read her mind. “Why not? Why not control others when you have a dark wizard’s devotion? I spent all this time thinking Draco wanted power for himself.”
“He’s been abused by Riddle all these years,” Hermione offered. “He doesn’t want to be like him. That kind of power is unappealing to him.”
“You don’t know that. But devotion from a wizard like him…now that is a desirable thing for a witch. It’s the one thing I’ve never had.”
Hermione already knew as much.
“Draco and I,” she began, “we’ve been in this together. We’re a team, one that’s developed a penchant for killing…it’s instant gratification for us. The dark magic, the Killing Curse, is addictive. It’s always been our goal to make it out of the war, not just alive, but together and stronger. But I don’t want to believe that my only choice is to spill blood for the rest of my life. To me, that’s limiting. I want to be strategic. I want to give some authority back to the masses. Magic folk should be allowed to govern themselves.”
“But your blood is inferior,” Bellatrix said, shrugging. “So if you want to live, not just survive, as you say, it’s the only way.”
“I’m aware,” Hermione agreed. “My blood is inferior to those who’ve always been on top, purebloods like you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t kill. No one’s mind will change overnight, so maybe if I murder everyone who underestimates me, they’ll get the message that blood doesn’t matter.”
Bellatrix cackled. “That, or they’ll plot against you.”
“If they do,” she countered, her voice steady, “I have Draco to protect me.”
“And so my point stands. You hold power in your hands because of him and because of this bloodline. Don’t squander it.”
“I don’t think like you,” Hermione insisted. “Power isn’t what I want most.”
She wanted her life with Draco and the baby.
“As a witch, it should be everything,” Bellatrix drawled.
“Why?” Hermione asked.
Bellatrix inched forward and lowered her voice like she was about to share a secret. “Living without power is a witch’s plight…you’ve learned it already, and you’ll continue to learn it often. It’s something I’ve known as a pureblood witch.”
Hermione raised a sceptical brow at the mention of ‘pureblood,’ but Bellatrix pressed on. “For years, for centuries, we witches lived in the shadows of wizards. Our only purpose was to continue their bloodlines, and with that, their magic, their legacy. Hah! I don’t have spawn. I never married for love.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing. “When a wizard takes power, whether for good or ill, he becomes a legend. He’s Albus Dumbledore, adored by the ignorant as the greatest duelist, most revered despite his dabbling in the Dark Arts…” Bellatrix trailed off, momentarily losing her train of thought. “His dabbling was forgotten or forgiven, deemed necessary, I don’t know. Don’t really give a shit,” she muttered, waving a hand dismissively.
Clearing her throat, she continued. “Or he’s Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord come back to life, appointing himself ruler of his own kingdom. He’s a dark visionary, the most infamous yet influential wizard of our time.”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “Witches are rarely called sorceresses anymore, are they? Are they called conquerors of magic? Masters of the Dark Arts? No, no, those titles are reserved for wizards. We’re just hysterical!”
Bellatrix turned away, her boots clacking across the nursery floor. She reached the door, then whirled around. Her smile was humourless. “Let a witch rise. Let her want. But let her claim even a fraction of the power a wizard possesses, and suddenly, she’s mad.”
As Hermione listened, she was mentally transported back to the room where Shacklebolt shamed her.
“You’re even more unstable than I thought. But then again, most witches are, aren’t they? Especially in high-pressure settings like war. Women have too many emotions, being ruled by their hormones…it makes using logic difficult. That’s why we locked you up in the first place, not because we saw you as a threat.”
“I walked through fire for Riddle. I bled, sacrificed myself to him for years for his cause, all for nothing. He told me—he said I’m ‘unfit.’”
“I know,” Hermione stammered, speaking finally. “I know the feeling.”
“They call us mad because it’s easier than admitting we have the same right to the crown.”
“So get your revenge. Help us kill him.”
Bellatrix laughed darkly. “I shall.” She glanced around the room one last time. “Don’t go mistaking this for my affection for you. But you’re in a valuable position for a witch, especially one with dirty blood. You’ll be granted power, that is, if you survive. For your daughter’s sake, I suggest you take it.”
Bellatrix turned on her heel and left, leaving Hermione with a whirlwind of thoughts.
She had always seen Bellatrix as mad. The Death Eaters were still her enemies, no question. But in all her thoughts about how deranged Bellatrix was, Hermione had to remember that behind her manic outbursts, behind her gleeful cackles as she tortured, Bellatrix was very much just a witch like her, and also a scorned woman like her.
She held her bump, thinking of her daughter, of the tiny life growing inside, imagining a little witch navigating the magical world, one that had been burned to the ground and scorched clean.