She would have screamed if she could find her voice. Instead she only stood, silently gazing on the occupant of the garish room. The woman stared back, her smile never faltering, but morphing from a split second of happiness - Happiness! How was Hermione to know that was the expression on Bellatrix's face? She'd only ever seen a crazed, manic sort of glee, never true happiness- to curious and confused, to a more familiar look of annoyance and bared teeth. Hermione unfroze when Bellatrix went to get up from her perch on the couch, whipping her wand in front of her and training it on the dark witch.

"Don't move," she growled, glad that she kept the shaking in her voice to a minimum. Bellatrix's face grew ever more annoyed, but she didn't seem to be cautious or frightened in the least despite Hermione's threat. In fact, the dark witch rolled her eyes.

"Of course," the older witch responded snidely. "I've waited in this room alone for ages, and my first company would like to spell my arse off before I even get a chance to speak." She sank back into her seat and yawned, tucking her wand behind her ear. Throwing her arms onto the back of the couch carelessly and staring Hermione down, Bellatrix blinked slowly and a smug smirk made its way back on her face. "You're staring, girl. Close your mouth and stand up straight. There's a proper lass."

"How are you- what is- you should be-" Hermione sputtered, her brain frantically racing to come up with a reason that Bellatrix Lestrange would be alive and lounging in the Ministry of Magic. "Why are you here?" The question came out as a half squeak half snarl, and Bellatrix took note of the terrified glare on Hermione's face with a slight downturn of her lips.

"I know the reputation of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black precedes itself, of course, but I don't know you, and so you should have no reason to hate me, yet." Was the evil witch pouting? And did she really not recognize the face of the girl she had tortured just a few years ago? Hermione wouldn't put it past the insane witch to be that callous, but the ex-gryffindor had been a rather large thorn in the side of the dark for a long time, and Bellatrix hadn't failed to recognize her before. She had all but claimed her as her torture victim, had marked her permanently as a mudblood, had terrified her. Hermione went to take a step back but firmly held her ground.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here, Lestrange?" Hermione interrogated, trying to sound a bit more intimidating than intimidated. The witch hadn't even made a threatening move, but the younger witch could feel herself shaking and it was becoming a chore to keep from falling to her knees.

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "Well, it seems you don't know me, either. The Lestranges never even had a daughter. I'd say it's time for you to brush up on your family history." She paused. "Or have I really been in this room so long that the pure bloods have multiplied again? Good for them, if they had someone who looked like me rather than Rodolphus." She threw her head back and laughed and Hermione shivered before she even heard the sound. But it wasn't a maniacal cackle. It was far from soft, but it was infinitely less crazed and even rather pleasant. Again Hermione was struck by the genuineness of her amusement. Her teeth were pearlescent and her cheeks were full if a bit sharp due to her aristocratic bone structure. She had obviously taken care of herself after the fall of her Dark Lord.

"You're Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione said, seeming unsure about her words. It seemed impossible that Bellatrix was sitting there, and, now that Hermione was getting a better look at her less colored by terror, looking good. Impossibly healthy after having been dead for almost two years. She was full bodied, her hair shone, her skin was nearly flawless - she looked almost like a model, posing carelessly on the couch. Someone might at any time show up to take her picture.

"Bellatrix Black," she corrected, wrinkling her nose. "I dodged that marriage arrangement by a hair when my dear sister ran off with a mudblood. That bloody bitch," she said fondly, chuckling again. "Well as long as she rolls around in the mud like a pig, I don't have to. I assume you're too much of a simpleton to spread this around, of course, otherwise I wouldn't be saying anything." Bellatrix waved a hand and gave an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulder. "Come in, sit down, and lower your wand. You look positively awful when you want to hex me. Try a smile, or at least try to look like Cissy." She pulled a very somber face, but it split into giggles a second later.

"Cissy?" Hermione repeated, walking in for lack of something better to do. She didn't let her guard down but she had no idea where she was or who she was with. This woman obviously wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange, insane torturer, murderer, and deceased follower of Lord Voldemort. This woman was something else, something far less scary but, perhaps, far more mysterious. Bellatrix stared her down, dark eyes gleaming, until she took a seat on one less garish of the easy chairs, before answering.

"You'll tell me your name. I hope I'm right about you being a simpleton, because otherwise you're just uncultured and rude and I won't have that in my company. I don't want to spend time training you in manners when all I want is someone to talk to while I sit in this stupid room." Hermione pulled a frown and sat at the edge of her seat.

"I won't be talked to that way! Especially not by you!" she snapped, flinching as Bellatrix's expression cooled and she absentmindedly played with her wand where it was tucked into her hair. The woman didn't say anything, and her gaze eventually wandered, but Hermione felt as though the tension in the room was choking her. She finally sighed and slumped in her seat. "Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Hm," was all Bellatrix said in return. There was no spark of recognition. So she really was telling the truth; she didn't know Hermione at all.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione repeated, wanting to blurt out several inquiries that were not as friendly but holding herself back. She was still at work, after all, even though it seemed as though she had stepped into another world, perhaps a parallel universe where Bellatrix Lestrange was actually Bellatrix Black, a grating but attractive witch instead of an insane and dead one.

"What are you doing here?" Bellatrix retorted. She shifted her position, tucking her legs underneath her, ignoring the way her skirt rode up and revealed her pale legs. She was dressed, at least, in her signature black, but the outfit was on the whole less sinister. It was a simple black silk skirt and blouse, infinitely more flowy than the usual tight corsetted dress that she appeared in in Hermione's nightmares. She had no idea how to answer that question, whether or not she should reveal where it is they were or who she was. Actually, she was absolutely certain she wasn't going to reveal who she was. Different the witch might be, and no longer a Death Eater, but speaking to her even now revealed she still held certain prejudices about muggle-borns.

"I was doing a little bit of looking around and found you here in this room," Hermione said vaguely, hoping she could affect a nonchalant enough air for Bellatrix not to question it. "How long have you been here, anyway?" she asked, quickly trying to shift the subject onto the room's occupant.

"Oh, ages." Hermione looked disgruntled - it was not a very clear or helpful answer. Not that she expected much out of the witch. Bellatrix quirked her lips. "Are you trying to discern my age?" she teased, fluttering her eyelashes. "I'm not so vain as to be unwilling to answer if you ask me directly."

"Oh?" Hermione replied, sneering. Bellatrix clapped her hands together and cackled, the sound closer to what Hermione had previously experienced. It sent a shiver down her spine.

"There you go, that's a Cissy look if I ever saw one! Look at you! Now if you could only appropriate her sense of class, you'd be perfect. Although you would never be able to rise to the level of the Black sisters, poor thing." Hermione bristled.

"I'd say you aren't a day over sixty," Hermione hissed, clenching her hands in her lap and glaring at the witch on the couch. Bellatrix sat up a little straighter and slid her gaze up and down Hermione's body in an overtly salacious way, her tongue peeking out and taking a swipe of her lips as she looked.

"And I'd say you aren't a day under twelve, dearie," she purred, a sharpness to her retort that made Hermione inwardly smile with grim triumph.

"I'm nineteen," she corrected, sitting a little straighter. Bellatrix stared at her, her tongue having yet to retreat back into her mouth. Hermione couldn't help but stare at it; it was as vibrant a pink as her lips were a shiny red, and refused to stay still for more than a moment as the wheels in Bellatrix's mind spun.

"Of age, then, and out of school," Bellatrix said finally. "What is it that you want to do if you grow up, little witch?"

"I am grown enough for Ministry work," Hermione replied flatly. She wondered if Bellatrix ever stopped poking and prodding and being altogether a menace. She supposed she wasn't surprised; it wasn't as though the woman could have changed all that much even when she became a Death Eater, with her childishly insane mind. Bellatrix tutted.

"I wouldn't wish it on even a simpleton, although I'm sure you'd fit right in with your coworkers."

"And what would you do, huh?" Hermione snapped. "What career would fit the great Bellatrix Lestrange?" Bellatrix pursed her lips and sunk lower into the couch, glaring at Hermione. The younger witch felt her chest seize and couldn't find a breath until Bellatrix's eyes left her.

"Bellatrix Black," she began, emphasizing the last name. Hermione inwardly cursed. It was hard to remember to use the ex-Death Eater's (or was she even? this iteration of the dark witch seemed unaffected by Voldemort and his cronies) maiden name rather than her married one. Given the fact that this one had never married Rodolphus Lestrange. "Would not stoop so low as to perform common labor. I would do what I wanted when I wanted, just as I have for all of my life."

"So nothing useful, then." Hermione commented airily, unable to help matching Bellatrix's snark even as the older witch's responses terrified her into the cessation of bodily function. "You'd sit up in your tall tower, wasting away, ever a Black princess."

"Even if I never twitched a pinkie I'd be of more use than a lowly, waste of a wand ministry worker," Bellatrix snarled. Hermione gave her a bright, barmy smile and twirled her hair around her pinkie.

"Is that so?" she asked. "What's so great about you- besides your blood?" Hermione added quickly when Bellatrix's mouth opened. She raised an eyebrow as Bellatrix's expression relaxed into amusement.

"Aside from being a daughter of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?" Bellatrix began. Hermione groaned.

"Do you have to spell out the whole title every time? Yes, yes, I know you're ancient," Hermione couldn't keep a smile off of her face and Bellatrix gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Although I haven't seen much of your nobility. Perhaps showing instead of telling would suit you more?" Bellatrix gave her a steamy look that made her flush. The older witch sat up straighter in a more proper posture, crossing her legs and arching her back, displaying her chest more prominently.

"A lady must not slouch," Bellatrix began in a shrill, mocking voice, sounding practiced. Hermione bit back a smile and wondered who she was mimicking. "A lady must not swear, spit, or offend," she paused, winked at Hermione, and continued. "directly. A lady shall never, if she can help it, associate with the scum of society, and therefore must be able to recognize it as such."

It took a large amount of effort for Hermione not to rub her left arm. It was probably her imagination, but it had begun to throb once again in that almost-painful way. She turned away from the older witch, unable to handle looking at her for now. Bellatrix looked irritated that Hermione was not amused.

"I am more than my family name, in any case," she continued, sounding a bit disgruntled. "I was named the brightest witch of the age when I was in school, and for a good reason, although some professors were unhappy with what I did with that aptitude." Her gloominess disappeared nigh instantly at that thought, and she grinned at Hermione mischievously. "I was a bit of a naughty girl, back then."

"You seem a bit of a naughty woman, now," Hermione responded unthinkingly. She looked up from her shoes when Bellatrix neglected to respond and her face flushed completely red at the look the woman was giving her.

"Oho, I do, do I, little witch?" she purred, uncrossing and crossing her legs and throwing her arms over the back of the couch again. "I'm sure a young thing like you would love to take a peek at how naughty I can be."

"Th-that is absolutely not what I meant, and you know it!"

"Do I?" Bellatrix retorted with the raise of an eyebrow. "All I know is your name and that you're a bit slow. Why don't you tell Aunty Bella all about yourself, I'm sure you've been dying to talk about you since you put down your wand. I know your type."

"Y-you're the one who's been gabbing on and on about herself," Hermione retorted, trying to keep her face from lighting up further. "I would be perfectly content to just leave you to talk to yourself." Bellatrix sat forward quickly and Hermione forced her eyes to flick away from the swing of her low cut blouse.

"You're intrigued by me," she accused. Hermione was horrified to discover that the witch was right, but she refused to admit it aloud. "You wouldn't leave. We've only just started. Now be a good girl and talk a little about you. You're making me seem self centered." Deciding to leave that particular comment alone, Hermione sighed and curled up into the easy chair, making herself more comfortable. She probably wasn't going to leave for a while.

"My name's Hermione, and I'm nineteen, like I said. I was actually also lauded as the brightest witch of her age while I was in school," she added snidely, frowning when Bellatrix gave a screeching cackle. She wished the woman wouldn't do that.

"Sorry, was just thinking about the lowered standards of the Wizarding World... Anyway, go on. Don't let me distract you." Hermione once again ignored the quip. She was quickly realizing she'd have to choose her battles with the older witch if she wanted to do something more than just squabble constantly while they were talking.

"I'm working with the Ministry, I want to-"

"Wait," Bellatrix interrupted. Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "Oh come off it, I just want to know which house you were in. Don't lie," she added when Hermione opened her mouth. "It's obvious you weren't a Slytherin, so don't try to impress me or you'll annoy me."

"Why would I want to impress you?" Hermione snapped back, crossing her arms. "I was in Gryffindor."

"I knew it would be either that or Hufflepuff," Bellatrix muttered, giggling. Hermione shivered. She was beginning to sound more and more like her old self, the self that Hermione had encountered. "I don't doubt that you would try to impress me," Bellatrix added once her giggle fit had passed. "And there's no reason to be ashamed of that desire." She looked at Hermione expectedly, but the younger witch was glowering down at her lap. "And I suppose you'll want to say 'there's nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff'," she teased, her voice ascending into the high pitched, mocking squeak she'd employed before. "I see much wrong with any house that isn't my own, although Ravenclaw is a barely acceptable substitute."

Hermione found that she very much wanted to leave. For whatever reason the Department had led her here, she refused to deal with this woman - this shade any longer. There was a sense of dread that kept pooling in her chest every so often when Bellatrix moved or laughed or spoke in a certain way that made Hermione flash back to a certain scene. Looking at her company's mouth as she smiled, Hermione felt as though her teeth would morph into the muzzle of a wolf and clasp about her neck and end her life at any moment. Looking at her hands, which gesticulated with such ferocity, Hermione felt as though they would grasp her arms and drag her to the floor or flourish the dark wand still perched in Bellatrix's hair and send her into painful convulsions with a three syllable spell. Those lips seemed made for mouthing Crucio, over and over and over as Hermione writhed on the hard ground-

A touch on her shoulder made Hermione jump and shriek. Bellatrix took a surprised step back, looking concerned before she composed her expression into a more neutral annoyance. "You seem a bit lost, Granger. I'd prefer you not to daydream." She backed off a bit more when Hermione looked at her with an expression crossed between a drowning rat and a just-awakened kneazle. "Off in your own head? I'd hate to see you lost in such an empty space."

Hermione took a deep, shuddery breath. The older witch toyed with her skirt, not looking away from Hermione, her expression remaining unchanged until she grew surprised when Hermione stood up. "I'm leaving," Hermione said, unsure as to why she was informing the woman of anything. She could hardly breath and it was all because of this woman, this woman who should be dead, who had done nothing but torture and torment the innocent and who had deserved to die on the battlefield. Hermione could feel herself working up into a frenzy. She wanted to turn her wand on the woman and finish what had been started by Molly Weasely two years ago on the crumbling grounds of Hogwarts.

Bellatrix took a step toward Hermione as Hermione headed for the door. It was very hard for the bushy haired witch to not draw her wand and start slinging spells and hexes in her direction, but she reminded herself that although she wasn't able to handle being in the presence of Bellatrix Lestrange - no, Black - this version of her hadn't truly done anything to Hermione herself. She didn't know what differences there were between this woman and the woman of the outside, but she did know that no actions had been taken against the muggle-born witch. "Granger," Bellatrix began, hesitant for the first time. It was as though she was actually thinking about her words before she said them, Merlin forbid! For that reason Hermione allowed herself to pause, to listen for a bit longer. "I have been in this room for a rather long time," she started again. Hermione couldn't quite tell the tone in which Bellatrix was talking, or the reason behind her words, just yet. "So long, I haven't even been able to keep track. And you have been my first visitor. And if you are a bit sensitive, or a bit touched-" Hermione huffed and Bellatrix sped up her speech. "I wouldn't mind perhaps taking it a bit easier on you, as much as I can manage with you being such an easy target for teasing."

The ex-Gryffindor turned around, her eyebrows raising of their own accord far up her face. Was this Bellatrix's attempt at an apology? Was she really that desperate for company that she'd beg for Hermione to stay? At least, what amounted to begging for Bellatrix - she stood imperiously and refused to look at Hermione, even when the younger witch walked passed her and sat back down. It was hard to pass up the opportunity to see what the 'evil' witch considered to be nice. Bellatrix lifted her chin ever higher and sniffed. Hermione couldn't help but chuckle. "Well?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips. "Aren't you going to sit down?"

"Hmph." Bellatrix swept aristocratically over to the flower-print easy chair and flung herself into it, making it rock slightly before settling back onto all four legs. Looking at Hermione, she twiddled her fingers in a somehow violent way and rustled her shoulders like an upset bird settling back into its nest. They looked at each other silently for a few moments. Hermione allowed herself to take in the older witch's appearance, noting the severe differences in looks with her other self, including that she didn't actually look all that much older than Hermione herself. Most witches aged rather gracefully, of course, but there was an element of youth that had been obviously absent from the gaunt and haunted countenance of Bellatrix Lestrange. It was most remarkably present in Bellatrix Black.

"So," Hermione began, to break the silence and to stop herself from staring too long on the curved and generous body of her conversational partner. "How old are you, really?"

Bellatrix snorted. She opened her mouth to say something, but when she looked at Hermione's face, she paused, let a grin slither over her lips, and blinked her eyes slowly. "I'm nearly thirty," she answered, the lack of guile in her tone suspicious. Hermione didn't press the issue, although she knew that Lestrange had been in her mid- to late-forties, at the least. It made her wonder how it was that this Bellatrix existed at all, and if perhaps she were a mistake that time coughed up to be discovered by a Granger on duty. "I suppose I haven't aged as gracefully as I thought, given your earlier impression," Bellatrix continued, her smirk hardening. Hermione flushed.

"I didn't actually think you were sixty," she admitted, playing with her sleeves. "You look..." Her eyes flickered over Bellatrix's body lying prostrate on her chair as though she still lounged on the spacious, if ugly, couch. She couldn't come up with a proper word, which surprised and annoyed her. Bellatrix's grin widened.

"Flattery, my dear - although from your look I would say that you are legitimately speechless when you gaze upon my body. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but I'm afraid you're a bit..." She seemed to flick through several word choices before settling on one that she obviously deemed nicer. "Young, for me."

"Not too female?" Hermione shot back, her face flushing further, even her neck pinkening a bit. Bellatrix gave her a semi exasperated, semi pitying look.

"That is hardly a thing to worry about, little witch. You'd think you were raised by the most backward people on the planet."

Hermione couldn't help but snort. She tried to hold it in but she couldn't. Bellatrix glanced at her lazily but there was a sharpness to her gaze that demanded an explanation. "I'm sure your parents were absolutely forward thinkers," Hermione said, looking Bellatrix dead in the eye for as long as she dared.

"My parents," Bellatrix began, her voice softening to a hiss. She didn't sound angry, but she didn't sound like anything else Hermione could recognize. "Were a part of a long line of noble heritage, and their views were influenced by some of the most brilliant minds in the Wizarding world. Just because they didn't cave to blood traitor sensibilities and absurd crack pot wizards who thought themselves better, doesn't mean they weren't intelligent." Hermione had a feeling that Bellatrix words were less about defending her parents and more about defending her own way of thinking. It was something that Hermione would have to get over if she were to continue speaking to the woman amicably, but Hermione didn't think she could get over it, or even want to.

"The fact that you defend loving who you want and yet can't seem to grasp that people with magic aren't lesser or greater because of who their parents are is baffling to me," Hermione retorted, crossing her arms. Bellatrix growled and sat forward in her chair.

"Fucking a woman and stealing magic are two very different things, little witch. You'd do well to see reason, or at least to pretend to see reason, or the both of us will regret you staying here."

"I already regret staying," Hermione snapped. "You aren't the best conversationalist around, despite what you may think, Bella." Bellatrix seemed annoyed at the mocking tone that the younger witch employed.

"I at least can understand the importance of blood in the inheritance of magic, Hermione," Bellatrix sang out, mimicking Hermione's tone. It would of course be a jibe the first time Bellatrix actually used her first name. "There is no logical sense to a muggle child born to muggles suddenly developing magical talent."

"Since when is there logic when magic is involved?" Hermione scoffed, throwing up her hands. "There's no reasoning with you, is there." It was obviously not a question, and had it been, it would have been equally as ignored by the older witch.

"I have no clue why you would stoop to advocate for mudbloods," Bellatrix drawled, her expression schooling itself as she sat back in her chair. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Why? I'm just a simpleton, aren't I?" Bellatrix shrugged.

"You've proven yourself somewhat adept at keeping up with me," she admitted, although starkly refusing to apologize from what Hermione gathered from her tone and body language. It was simultaneously surprising and not that the woman wouldn't even stop to think that Hermione herself was a muggle-born witch. Bellatrix was smart despite being completely abrasive, but being stuck in a room with no companions didn't leave much for choice as far as conversation partners went, and if Bellatrix could avoid thinking or finding out that the only person who came to visit was someone who she would inherently despise, she would.

"Thank you," Hermione huffed, acknowledging that it was at least a round about compliment and she'd be better off reinforcing good behavior in the older witch than trying to change the bad. There were a few silent seconds during which the women brought themselves to be able to look at each other once again, and despite Hermione's raw nerves, she knew it was better to not bring up the subject of blood purity again. If Bellatrix was trying so hard to ignore it in favor of companionship, Hermione supposed she would oblige. She wasn't here to change the woman.

Or was she? Why had the Department brought her here? What was this room? The ex-gryffindor looked around, studying her surroundings once again, as she had been rather interrupted by the startling appearance of the ex-Death Eater in the room, if this woman had indeed participated in that group. It was a tackier space than she'd realized. The fireplace took up much of the space of the (what she assumed was) west wall, a huge, brick contraption with dark slate insides that fed itself with a giant pile of wood occupying a bent and beaten metal cradle. The wall was a behind it was a canary yellow dirtied with soot, with what Hermione noticed was paintings of smiling dolls along the floor and ceiling. That had a rather creepy effect, and Hermione allowed herself to look away.

The other three walls were a blue-grey colored wallpaper, stripes running up and down them in a contrasting fuchsia which made Hermione cringe. The walls had picture frames similar to the more ornate ones that decorated the hallway outside, and although these were not empty, none of them were portraits. There were cows grazing in a field with a red barn far off in the distance, a serene lake with ducks floating on it and flicking their wings every once in a while, a still mountain forest that might have been a muggle painting had it not been for the occasional movement that one had to look closely to catch. Other than the two easy chairs and the couches, there were two ornate, and therefore out of place, black metal chairs tucked away in the corner, along with a small matching table that Hermione assumed was for a dining small lunches or teas.

Bellatrix once again demanded Hermione's attention. The younger witch was surprised the woman had lasted long enough for Hermione to take in her surroundings. "What shall we talk about next, little witch? I believe we were on the topic of you ogling my body like a teenaged male, pimpled and salivating for the nearest thing to woman-flesh he can get his grubby little hands on."

"Ha, ha, very funny Bellatrix. You're interesting to look at, but not for the reasons you'd want," Hermione retorted.

"I know my beauty for what it is, Granger." Great. They were back to Granger now that she wasn't actively trying to upset Hermione. If she ever even tried to stop upsetting Hermione. "I can be confident in who I am and what I look like, despite your attempts to undermine that. I wonder who trained you to be a sniveling pule who must count on others' approval? It's obvious that you don't find yourself attractive."

"I'm not a narcissist, Black, and maybe it would do you some good to gain a little humility, a little self-consciousness."

"You don't pull the last name thing off very well, dearie."

"You don't pull the abruptly change the subject thing off very well, my sweet."

"How adorable!" Bellatrix cackled, causing Hermione to withdraw as far she could into the chair cushion at her back. "Am I your sweet? We haven't spent much time together, but I suspect I'm the nicest person you've ever encountered. What other names do you have for me? Hm? Darling? Dearest? Love, even?" She gave Hermione a smile so heated and salacious that the younger witch felt flames licking at her cheeks.

"Merlin," she groaned. "How about pain in the ass?"

"Ha! I'm surprised you can bring yourself to swear, witchling." She pulled a pout and covered her ears, her tightly wound curls bouncing with her barely contained glee. "You're being a bad influence on little Bella."

"I'm sure I can in no way influence princess Bella Black who does what she wants and screw all else."

"Come now," Bella responded, so quickly that she spoke almost before Hermione had even finished her sentence. "That's no way to seduce a woman."

"What woman?" Hermione quipped, almost as quickly. "I'm looking around the room and see no woman other than myself."

"Aha!" Bellatrix giggled and grabbed a pillow, crushing it to her chest as though it were a beloved stuffed animal, wrenching it underneath her hands, looking very much like she'd do the same to Hermione if she got her hands on her. Bellatrix was very skilled at looking amused and murderous at the same time. "You-"

What she was going to say to Hermione was interrupted by a loud buzzing sound, furious and refusing to be ignored. The sound originated from Hermione's wrist, and both witches looked down at it in surprise. "Oh!" Hermione said, realizing that it was her watch. Had it really been so long since she found the room? It didn't feel like more than a few minutes at the most, in spite of the fact that she'd already been driven to leave at least twice by the insufferable witch's attitude. "I have to go," Hermione informed the older witch. Her amusement faded into boredom and she shrugged her spindly shoulders.

"Go on, if you want to give up again," she said, yawning unconvincingly and turning away from Hermione as she stood up.

"I'm not giving up," Hermione protested. "It's just, I have to go home." Bellatrix shooed her with a wave of her hand, uncaring. Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes, making her way over to the door. As soon as she put her hand on the doorknob, she heard a loud rustle behind her. She was reluctant to look back, but then Bellatrix spoke up.

"Are you coming back?" The question's tone was barely interested, and so quiet that if Hermione hadn't been listening closely she wouldn't have understood. Still, in reparation for what she'd gone through today, she refused to respond to such a lackluster question.

"Sorry?"

"Are... Will you," Bellatrix began again, louder this time, and disgruntled that she'd have to repeat herself. "Come by again?" Hermione hid a smile from the older witch to keep her from flying into a rage.

"I'll try," she said, and, as she left the room and shut the door behind her, was surprised to find that she meant the words.

Stepping into the office made Hermione feel queasy. It all looked so familiar, too familiar; she had somehow expected to step out of the little, gaudy room and into a universe where nothing was the same, where, perhaps, Voldemort ruled with a benevolent smile and gave out free puppies every Wednesday to little orphan muggles. She was relieved at least that she was alone. It would have been too much to put on a facade of normalcy in the face of Mr. Croaker, or worse, K, who seemed unusually adept at reading when she'd been shaken by an experience in the Department.

Hermione sat down in her chair in the midst of her cubicle, leaning over and putting her head in between her knees. Her head seemed simultaneously full and empty, thoughts racing but unable to be read by even her own brain. What had happened? What, in the name of Merlin's great grey beard, had happened? And why? But Hermione couldn't think of this here, and when she caught sight of a roll of parchment she'd set out, meaning to transcribe her report for the day, she knew she couldn't tell anyone else what she'd seen. She knew without thinking that she wasn't done with the room, wasn't done with the woman that was inside it, and despite the Department sending her there, she might not be allowed to finish her task if she revealed who was staying in the ministry right under the workers' noses.

She also couldn't lie. At least not today, not before she thought about what had happened, what it meant, and what she had to do. She'd "forget" to write a report, and the fact that there was no-one around to turn it in to helped assuage her guilt of being derelict of duty. She'd go home, back to her room, and peruse her personal library for some sort of explanation.

As soon as she apparated to Grimmauld, she realized that it might not have been a hiccup of time after all that led... she couldn't even think the name... the ex-Death Eater to the room in the Department of Mysteries. Someone might have taken a thought-to-be-dead witch and Oblivated her, left her in the room. But that didn't make any sense, either. How would she survive? How would no one have found her, retrieved her after two years since she'd supposedly died? And why wouldn't she have left the room? Looking back on their interaction, the woman had seemed to know instinctively that she wouldn't be able to leave or follow Hermione out. She'd made no move to exit the room, and had all but pleaded for Hermione come back, and cited the fact that she'd had no idea how long she'd been in the room, but made no attempt to escape it.

She'd had her wand, for Merlin's sake! The likelihood that she somehow survived the final battle and someone spirited her away, retrieved her wand, and then hid her away in the Ministry of Magic of all places after Oblivating her... it was too much to even contemplate. If that were the truth and someone had pulled it off, Hermione would eat her socks. There was of course the possibility that the witch had been somehow brought forward in time (since she was obviously younger than her more evil, insane seeming counterpart), but Hermione knew of no way to do so, and the explanation held the same issue of the Oblivation and hiding away of the true Lestrange. To do that sort of magic undetected would mean a huge oversight and incompetence of the workers at the ministry, and while Hermione wasn't that confident in their abilities due to her previous interactions with them, she wouldn't think that anyone could be that oblivious. In addition it wouldn't explain why Bellatrix... There, she said, or rather thought, the name... would stay in the room, and wouldn't mention that she'd been brought there by the spell.

Hermione groaned, keying the door open and flicking a few Lumoses around the house. It was dark, of course; Harry was out, still, probably working a case with Ron. She'd promised to dine with the boys tonight, so if she wanted any time to figure out what was the cause of the events today she'd have to hurry and work on things now. She thought fondly and longingly of her bed and wished to collapse into it for a quick nap, but it was not in the cards tonight. She clamped up the stairs and into her room, shutting the door behind her and removing her robe before tossing it over the back of her desk chair. She flicked on a lamp with a wordless spell and peered at the smallest bookshelf, passing over titles with a finger. When her hand passed over her vision she realized she was shaking.

She took a deep breath and allowed herself to stop thinking for a moment, just standing still and breathing, listening to herself and allowing herself to be comforted by the familiarity of her room. There were piles of books, on bookshelves, her desk, her bedside table, her bed; all well taken care of, of course, but well used and well loved. She'd taken up a lot of reading - well, more than usual - since she started working at the Department, and it was all fascinating but mostly purely theoretical. She had many friends willing to loan her or let her borrow rare books, which she was infinitely grateful for, especially now. She let her eyes come open again and looked down to where she'd been search before.

She heard herself sniff, and felt a stinging warmth on her cheeks, and rubbed them impatiently. Her fingers came away wet and she groaned. The noise turned into a choked sob and she sat on the floor, leaning against her bookcase and shivering. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, in her room, but she felt a chill deep inside her. She sobbed again, feeling both overwhelmed and irritated at herself for crying. She'd taken off her robe when she came in, and in doing so revealed her scar; she'd chosen today of all days to wear a short sleeved jumper, seeing as it had been warming up now that winter had passed. Her hands started shaking again as she looked at the crudely etched words in her skin.

She'd been sitting only a few feet away from a woman who'd tortured her. She'd spoken to her as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do, teased her, laughed at her. What the hell had she been thinking? Why the hell had she been willing, actually willing, to go back the next day, if she could find the entrance to that ostentatious hellhole? Why did she care why the Department had sent her there, why Bellatrix had come back for any other reason than to reverse what had been done and to stop it from happening again?

Shuddery breaths escaped Hermione's lungs and she hid her face in her hands and behind her hair, as though she could escape from these thoughts. Even as she ruminated over how ridiculous she had been, and was being, she knew she couldn't leave it alone. She was too curious for her own good, and couldn't leave a mystery unsolved, despite thinking that lesson had been learned in her work in the past month. No, Hermione Granger had picked up a challenge, an awful, puzzling, intriguing challenge, and she wouldn't put it down until she had solved it, no matter if she had to deal with a murderous bitch like Bellatrix Lestrange or Voldemort himself.

And was it truly Bellatrix Lestrange she was dealing with? The woman insisted that she was Bellatrix Black, bigoted pureblood princess, but not a murderess; a product of her upbringing, but someone so desperate for company that she'd ignore her conversation partner's advocacy for muggle-born equality and possible muggle-born heritage just to have someone to talk to. This woman was not the woman who had tortured and nearly killed Hermione, not the woman who had stabbed Dobby to death with her knife, even if it was some kind of memory spell that made her act in the way she did. What Hermione was dealing with was unprecedented. She turned and took a book from her shelf, leafing through its pages, mostly to feel the comfort of sharp, crisp paper fluttering beneath her finger tips. She was careful not to drip tears onto the book. She could do this. She could work out this mystery and fulfill the task that the Department had put her towards, and she would do it with the best ability she had available to her. She was worth something, and not even the snarky Bellatrix Black could convince her otherwise. She was strong. She was magical. She was a fierce young woman who'd faced danger and quite possibly death and come out on top.

But she was still terribly, terribly frightened.