Chapter Text
Cold, damp, and the endless, icy suction that drained every happy memory—the spectre of Azkaban clung to Bellatrix black’s shattered soul like the deepest nightmare. Even now, free from its physical walls, its essence remained, a perpetual chill in her bones. She stood shrouded behind the rotting silk curtains of Black Manor, her pale, almost translucent fingers gripping the window frame. Her eyes, once sharp as obsidian and burning with mad fire, were sunken in shadow, holding only a weary, animalistic vigilance.
The ancient magic of the pure-blood family acted as an intangible shield, sealing the manor from the outside world and, for now, holding the Dementors that patrolled its periphery at bay. This was her refuge and her cage. Narcissa—her dear, weak, yet crucially dependable sister—would visit periodically, bringing supplies and secretly using her skilled healing magic and potions to repair the damage Azkaban’s harsh conditions and long-term malnutrition had wrought on Bellatrix’s body. Her teeth, especially.
But information was just as vital. The Dark Lord was gone, but she, ever loyal, knew he would return. She needed to know what was happening in the world, what that boy Harry Potter was up to, what games the Ministry was playing. More pressingly, she needed to see Cissy for further treatment; her magical core felt unstable, strained by long suppression and torment.
Thus, she was forced to risk it.
A faint, sickening series of pops and cracks, the contraction of bone and re-knitting of muscle, and where the gaunt, pale witch had stood was now a jet-black long-haired cat. Her fur was matted and slightly unkempt, yet the underlying graceful lines of her form were still evident. A pair of sharp, intelligent yellow eyes, holding far too much human cunning and madness, glowed in the dim light. This feline body was also thin, but her movements held an innate, predatory grace and caution.
The sensory onslaught of Diagon Alley was nearly overwhelming for her heightened feline senses. The bright, sunny afternoon, the bustling crowds—mostly the half-bloods and Mudbloods she so despised—made her twitch her tail in irritation as she slunk through shadowy eaves and cluttered back alleys. She snatched fragments of conversation, caught headlines from discarded Daily Prophets, piecing together the intelligence she craved.
The meeting with Narcissa was brief and tense, held in a secluded corner of Knockturn Alley. The soothing relief of the healing spells warred with the humiliation of needing her sister's aid, making Bellatrix viciously irritable during the short moments she was forced to resume her human form. The poorly concealed pity in Narcissa’s eyes stoked her fury, making her bite back poisonous curses.
“Must you look at me like a wounded kneazle, Cissy?”Bellatrix had snarled, her voice a hoarse rasp from disuse, after Narcissa had gently smoothed a bruise-reduction paste over her cheekbone.
“I only wish to see you well, Bella,”Narcissa had replied softly, her eyes flickering nervously towards the alley’s entrance. “It’s a miracle you escaped. They’re searching everywhere. You must be more careful.”
“They won’t find me,”Bellatrix had retorted, her arrogance a brittle shield. “They are fools. But the Dark Lord… he will know I remained faithful. He will reward my loyalty.”The fanatical gleam in her eyes was undimmed by her physical state.
Narcissa had simply nodded, a flicker of fear and something else—perhaps despair—in her own eyes. “Just… be safe, Bella. Do not take unnecessary risks.”
The return journey was plagued by suppressed rage and lingering physical malaise, making her steps unsteady. She found herself crouching behind a stinking bin in a relatively quiet Diagon Alley side-alley, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. Her black fur was a perfect camouflage in the shadows.
It was then the voice came, dripping with a nauseating, sweet concern.
"What's up, Hermione?" Ron called back, turning. Harry followed his gaze.
"It's a cat," Hermione said softly, her voice laced with worry. "It just… collapsed. Poor thing." She knelt down, carefully setting her stack of books aside. Bellatrix remained utterly still, playing dead. She felt the warmth of Hermione’s hand hovering near her, hesitant.
"Blimey, it looks half-starved," Ron observed, peering over Hermione’s shoulder. "Probably feral. Best leave it, Hermione. Might have fleas. Or worse."
Bellatrix suppressed a snarl. Weasley filth.
"But it's hurt, Ron!" Hermione protested, her voice firming. "Look at it. It's skin and bone. And its paw…" She gently extended a hand, not quite touching, towards Bellatrix’s ‘injured’ foreleg. "We can't just leave it here."
"It’s probably fine," Ron muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "Just resting. Alley’s full of strays."
Harry crouched down beside Hermione. His green eyes, so like his father’s, scanned Bellatrix with a quiet intensity that made her fur prickle beneath her skin. She willed herself to absolute stillness, not even daring to twitch a whisker. Don’t see me, Potter. Don’t see the monster.After a moment, he nodded slowly. "It does look rough, Hermione. But Ron’s right, it might not want help. Or be safe."
Cold, pure killing intent surged through Bellatrix. A perfect opportunity. Slit her throat right here in this filthy alley. Or... a better approach would be to follow them, investigate, and then send her and her little friends to the grave. A fine welcome gift for her returning Master.
Bellatrix chose that moment to let out the faintest, most heart-wrenching whimper. A sound designed to pierce the softest heart. She cracked her eyes open just a fraction, letting them reflect the dimming light with a watery sheen of feline suffering.
Hermione’s heart melted instantly. She carefully slid her hands under Bellatrix’s limp body. completely missing the flash of utter cruelty in the cat’s gaze. “Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you,” she murmured, reaching out a hand to stroke the seemingly neglected, yet oddly luxurious black fur.
Bellatrix suppressed the urge to rake those fingers to the bone and allowed the contact. The girl’s hand was warm and soft, smelling of parchment, ink, and something else… something indefinable, sweet and intriguing. A strange, oddly soothing scent that somehow, inexplicably, calmed the raw, screaming edges of Bellatrix’s tortured psyche.
“You can’t stay out here,” Hermione whispered, glancing around. “Come back to Hogwarts with me? It’s safe there. And there’s plenty of food.”
"Take it to Hogwarts?" Ron’s voice rose in disbelief. "Hermione, you can't be serious! McGonagall'll have kittens herself! Strays aren't allowed!"
"It won't be a stray if I take care of it!" Hermione retorted, lifting Bellatrix with surprising ease. Bellatrix remained pliant, a picture of helpless exhaustion, her head lolling against Hermione’s arm. Inside, she was a coiled spring, vibrating with triumph and barely contained malice. Got you.
"Honestly, Hermione," Ron sighed, shaking his head. "You and your lost causes."
Harry watched, his expression thoughtful, still tinged with caution. "Just… be careful, Hermione. It might scratch or bite if it gets scared."
Hermione adjusted her grip, cradling the black cat more securely against her chest. Bellatrix felt the soft wool of Hermione’s school jumper against her fur, the rhythmic thud of the girl’s heartbeat beneath. It was steady, strong. Annoyingly alive. "I'll be careful," Hermione promised, her voice softening as she looked down at the bundle of fur in her arms. "Poor thing. You’re safe now."
Safe?Bellatrix almost laughed, a harsh, internal sound. Oh, little Mudblood. You have no idea what you’ve just invited into your life. No idea at all.She closed her eyes fully, feigning exhaustion, savoring the feel of the enemy’s warmth, the scent of her naivety. The first step was complete. The viper was inside the gate.
The journey to Hogwarts was a blur of uncomfortable sensation. The Knight Bus was a nauseating, rattling deathtrap that made Bellatrix’s feline stomach churn. The tight squeeze through the barrier at King's Cross felt like suffocation. The Hogwarts Express was a cacophony of shrieking children, rattling trolleys, and overwhelming smells – pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs, cheap perfume, and adolescent sweat. Bellatrix remained huddled in the depths of Hermione’s magically expanded beaded bag, a dark, silent presence surrounded by textbooks and spare quills. Hermione had lined a corner with a soft scarf, providing a modicum of comfort Bellatrix accepted only out of necessity. She listened intently to the muffled conversations outside her cloth prison – Potter and Weasley debating Quidditch tactics, Hermione correcting them with infuriating precision, snippets of gossip about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, someone named lupin.
Lupin.The name sent a jolt of pure, undiluted hatred through her. Remus Lupin.The werewolf. One of the Marauders, Sirius ’s little pack of friends. Her lip curled in a silent snarl. What was Dumbledore thinking, allowing such filth to teach children? Though, she mused with dark amusement, it was a step up from that Lockhart fool. Still, the thought of him being near, of breathing the same air, made her claws extend involuntarily, pricking the lining of the bag.
The train rattled on. Bellatrix drifted into a light, uneasy doze, the rhythmic motion almost lulling her. But then, a sudden, profound cold seeped into the compartment. The cheerful chatter outside died instantly, replaced by a terrified silence. The lights flickered and died.
Bellatrix’s eyes flew open. She knew this cold. Knew it intimately, in the marrow of her bones, in the shattered pieces of her soul. Dementors. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. Not fear for herself—they were not here for her, not specifically—but the visceral, primal terror they evoked was beyond her control. The despair, the memories of Azkaban’s endless grey, the sound of her own screams echoing off stone walls, the feeling of every happy thought being ripped from her mind… it all came flooding back, threatening to drown her.
She heard Potter gasp, a strangled, painful sound. Good. Let him suffer. But the satisfaction was fleeting, swallowed by her own rising panic. She trembled violently within the confines of the bag.
Then, she felt it. A shift in the air around her. A weak, pathetic, yet unmistakably familiar magic. A Patronus. His magic. The werewolf was performing the charm. Disgust warred with a desperate, shameful need for the protection it offered. The cold receded slightly, the oppressive weight lifting a fraction. She hated him for it. Hated that she was, in any way, beholden to his kind. Hated the faint, fleeting warmth his spell provided.
The lights came back on. The train jerked into motion again. Voices, shaky and relieved, filled the corridor.
“Professor Lupin!” she heard Hermione say, her voice filled with admiration. “That was incredible!”
A low, tired, and—to Bellatrix’s ears—utterly repulsive voice answered. “Chocolate. It helps. Here.”
The bag was unzipped slightly. Bellatrix shrank back into the shadows, making herself as small and insignificant as possible. She saw a sliver of the compartment: Potter looking pale and shaken, Weasley stuffing chocolate into his mouth, and a frayed, shabbily dressed man handing out more chocolate. Lupin.He looked even more pathetic than she remembered. Gaunt, tired, wearing the poverty of his existence like a second skin. Her hatred burned bright and cold.
His weary eyes scanned the compartment and landed on the partially open bag. “A new friend, Miss Granger?” he asked mildly.
“Oh! Yes, Professor,” Hermione said, her voice softening. “I found her in Diagon Alley. She was hurt and alone. I couldn’t leave her.”
Lupin took a step closer. Bellatrix felt his gaze upon her. She forced herself to remain still, to keep her breathing slow and even, to project an image of a terrified, harmless animal. Don’t look at me, you half-breed filth. Don’t see me.
“A black cat,” he murmured, and there was a strange, thoughtful note in his voice that made her skin crawl beneath her fur. “They often get a bad reputation. Unfairly, I’ve always thought.” He didn’t reach out, for which Bellatrix was silently grateful. The urge to rake his hand to the bone was almost overwhelming.
“She’s very sweet, Professor,” Hermione insisted, a protective note entering her tone. “Just scared.”
“I’m sure she is,” Lupin said, his eyes lingering on Bellatrix for a moment longer than was comfortable. “After an encounter like that, it’s understandable. The Dementors affect all creatures, not just humans.” He finally looked away, addressing Potter about something else.
Bellatrix remained tense long after he left the compartment. Sweet? Scared? The Mudblood’s naivety was astounding. But Lupin’s gaze… it had been too perceptive. Not accusing, but… curious. Watchful. It was a complication. A dangerous one.
She spent the rest of the journey seething, her encounter with the Dementors and the werewolf leaving her agitated and on edge. The comforting, sweet scent emanating from Hermione, which had become a constant, low-level balm, was the only thing that kept her from lashing out blindly.
Finally, they arrived. The castle loomed, its ancient stones a familiar sight that stirred conflicting emotions—contempt for Dumbledore’s sentimentality, and a twisted, nostalgic sense of power. This had been her place once, in a way. A place to hone her craft, to gather followers, to feel superior to the rabble.
The Fat Lady’s shrill demand for the password grated on Bellatrix’s nerves. The explosion of warmth, noise, and the cloying scent of burning wood and teenage hormones inside the common room was overwhelming. She kept her eyes tightly shut, playing dead as Hermione navigated the chaos, murmuring excuses about needing to settle her ‘poor, sick cat’ in the dormitory.
The girls’ dormitory was marginally better. Smaller, quieter, filled with the cloying scents of perfume, hair potions, and dusty velvet hangings. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil greeted Hermione with squeals of delight and immediate concern for the ‘poor darling’ in her arms. Bellatrix endured the cooing and intrusive fingers with silent, seething fury. Filthy half-bloods. Pathetic little girls.
Hermione, thankfully, shooed them away. "She’s exhausted and probably scared," she said firmly, placing Bellatrix gently on her own four-poster bed. The mattress was soft, covered in a thick red quilt. "She needs quiet. I’ll look after her.”
As the other girls retreated, chatting excitedly about the new term, Hermione busied herself. She transfigured a spare pillowcase into a soft bed near the foot of her own bed. She conjured a shallow dish of cool water and another of rich cream. Bellatrix watched through slitted eyes, maintaining her façade of weakness, though the cream smelled tempting. Patronizing Mudblood charity.
Hermione then sat on the edge of her own bed, looking down at the black cat. Her expression was a mixture of compassion and intense curiosity. "Where did you come from?" she murmured softly, almost to herself. "How did you get so hurt?" She reached out slowly, cautiously, and stroked Bellatrix’s head between her ears.
The touch was gentle, tentative. Bellatrix froze. Every instinct screamed to lash out, to rake those soft fingers with her claws, to sink her teeth into the tender flesh of the wrist. The humiliation of being petted by her enemy was a white-hot brand. Yet… the physical contact, the warmth of Hermione’s hand… it sent another ripple through her, different from the unsettling resonance earlier. It wasn't soothing, not quite. It was… grounding. A point of focus in the sensory chaos. It momentarily silenced the constant, whispering static of Azkaban’s lingering echo in her mind. The sensation was so alien, so utterly unexpected, that it momentarily paralyzed her fury. She didn't purr. She didn't lean into the touch. But she didn't bite. She remained utterly still, a statue carved from tension and conflicting impulses.
Hermione seemed to take the lack of violent reaction as encouragement. She continued stroking, her touch growing slightly more confident. "It’s alright," she whispered. "You’re safe here. I’ll call you… ‘Snowflake’? No, that’s not right… You’re black as night. How about… ‘Midnight’? ‘Shadow’?” She pondered for a moment, then chuckled at her own thought.“I know! ‘Snowball’! It’s ironic, see?”
Snowball?!The arrogant pure-blood witch within Bellatrix nearly screamed aloud. The insult! The sheer lack of taste! She filed the indignity away for future retribution. Yet, as Hermione finally withdrew her hand and turned to unpack her trunk, Bellatrix found herself staring at the conjured bed, the dish of cream. The warmth where Hermione’s hand had been lingered on her fur, a phantom sensation both infuriating and… disturbingly persistent.
She ignored the bed and the cream with a disdain that was a physical force in the room. Instead of the pathetic offering on the floor, she gave a contemptuous sniff, then, with a powerful, fluid leap that belied her thin frame, she landed squarely in the center of Hermione's own four-poster bed. The quilt was thick and red, a garish Gryffindor color that offended her sensibilities, but its location and obvious status as the prime sleeping spot made it the only acceptable option.
She marched in a tight circle directly on Hermione's pillow, kneading the fabric with claws she made no effort to retract, leaving tiny pinprick snags in the cotton. Mine, the gesture screamed. This is mine now. She then settled into a tight loaf, her tail wrapping neatly around her paws, and fixed Hermione with a look of unblinking, arrogant challenge. Her yellow eyes seemed to say, The floor is for servants and that other Weasley creature. I sleep here.
Hermione, busy unpacking her trunk, stopped and stared, her mouth slightly agape. "Hey! Snowball! That's my bed! I made you a perfectly good bed right here!" She pointed to the transfigured pillowcase.
Bellatrix did not deign to look at the pathetic mat. She simply closed her eyes slowly in a deliberate, dismissive blink, then turned her head away, presenting the girl with the impeccable, arrogant line of her back. The discussion was over.
Perhaps sensing the utter futility of arguing with a creature that possessed such monumental gall, Hermione sighed in exasperation. "Unbelievable," she muttered. But she didn't try to remove her. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she retrieved the small, slightly frayed red velvet cushion from her own bed and placed it on the corner of the quilt, near the pillow Bellatrix had just claimed. "Fine. At least use the cushion. It's softer."
Bellatrix ignored the cushion too. She had claimed the territory; the amenities were irrelevant. She remained a regal, black statue of entitlement on Hermione's pillow.
Hermione, with a shake of her head that was both annoyed and oddly fond, returned to her organizing. "Stubborn thing," she murmured, but there was no real heat in it.
Stubborn? Bellatrix thought, her ears twitching. No, you stupid girl. I am Bellatrix Black. I take what I want.