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There was a part of Hermione that enjoyed the sideways glances, the outright stares, the gossip. A part of her fed by the attention she had sought as a child and adolescent, always in the background, always looked over besides being branded as the 'smart one', the 'swot', the 'plain' female friend when it was Harry who was known as the 'Chosen One' and even Ron turned heads by being his best friend and snagging a spot on the Quidditch team – thanks to her.
After the war, despite the fact that it was truly her intellect that helped bring down who was once known as the darkest wizard of their world, her mentions left little to be desired. 'The Golden Girl', what did that even mean when she was so much more than simply golden. Without her, Harry probably would have never figured out why the sword of Gryffindor had been left to him in Dumbledore's will, without her, she was sure neither Harry nor Ron would have figured out how to get into the Chamber of Secrets or even the fact that a Basilisk was the monster within. Harry would not have been able to make it through the Triwizard Cup, the list went on. In the the seven years she had spent backing her boys, the most publicity she had gotten had been a hostile hastily inked rumor about her and the Seeker for Bulgaria, Viktor Krum.
These were facts though and it was in her nature to absorb facts and wear them as armor. Therefore, she was not bitter. Not in the slightest. Especially not when she had, in one fell swoop, gobsmacked Britain's Wizarding World when it came out that she was in fact romantically involved with ex-Death Eater, Bellatrix Black.
Where her close friends and family – by default - were shocked by the news, shocked being an understatement as some were genuinely upset, Hermione couldn't help but find herself snorting, downright chuckling with each outrageous headline in the Prophet. With each reporter that frantically tried to flag her down, with each bubble of insinuation and outright lie she heard. It would have made anyone else angry, it would have made the average person storm into the headquarters in Diagon Alley to give the editors a piece of their mind. Yet it made the former Gryffindor laugh.
Because...if only they knew.
If only they knew the depths of the dark witch they had all condemned. They had no idea how to peel her like an onion, uncovering layers long since hidden, left to rot. Pride, ambition, loyalty, unconditional love. They had no idea, did they? All they were concerned about was a predator ensnaring helpless prey. 'Prey' that they only chose at that time to acknowledge as worthy of any accolades besides being one of Harry Potter's best friends.
If only they knew what she had to overcome just to fall in love with Bellatrix. Had they been there when her nightmares resurfaced, when she had to find the strength to report to work day in and day out for the Ministry's Rehabilitation Program? Had they logged the man hours? Had they had to look evil in the face? Had they endured jeers and swears and slurs every timed they walked the halls of the sectioned off floor? Had they had to face their greatest fears, looking into the black bottomless eyes of someone who had straddled, maimed, and tortured them?
No.
If only they knew the way her heart had beat in triple time being in the presence of the woman who had gleefully tortured her. Had they had to confront features right out of their nightmares? Had they been a hairsbreadth from rotted out teeth, greasy hair, and skeletal features, under a silver edged knife, writhing in the throes of the Cruciatus Curse?
No.
And yet they had so much to say, didn't they? Where were they when she had finally faced her fears? Where were they when she had made that first breakthrough with Bellatrix, followed by the second, the third, and the next. When she had broken the former Lieutenant of the Dark Lord at last? Had reduced the witch to tearful confessions and statements of regret? Had heard tales of a gilded childhood and a thorough brainwashing by a wizard who had managed to slither like the serpent he was into her very heart hiding behind the guise of understanding, freedom, and a love he could never feel – not that she realized that until it was much too late? Had they heard of the unspeakable measures he went through to keep his followers in check. Were they there when he had cast a modified Imperius on his most trusted that lasted fifteen years after his presumed demise?
Were they present the first time Bellatrix had called her 'Hermione'? Had they heard the way her name fell from her lips, full and tinged red? Filled with an earned trust, that was not at all blind but all seeing? Filled with a warmth that was almost tangible, something like relief that finally, finally someone was hearing her, seeing her, looking at her like she was a person at last. Not a witch to be wedded and bedded, not a pawn, not a soldier, not a monster, but a someone who deserved to be considered a someone just like everybody else?
No.
And yet they had been there at the trial, camera's flashing, Quick Quills quivering. They had been of the first to Floo to the fireplaces of the Prophet, Witch Weekly, even the Quibbler with news of 'BELLATRIX LESTRANGE EXONERATED!' ' 'LESTRANGE LOOSE' 'POTTER'S GIRL GET'S HER OFF!' They had damn near salivated at that one. Yet still, all Hermione could do was laugh.
If only they knew how Bellatrix's eyes lit up the first time she had tried pizza, how she had clutched at Hermione's hand the first time she had been in a car, how her first request following the trial was to visit the Longbottom's in St. Mungo's, how she had emptied damn near half of her vault to their son in reparations. They were nowhere to be found when the sisters Black were finally reunited for the first time in decades. There were no reporters when it came out that Bellatrix had not been the one to kill her niece. They had not been there to see the way she had wept when she had laid eyes on Teddy Lupin for the first time. No movimg photographs had been snapped of Bellatrix composing a tea for the toddler with all his stuffies and toys in attendance. No one had broadcast the first smile Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy nee Black had shared in over twenty years.
They pulled no punches, however, when it somehow became public knowledge that Hermione had moved into the Black Estate. Once she had helped Bellatrix overcome the idea of assuming her birthright. Hermione had gone through the whole of the century old manor, cleverly concealing trepidation, her witch at her side to remove every last trace of dark magic. When she had to stifled a whimper as her hand was sliced open for the blood wards, Bellatrix had brushed the sting away from her eyes, had shushed her in that low and sultry tone of hers that was a far cry from high pitched cackles and infantile sing song she used to intimidate. They had not been there for any of that, but the tabloids still blared “LESTRANGE KIDNAPS GOLDEN GIRL” “UP TO HER OLD TRIX, MUGGLEBORN HERO TRAPPED IN THE DUNGEON!” The latter would always be one of Hermione's personal favorites.
If only they knew the lengths Bellatrix went through to keep house. There were times when Hermione was unsure if she had walked into the domestic haven of the 1950's or accidentally stumbled upon Dr. Frankensteins' lab. But of course, they were not there to see the raven haired witch's frustration with Muggle gadgets, were nowhere there to witness her willingness to learn. A willingness that turned into frustration and ended up with the microwave, the vacuum, the television, the washing machine, among several other appliances needing to be replaced multiple times. The humor of it all was never lost and once when she had found Bellatrix holding the charred remains of the desktop computer's keyboard, charcoal eyes wide with an endearing sort of innocence as she explained she had merely been trying to send her a message by Floo and tossed the whole kit and caboodle into the lit fireplace, Hermione had almost choked to death on the barks of laughter that had doubled her over.
Some of the more sordid rags suspected their sex life, making nasty alludes to it, out right creating their own twisted narratives.
If only they knew how Bellatrix set her body ablaze with just one smoldering sidelong gaze from her onyx eyes. How she made Hermione squirm and writhe at the mere promise that look vowed. That whip appeal which had the brunette damn near crawling to her dark witch every time she was summoned. And said summons could be nothing more than a lingering touch, a light brush of the lips, the faint fragrance of pine and scorched spices. Nothing more than the idea of sable curls, alabaster skin and a feral grin could propel her into flashbacks that left her achy between the thighs and dripping. Bellatrix was a force to be reckoned with between the sheets and contrary to whatsoever they could knock together to sell rags, Hermione was only too willing to be prey to that sort of torture.
The things Bellatix did to her – Merlin, Circe, Godric be damned – Hermione was grateful they were not sniveling in to the wood works of the manor to witness when Bellatrix fucked her senseless, legs over shoulders, mouth buried into her sex, breathing her in, sucking her in until she was a screaming and shaking mass of trembling thighs and broken cries. But part of her wanted them to be there to quill the times when she and Bella – for she was Bella by this point – made love. She wished they could see how Bella responded to the depth of her love finally being understood, finally being reciprocated.
“Don't hurt me,” Bellatrix had pleaded on a whisper, the first time she had deigned to allow Hermione to even see her bare, to touch her. And the former Gryffndor was grateful they weren't there to soil that moment. To strip away what it meant, to come entirely full circle and promise to the person you once feared, who had tortured you, that you would never dare.To see the fear tinged hope all of those reporters had stripped away from the one they all labeled a monster? Hermione was glad she was the sole person to look onto those wide obsidian eyes, blown with a mix of desire and anxiety the very first time her fingers had slipped between soaked feminine folds, mapping out a maiden voyage that she would come to sail more times than she could count. Never would want to count for that matter.
She quickly found her fingers and tongue addicted to Bellatrix. And vice versa. She had been nervous the first time, Hermione had. And she remembered vividly how the dark witch had worshiped her body, kisses and touches light to the point of reverence. “Is this okay?” she had asked every time an article of clothing had been removed. “Is this too much? Talk to me, tell me.” As her nimble fingers invaded her and stole her breath, as she hovered above her, straddled her, like something out of her nightmares, but so saturated by the present, the now, all her body knew how to do was accept and surrender to the pleasure. Orgasms damn near torn out of her, wrenching sounds from her throat that could have been mistaken for pain.
Thankfully they weren't there for that. Nor were they there for the rough patches, when their love was mercilessly raked across fiery embers. When their pasts resurfaced. When Bellatrix's anger toward her past and Hermione's anger toward her past met like rams colliding horns. Now that fear was stripped away, they fought as ardently as they loved. And knew how to verbally assault, knew how to use their words as poison drenched arrows. Knew how to maim without laying a hand. That came with the territory, both knew how to splinter, knew how to raze, but both being deemed the Brightest Witch of their respective age, knew how to piece it all back together. “Pet,” a low and sultry voice murmured, such a stark contrast to the sharp cackles that once clouded Hermione's mind's eye. No silver blade, no candled chandelier, no cold marble floor against her back, “Stay here with me,” the urge, the sway met with gentle touch and a soft mouth, erasing whatever harshness came before.
They were not there for any of that and for that Hermione was glad. Even if some made her laugh, there were precious moments that belonged to her and her witch alone. She had always been brandeed as the 'smart one', the 'swot', the 'plain' female friend. Now she was more. She was not bitter. Not in the slightest. The attention they now gave making her realize the attention she once craved coming up, it paled in comparison to what she got. Now that she understood what it meant for her heart to also beat outside her chest.
Yet they chased her down, leaving work, minding her business, going home. Accosted by those with no other way put Galleons in their vaults. “Are you still under the Imperious Curse?” “Does she torture you? Do you like it?” “Has she made any Horcruxes?” “Can she turn into a snake?” They scream out quills poised, cameras raised. To get something, to capture anything.
But if only they knew.
“What are they saying about us now, pet?” Bellatrix whispered , recognizing the odd chuckle of her lover as they settle into the armchair before the fireplaces, hair wild enough to cloak them both in ebony. And Hermuone can only sigh as she breathes in the scent of right, of her love, of what makes sense.
“Nothing new.”