Chapter Text
The house Hermione grew up in isn’t quite the way she remembers it. It’s only been two years since she left her small town of Godric’s Hollow for the education at Oxford she always dreamed of, and in that short amount of time the effects of her absence on her childhood home have already become apparent. The lawn is overgrown, the rose bushes lining the walkway have died and withered, the bird bath is bone dry and the blue paint on their front door is chipping. It almost looks like no one lives there at all anymore, but she knows her father is inside awaiting her arrival.
It feels wrong to knock on the door, but she knows it would feel worse to barge through the doorway she hasn’t crossed in years. So, she announces her return with three raps on the wood before rocking back on her heels and letting her eyes wander over the neighborhood while she waits for an answer.
The neighborhood is quiet even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet, but Godric’s Hollow has always been a quiet town where the inhabitants tended to turn in early. She can see the Potter’s house at the end of the street, just as she remembers, and the Weasley’s next door to it. A soft smile graces her face as memories drift through her mind; warm summer days spent racing her friends on their bikes down to the river, or icy December mornings trudging down to Ron’s house for some of Molly’s famous hot chocolate. Her childhood was idyllic when she remembers it outside of the house she’s about to walk into. If it weren’t for the way life was at home, for what her mother did to them when she left, she could’ve stayed forever.
“Hey there, little canary.”
Hermione turns at the voice of John Granger to find him smiling at her next to the open door. She blushes at the childhood nickname and the memories it carried and smothers it against her father’s shoulder when he pulls her into a hug.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How was the drive?” He asks, turning to lead her inside when they part.
She follows him, adjusting the strap of her bag and running her eyes along the blank walls of the hallway. A long time ago they’d been adorned with pictures of her parents and her when they were a family, and even though they’ve been gone for years she still sees them, like little ghosts embedded in the walls.
“Treacherous,” Hermione says, “Winding, rainy, you know. The usual.”
“Is it usual if you’ve never made the drive before?” Her dad jokes in a hollow tone.
Hermione winces.
She doesn’t dwell in discomfort for long, though. They enter the kitchen and an orange ball is hurtling towards her ankles with an excited yowl and all of her worries are drowned out by the roar of happiness she feels at seeing her best friend again.
“Hey, Crooks!” She laughs. She reaches down to scoop him up and the cat wastes no time in clawing up the sleeve of her jacket to perch on her shoulders.
“He missed you,” Her dad says, plucking the teapot off the stove and grabbing two mugs, “He terrorizes me every day in your absence.”
“At least you have each other,” Hermione says, dreading to think of her father or her cat completely alone in the world.
He doesn’t respond, and Hermione takes a seat at the small kitchen table as he places the cup of tea and a key in front of her. He leans against the counter rather than joining her at the table, observing her over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. Crookshanks rubs his face against the top of her head and she tries to relax her shoulders.
“The mother in law unit’s all ready for you. It’s got a working kitchen and bathroom now, like we talked about. It’s tiny, but it’s done.”
“Thank you,” Hermione says, hoping he can hear the sincerity in her voice, “I know you wanted to rent it out, and I promise the first thing I’ll do is find a job and start paying you for it.”
“It’s alright, dear. I’m just happy to have you home...despite the circumstances.”
Hermione can’t think of what to say, so she just thanks him again. They finish their tea in silence and he leaves her to settle in. It isn’t long before the quiet kitchen is unbearable to sit in alone, so she shrugs Crooks off her shoulders and gets up to leave out the back door.
The mother in law unit sits down the garden path, about fifty feet from the main house. It used to be partly a garden shed and partly her mom’s office, but really it was just a place for her mom to get away. Hermione never used to be allowed inside, until her mom left and it just sat there, abandoned. After Hermione left for university it became her dad’s project. He occupied himself with transforming it, with erasing that final connection to his ex wife. It looks now like a tiny little cottage, blending in with the trees and overgrown plants.
Hope stirs in her chest. She can really see herself getting back on her feet here.
She unlocks the door and it creaks when it opens, revealing the entire apartment in one glance. It is tiny, but it’s bigger than her dorm was and it has everything she needs. A kitchenette sits in the far corner, and next to it is an old, dark red couch facing a window, a little, wood burning, metal fireplace in the corner. The bed is a twin on a metal frame, with a plaid comforter and a knitted white blanket draped over the end. Hermione drops her bag on the bed and Crookshanks jumps on with it, kneading against the canvas material.
The place is cold and dusty, so the first thing she does is crack the window and get the fire started. Her dad’s already moved all of her books from her room into the bookshelf next to the fireplace, so she settles in with one of her old favorites.
She always thought coming home would feel painful or hollow, but she was wrong. It feels quiet, peaceful. It feels dangerously easy to forget her responsibilities and the future she’s been working towards. It reminds her of curing up in bed despite knowing she ought to be getting ready, like settling in for ten more minutes of sleep when she has important duties awaiting her. She settles back into the cushions and relaxes in the heat from the fire, drowns out her fears in the sound of the rain and the turning of the pages in her book.
The buzzing of her phone jerks her awake some time past midnight, to a dim fire lighting up a dark and otherwise quiet room. Hermione fishes around in the couch cushions to find it, sighing when she sees the name lighting up the screen.
Fleur.
Again.
Hermione hits the lock button to reject the call, and a barrage of messages show up on her notification screen. She bites her lip as she scrolls through them.
Please call me back. Just let me know you’re okay.
Ginny said you’re back at home. Is that true? Why would you leave without saying anything to me?
Hermione, please.
I miss you.
I just want to know you’re safe.
Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she tries to shove down the feelings of guilt and remorse rising up inside of her. More than anything she wishes she could give Fleur what she needs, what she deserves, but she can’t. She can barely meet her own needs right now. The best she can do for Fleur is give her as clean a break as she can manage.
I’m okay.
After responding she turns her phone onto silent and gets up to plug it into an outlet. She’s too restless to go back to sleep, so instead she flips a light on and busies herself with unpacking.
An hour later she feels ready to sleep again, so she flips the lights off and makes her way to close the open window. Its total darkness outside her window except for a spot of yellow light that draws her eye up the hill, through the trees and to the window of the neighboring house.
Her entire life, the house up the hill next door has stood empty. It’s an old, decrepit Victorian house, with the roof falling in and the windows shattered and boarded up. She used to accompany Ron and Harry on Halloween to the house, watching from the sidewalk and rolling her eyes as they dared one another to knock on the door before racing away. It’s always been empty except for ghosts, so they say.
The light, glaring at her from across the hill, sticks out like an affront to reality and there’s nothing she can do but stare. After a moment, a flicker of a shadow breaks up the yellow light. Hermione stares, waiting for it to reappear. When it does, she realizes she hadn’t seen a shadow at all, but a woman’s shock of dark hair.
Hermione leans against the counter, transfixed as she watches the woman move about what must be her living room. From here, she can just make out a green armchair and peeling yellow wallpaper, occasionally broken up by the woman pacing in front of the window. Eventually, she settles down into the chair with a book and Hermione gets a clearer look at her.
Her hair is an untamed mess falling around a pale, noble face. Even from fifty yards away Hermione can make out a full, red mouth and heavy lidded eyes beneath serious, furrowed brows. She tries and fails to make out the title on the book she has, and when she looks back, the woman is staring right back at her.
Hermione yelps and throws herself onto the ground, face burning. God, how creepy I must’ve looked! She’s too frozen in fear and embarrassment to check if the woman is still looking, so instead she crawls to the light switch and turns it off. She spares the window one last glance before getting into bed to see that the curtains are shut.
Meeting with Ron and Harry at Molly’s diner the following day manages to feel surreal in its normalcy, as if no time has passed at all. Ron brings them a basket of chips and milkshakes on the house and the only thing that’s different is the scruff adorning Harry’s jaw. Everything else is the same; Ron’s bright blue eyes, Harry’s messy hair and perpetually sleepy smile. She’s home.
She wonders if she feels the same to them.
“So, ‘Mione, what brings you back? Shouldn’t you be going into your third year about now?” Harry asks.
She knew this conversation was coming, she’s been dreading it since the drive back. The embarrassment of explaining what happened is almost worse than the events themselves. Still, Harry and Ron are looking at her with identical expressions of worry badly disguised as friendly interest, and she can’t lie to them.
“I guess you could say I’m taking a break...erm, only not by choice,” She begins, crushing her straw between her thumb and forefinger.
“They made you take a break? They can do that?” Ron asks.
Hermione averts her eyes, looking out the window to the cobblestone streets of the main road going through town, at the familiar faces passing by that she grew up around. She is back home, back under the familiar glare of the microscope that looms over her little town.
“Apparently,” she mutters.
“Well...are you okay?” Harry asks, drawing her attention back to his concerned, piercing gaze, “I mean…they couldn’t have done it without reason, right?”
“Right,” she admits with a sigh, “I just...when I went to school, I threw myself into it completely. I wanted to transform my life, to make it unrecognizable from all of the...well, the mess I left behind. It wasn't until I took a second to look around me that I started to feel trapped, like maybe I was making a mistake. Like I was building my own cage. Like...like…”
She can’t seem to finish the sentence, can’t seem to admit a commonality with the person who has caused her the most pain, but she doesn’t need to. Harry’s eyes brighten with understanding.
“Like your mum.”
“Right.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? I tried calling you, writing to you-” Ron cuts himself off, suddenly remembering Harry’s presence and blushing.
“I know. I’m sorry, I really am. I just thought if I disconnected enough from everything, that I’d disconnect from the pain of it all, too. I was wrong. I was just delaying the inevitable.”
“What was the inevitable, exactly?” Ron says around a chip.
Hermione continues to abuse her straw as she mulls over how to answer. “Just a bit of a mental breakdown.”
“A bit?” Harry and Ron say in unison.
“And then, I suppose, more of a physical breakdown.”
Ron and Harry open their mouths, both red in the face, but Hermione holds up a hand to stop them.
“I’ve discussed this at length with the school and my father, already. I’d really appreciate it if you’d just let me leave it at that.”
Harry’s mouth snaps shut and Ron’s continues to hang open, until his mom interrupts them to yank Hermione against her chest in a warm embrace. Hermione stiffens at the unexpected physical contact before relaxing into the familiar smell of her perfume.
“It’s so good to have you back, dear,” Molly says, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze before releasing her, “Same rules apply as before you left. Stop by if you need anything, anything at all.”
“I will. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”
Molly smiles down at her before shooting her son a stern look, “Be sure to look after her, Ronald.”
Ron rolls his eyes and receives a swift elbow to the ribs from Harry. “Ow! Of course I’ll look after her! Dunno why it needs to be said.”
Molly leaves them in comfortable silence, before Hermione remembers the mortification she experienced the night before and perks up.
“Oh, hey. I wanted to ask...do you know what’s going on with my new neighbor? Since when is that house inhabited by a living soul?”
Ron shovels a handful of chips into his mouth and Harry hums, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if trying to recall something.
“Not long. I think it’s been less than a month, but the whole town’s talking about her already.”
“Who is she?” Hermione asks, brimming with that familiar, painful curiosity she feels when she stumbles onto a subject that truly interests her.
“A creep,” Ron says with a full mouth. Hermione grimaces, and Ron swallows before speaking more clearly, “Like the bloody Boo Radley of Godric’s Hollow.”
Hermione snorts, “Ronald Weasley, did you just make an appropriate literary reference?”
“Everyone knows Boo Radley,” Ron mutters. “Same thing. Odd recluse living alone, hardly stepping foot outside. The towns been mad with gossip since she moved here.”
“She steps outside,” Harry says, “She comes in to The Lazy Dog sometimes.”
“The pub her cousin owns hardly counts. Does she even speak to anyone other than Sirius?”
“She speaks to me! Sort of. Well, she orders from me. ‘Whiskey, neat’, she says,” Harry mimics the woman’s voice.
“Sirius is her cousin?” Hermione asks. The black hair, the noble features, the pallor of their skin...it makes sense. “Does he know why she moved here?”
“All he said is it’s something to do with the book she’s writing. Hoping to find inspiration in our lovely little town, I suppose,” Harry says with a shrug, “She spends a lot of time writing at the pub. Not that blokes don’t still try to engage her. It can be quite entertaining.”
“Dunno why a bloke would want anything to do with her,” Ron says, wrinkling his nose, “She gives me the bloody creeps.”
“Come on, Ron,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow skeptically, “You can’t tell me you don’t see the appeal.”
Ron sets his lips in a thin line and shakes his head resolutely. Harry turns his gaze to Hermione expectantly.
“I haven’t had a good look at her,” Hermione laughs, “Though I agree with you, Harry. There can be a certain appeal to someone who’s a bit...mysterious.”
Ron scoffs in disgust, “She’s more than just mysterious! The woman looks like a bloody ghost! I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out one Bellatrix Black has been dead for 84 years.”
Bellatrix Black. Hermione rolls the name over in her head appreciatively. What a lovely name.
Hermione’s train of thought ends when she recalls the woman with the lovely name probably thinks she’s crazy.
“How is the pub doing, Harry?” Hermione says, changing the subject before she dies from embarrassment by dwelling on the memory.
“Oh it’s brilliant! It’s become a lot more successful just in the last year and Sirius is finally ready to hire someone else. We’ve been getting some terrible applicants, though. Position’s been open for months. Can’t complain, though. Tips are good and the more we grow, the more raises I get.”
Ron pouts, “Don’t remember the last time I got a raise here. Never even got asked if I wanted to work here, just got handed an apron when I turned 14 and that was that.”
“Should’ve gone to school like your sister, Ronald,” Hermione chides, “Her, Bill and Charlie managed to escape the fate of the family business, didn’t they? That leaves you as the most likely candidate to take over someday.”
“Do you reckon you’ll change the name to Ronald’s?” Harry asks.
“Bugger off.” Ron says, throwing a chip at Harry.
They spend the next half hour continuing to catch up until the time comes for Ron to start his shift. She half expects Harry to ask about Ginny once they’re alone, but he doesn’t. Now that she thinks about it, he stopped asking about her even before Hermione had frozen everyone out, and she wonders if he’s finally moved on.
They head to the pub afterwards, and what should’ve been a ten minute walk turns into a half hour from all of the greetings Hermione gets along the way. Everyone is quite eager to know exactly what has brought the prolific Hermione Granger running home from university with her tail between her legs, and none are too shy to ask. Luckily the townspeople are polite despite their nosiness, and drop the subject at her flimsy excuse of “just needing a break”. She is quite certain they’ll be discussing it behind her back soon enough, though.
She links her arm with Harry’s as they walk, feeling herself sink into the familiarity of her old life. She missed the walk down main street more than she cared to admit while she was away. She missed being surrounded by friendly faces, missed walking past the storefronts that belonged to business owners she knew so well. She feels like she belongs, despite the ghosts of her past lurking in the halls of the local library, at the theatre, or the front steps of the school. She doesn't see her mother everywhere she looks like she feared. That particular ghost is translucent enough for her to ignore, for now at least.
She smiles when they walk down the alley leading to the pub. Sirius had only just opened the place when she left, and now he’s updated the logo and purchased a wooden sign to hang over the steps that lead to the front door. A shaggy black dog holds a half empty tankard in its mouth, with the words “The Lazy Dog” scrawled beneath it.
The bell on the door jingles when they enter, and she’s hit with the smell of old wooden floorboards, beer, leather and smoke. It smells like Sirius.
“There she is!” The man himself bellows from behind the bar. A few patrons cast her curious looks but Hermione ignores them, grinning at Sirius.
His hair is longer than it was the last time she saw him, brushing against the top of his shoulders. He has a trim beard, full but not long, and his eyes are full of that welcoming kindness she remembered well.
“It’s good to see you again, Sirius,” she says, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
Sirius snorts, snatching a mug off the back counter to fill it with beer. Hermione mentally prepares herself to pretend she doesn’t despise the taste.
“Don’t give me that look, little canary,” he says, “It’s a new brew from the coast, local and all that good stuff.”
“Alright,” Hermione says doubtfully. Sirius slides the drink across the counter and into her hand. She schools her expression before she raises the glass to her lips, forcing herself not to breathe through her nose. She takes a small sip and just as expected, the bitter taste doesn’t sit well on her tongue. She manages to keep herself from wincing and gives Sirius a forced smile. “You’re right, it’s not bad!”
“Oh, you liar. Mark my words, Hermione Granger, I’m going to find a beer you like one of these days.”
“Consider them marked,” Hermione says, smothering her smile by bringing the mug to her lips again. This time, she winces.
“Oh, give it to me,” Harry says, snatching it away, “Bloody ungrateful, that one,” he says to Sirius.
“So,” Hermione says, glaring at Harry, “I heard you’re understaffed. I just so happen to be in need of a job.”
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Sirius smirks. “That so?” the pub owner asks.
“I don’t have a lick of experience,” Hermione admits, “but I’m a fast learner. And I’m reliable. You know I am.”
Sirius gives her a long, considering look. Hermione squirms in the silence, wracking her brain for something more to say in her favor.
“I need to stay busy. I can’t just sit around in that house all day. Besides, my dad is too nice to make me pay rent but I will not be a leech. Please, Sirius. You know I won’t let you down.”
“I know,” Sirius says. He sighs, tossing a rag over his shoulder and propping a hip on the edge of the counter, “Look, why don’t you hang around for Harry’s shift. It’s Friday night, so you’ll see how intense it gets. If you still want it by the end of the night, the jobs yours.”
“Do you mean it?” Hermione asks, a grin spreading over her face.
Sirius nods his head and shoots her a wink before leaving them to check on his customers. Harry shrugs out of his jacket, revealing his black shirt with a white pub logo on it. He throws the rest of the drink back with ease and brings the empty mug behind the counter.
“Well, that was the shortest interview I’ve ever seen. Can I get you something you’ll actually enjoy to celebrate, ‘Mione?” Harry asks, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter.
“An apple cider would be great, actually,” Hermione says, taking a seat at the stool in front of her friend.
Harry slides the new drink in front of her a moment later and Hermione feels warmth spread through her at the first sip. She peels off her sweater and drapes it over her lap, before fishing a book out of her bag and settling in.
An hour later the sun has set and people are beginning to pour into the place. Every time she glances up from her book she sees the sheen of sweat on Harry’s face growing as he struggles to juggle the growing demands. Sirius is cool as a cucumber, chatting up who appears to be a regular.
Hermione sweeps her eyes over the crowded pub, surprised to find herself searching the faces for her mysterious neighbor. That painful curiosity is back, and she can't ignore the desire she feels to get a closer look. Maybe it’s the way the town seems to be calcified, nearly identical to the way she left it in every way but one. Bellatrix is an anomaly, and anomalies have always interested her.
Hermione gives up her search, electing to return to her book before she catches a chatty neighbor’s eye. She’s done quite enough explaining herself and her return for the day, and making eye contact will only invite further questioning.
She loses herself to the words of the novel, finding it easy to drown out the background noise of the conversations happening around her. She’s not sure how much time passes, but her body notices the change in the room before her mind does. The hair on the back of her neck raises, and the warmth drains from her body. She realizes the pub has fallen quiet, only a few whispered conversations remaining. She looks up to find the reason for the sudden quiet and immediately notices someone standing next to her who most certainly wasn’t there a moment before.
Bellatrix Black herself is peering down at her with a look of mild disgust and impatient curiosity, as if she’s been waiting for her to notice her presence for longer than she has the patience for. Hermione blanches and slowly shuts her book in favor of drinking in the woman’s appearance up close and personal.
Everything about her is intimidating, seductive, with an undercurrent of something ineffable that puts Hermione on edge. Something is off about her, not quite right in a way that makes Hermione want to lean forward to deduce. All she can do is drag her eyes over her slender frame, the pale skin of her long hands poking out from the black of her long coat, up to her throat, her sharp jaw, her noble cheekbones. And her eyes.
Fuck, her eyes.
Hermione nearly recoils at their intensity, at the prying, searching gaze she’s currently being pinned with. Her eyes are bottomless, impossible to read. The look is so oddly intense that Hermione can no longer bear the silence.
“Hello there,” Hermione manages.
Bellatrix’s glare darkens, and Hermione’s mouth goes dry.
“I...um...believe you’re my new neighbor,” Hermione ventures. Bellatrix gaze remains hard and unfriendly, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Bellatrix just stares and stares, and Hermione finds herself fighting the absurd impulse to flee the pub entirely. Just when she gives into the urge to start eyeing the exit, Bellatrix finally speaks.
“Where did you come from?”
The air rushes out of Hermione’s lungs at the low, smooth voice. The words run over her skin like silk, smooth and cool and seductive, sending a shiver down her spine. She’s not sure she’s ever heard a voice quite so alluring. In fact, she’s never been so fucking attracted to a voice alone, not even Fleur’s the first time she heard it. The words hit her right in the gut, hot and liquid and heavy. She feels an overpowering urge to hear it again.
“I...well I grew up here, actually. I’m just taking a break from university,” Hermione says, repeating the same words she’s said about fifteen other times today.
Bellatrix’s eyes flick over her, the intensity gone and replaced with cold disinterest.
“I see,” she says. When she meets Hermione’s eyes again, a cruel look twists her gaze, “And why are you stalking me?”
Hermione gasps, offended at the notion, but is saved from responding when Sirius sidles up from behind the bar.
“Hey, Bella. I trust you’re being nice to Miss Granger, here? She’s quite the little town sweetheart, you see, so if you make her cry you’ll have a mob after you with pitchforks.”
Bellatrix doesn’t spare Sirius a glance, instead continuing to torture Hermione with her invasive staring.
“She’s not about to cry, are you, little Granger?” Bellatrix asks, her tone dangerous and oh so subtly mocking. Why does that sound like a threat?
Hermione’s heart thunders in her ears at the infantilizing nickname, heat pooling in her gut and rising in her cheeks. Bellatrix notices the tinge of color and the corners of her lips twitch, victorious at the ease with which she’s gotten to her.
“I’m not,” Hermione says, despising the way the words make her sound as childish as Bellatrix is treating her.
“Not stalking me, or not about to cry?” Bellatrix taunts, her smile growing.
“Not little,” Hermione grits out, “Or stalking you, or about to cry.”
“I don’t believe you,” Bellatrix says, leaning forward and into Hermione’s space until she can smell her. Parchment, amber, and crisp autumn air drift around her, and Hermione finds herself breathing her in until her head swims. “You were watching me last night, and now you’re here, on my stool.”
“How do I know you weren’t watching me?” Hermione asks, “What were you doing up at that hour, anyway?”
“Existing in my own house. Is that such a crime?”
“As was I. Which no, is not a crime. Or does it become one when I dare to do it in your line of sight?”
“You were watching me,” Bellatrix growls. Hermione sees the glint of her pearl white teeth when she does it. The student bites her lip and Bellatrix’s eyes track the movement. Hermione notices, and she likes it. She likes her angry, reactive, and likes her full attention on her. She wants to push her buttons, she wants to make her angrier.
“Bella,” Sirius warns, “Leave her be.”
“She ought to leave me be. She’s the one following me around.”
“I’m not,” Hermione says, “I work here, actually.”
Bellatrix laughs, throwing her head back in disbelief. Hermione runs her eyes down the delicate skin of her throat, over the thrumming pulse point and the shadow of her collarbone. Then, Bellatrix is looking at her again, deadly serious. “Liar.”
“She’s not,” Sirius says, and Hermione just about falls off her stool with relief, “Just hired her. She starts tomorrow. So you’d better play nice, since she’ll be the one pouring your whiskey.”
“Play nice,” Bellatrix repeats, sneering, “I’ll play, but it won’t be nice.”
What is that supposed to mean? Hermione thinks wildly.
“Bellatrix, enough with the dramatics,” Sirius pleads, sounding as if he’s aged ten years since he last spoke.
“There’s no need to be so upset,” Hermione says, the words coming out of her frantically. She’s blushing absurdly hard at Bellatrix’s last words and she doesn’t want the woman to notice, “No one’s making you come here. And if you don’t want me looking by accident, just keep your curtains closed.”
Bellatrix rakes her eyes over Hermione’s burning face, looking ready to choke the life out of her, witnesses and all. Her jaw works, her nostrils flare, and just as Hermione is bracing herself for her next words she turns around and storms from the pub.
“Hermione, meet Bellatrix. Bellatrix, Hermione.” Sirius says to the empty space that his cousin just abandoned.
Hermione lets out a long, shaky breath.
What was that?
Hours later Hermione lies awake in bed, running through her interaction with Bellatrix on repeat in her head. It's past two in the morning and she should be exhausted after the day she’s had, but she’s wide awake. Every nerve ending in her body is vibrating with adrenaline, keeping her mind running over that conversation again and again.
She’s hot, too hot to be under the covers for a second longer. She throws them off and gets up to crack the window, sighing when the cold air runs over her feverish skin.
Better, she thinks, her body relaxing as she cools down. Then it’s back, that painful bloody curiosity that always gets the best of her. Just one glance. One little glance up the hill won’t do her any harm. If Bellatrix is there, if she sees, that only proves that the older woman is the one who was staring this time.
She looks up and sure enough, the light is on just like before.
Her curtains are wide open.