Chapter Text
Hermione Granger sighed, sitting down at the desk in her room. She spread out her correspondence - nothing from the boys, but a letter addressed in typewritten ink was almost better. Despite the long and exhausting day, she still ripped the letter open with excitement.
Miss Granger,
Your latest article caught my attention. What bullshit, the writer was practically a stalker, and insisted upon refuting, often at great length, at least one detail in every single academic paper or other publication that Hermione wrote. She sniffed, but despite herself she felt a slight smile on her lips. Hermione had no idea whether the writer actually imagined themselves to be indistinguishable from her other correspondents - especially now that they had begun this one-sided letter-writing relationship - but he or she always did insist upon pretending that this could be the first time Hermione had received anything written from them at all.
I imagine that it might be disappointing for you to hear this, but while your theory is sound, it is unlikely or impossible that it will stand up to practical application. You can find a full explanation in Volume Seven of Padifork & Dipples’ excellent work, “Theory and Practice: Transfiguration for the Casual Witch.” As the work is dated back to the seventeenth century, I imagine a Muggleborn like yourself is not well-versed in its contents, and I humbly accept the responsibility for bringing it to your attention.
Not the first time blood purist rhetoric had snuck into the writer’s letters. It had become much more obvious after the rebuttals stopped being published in the Prophet, and were therefore not subjected to the public gaze. The language in the letters had also become more personal, although the style of writing remained consistent. It was a clue as to the writer’s identity, and Hermione felt fairly certain that it was a deliberate tease.
If you find yourself in need of assistance in locating the specific part of the text that applies, I’d direct you to contact M. Gauthier, located in Paris, France. The great-grandfather of M. created a table of contents which may serve as a useful reference point.
Damn. Hermione had been hoping to get a direct contact - not even a name, just a drop-box in Gringotts would work! And again, this was a tease. The writer didn’t even bother to explain exactly what the inconsistency was this time. A cat and mouse game – such it started as, and such it continued to be. Hermione was being led around by the nose. It did not help that the writer was also irritatingly and consistently correct.
Your Friend and Colleague in Academia,
Anonymous
Colleague. Hmm. Perhaps another professor? Maybe from the continent? If they were, though, Hermione thought it was impossible that they wouldn’t want to take credit for their work. It was also telling that while Hermione’s papers were often the subject of counter-arguments, published in the form of additional papers often a few months later, none of the counters that were published so far ever gave a hint of being informed by Anonymous’s analysis. Anonymous was, alarmingly, better than her actual colleagues. Hermione deeply doubted that Anonymous was actually another Professor. Perhaps a former ally of Tom Riddle, held under house arrest, toying with Hermione to while away the hours before their release? Who was left on house arrest, other than Narcissa Malfoy? Hermione thought it was unlikely that Mrs. Malfoy was so steeped in academia that she could muster the types of arguments that Anonymous made, though. And Mrs. Malfoy was also, from what Hermione understood, usually stoned out of her mind.
She sighed, scanning the return addresses on her other letters. Nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow, happily. It was already nine-thirty at night, and Hermione had only taken a break from grading to swap locations and grab a late dinner.
She still had twenty papers left to grade. When they were children, Harry and Ron used to groan at thirty inch assignments, and Hermione now understood that the burden borne by her students was borne thirty-fold by the professor making the assignment.
She put Bellatrix Black’s assignment at the bottom of the stack, per usual. It was unfair to read Miss Black’s papers before she finished grading the rest. A bit of a treat, every time, too, although unfortunately Miss Black made it a game to respond with double the length of the assignment itself. She must know that it would irritate Hermione.
When Miss Black had started at Hogwarts as a seventh year nearly five months ago, Hermione considered specifically instructing the children that they were not to appreciably exceed the assigned paper length. Unfortunately Miss Black had taken note of Hermione’s dismay upon receiving the excessively long response to her first Transfiguration assignment. When she winked happily at Hermione, Hermione gritted her teeth and decided that she would not be so petty as to provide specific direction to the rest of the students on the basis of Miss Black’s attitudes.
It was particularly aggravating to discover that it was only in Transfiguration that Black insisted upon exhaustive responses to assignments. Black targeted her, Hermione was sure of it.
Hermione attempted to put thoughts of Black behind her as she dug into her now-cold dinner and worked through the last of the papers. In the back of her mind, she reminded herself of Minerva’s instructions. You are not their English teacher - try to refrain from correcting grammatical mistakes. You are not their History teacher, either. You are preparing your students for their OWLs and NEWTs, and as such you will provide feedback to your students on the basis of their grasp on theory and practice. Theory and practice, Hermione. The Headmistress had waved her wand over Hermione’s first batch of completed assignments, removing all of Hermione’s annotations from the pages. It happened three years ago, and Hermione was still in a state of confused disbelief.
At least it made grading faster. When she reached Bellatrix’s paper, she took a deep breath, wondering what on Earth the girl would throw at her this time.
Tomorrow, detention with the girl. She’d received an O on the Transfiguration praxis test on Monday, of course. While her Transfiguration of an ice cube into a hound was nothing short of impressive, it was equally inappropriate for Bellatrix to subject the entire classroom to the sight of a deeply aroused male hound with assets of that size. The girl’s delighted cackle had made it clear that it was a deliberate attempt on her part to horrify them all, and it did not help that with a flick of her wand, Bellatrix directed the hound to Hermione’s leg. Hermione could still feel the poor animal’s forearms around her waist.
Hermione gritted her teeth. All the other Professors had begged off. Hermione suspected that Miss Black deliberately tormented them - nothing explicitly deserving of punishment, of course, but enough to result in a universal refusal to use Miss Black’s free labor. In September, Hermione had determined that she should naturally take all of Miss Black’s detentions herself, but the effort had resulted in too many lost nights on grading, resultant sleepless nights, and a dramatic downtick in her extracurricular academic work.
It’s only until Minerva finds a suitable replacement, Hermione reminded herself. She checked the clock - eleven, far past the hour that Hermione had identified as an appropriate bed-time. Damn the girl - these papers were due back to the seventh-years on Friday, but Miss Black had once again thrown off Hermione’s predictable life.
It wasn’t the worst thing Bellatrix Black could have gotten herself up to, of course. When Bellatrix Black appeared in the spare classroom that Hermione had appropriated for her own magical research in May of this year, it was all that Hermione could do not to actually flee the room. She’d only intended to send a magical spying glass back into time - it was an experiment, both in retroactive scrying and to recover specific information that Harry had asked her to discover, information that could be retrieved by no other means. Information dated back to May of 1969, just before Miss Black’s NEWTs, and it didn’t even have anything to do with Miss Black at all!
The experiment had been a colossal failure, of course, and for months afterward, Hermione had prepared herself for several possible consequences. In order, with most catastrophic first: 1) Their world might implode, and Hermione herself would disappear from existence; 2) Bellatrix herself might simply disappear, transported back into her place in the timeline, none the wiser (Hermione did repeatedly Obliviate her for the purpose of keeping the timeline intact, in those first few months!); 3) Hermione might find herself in another possible future, one that lacked Bellatrix Lestrange, and she would either remember her real life, or she wouldn’t, and the scar on her forearm would either disappear or remain. She hadn’t imagined equilibrium to remain intact, but disaster still loomed, didn’t it? Hermione had stopped with the Obliviations once the school-year began. She hated to violate another person’s mind like that, and still flirted with the idea of informing Miss Black that she’d removed her memories and administering the cure she’d discovered with now-Minister Winthrop. It wouldn’t hurt at this point, but it would be admitting something that Hermione preferred not to.
Hermione sighed. She’d finished reading over Miss Black’s essay, and upon a cursory read she had no corrections to make. Her eyes caressed the words at the top of the page. Miss Callidora Black. A name Bellatrix had chosen for herself. She’d proudly informed Hermione and Minerva that it was the name she’d intended to give her firstborn, and they both bit their tongues, not wishing to inform Miss Black that she would have no children.
Would she? She was wrenched from her timeline, and dropped into a world nearly forty years removed from her own. All things considered, the girl had responded fairly well to it, aside from… well, the chaos, destruction, bodily injury, and general havoc her presence at Hogwarts caused.
This entire mess was Hermione's fault, and her problem to solve. Encouragingly, the girl seemed to retain no particular loyalty to Tom Riddle, nor a penchant for world domination; facts that Hermione and Minerva had taken pains to confirm repeatedly. She was also immune to the most powerful of counter-Obliviation cures available. This was genuinely an eighteen-year-old Bellatrix Black, and Minerva, Hermione, Harry, and Winthrop had agreed that without question, the girl would need to be protected. A decision that unfortunately Miss Black took exception to, although she reluctantly agreed after many attempts at persuasion.
Hermione sighed again, starting at the top of the essay. Surely she’d find something that at least required additional study before giving the girl an unfortunately well-earned O on this assignment as well as all the rest.
Bellatrix Black pranced into Hermione Granger’s office at five before the hour, slamming the door open. Professor Granger looked pained, and she was too slow on the draw to stop the door before the sound reverberated through the stone room, making the glass window at Hermione’s back shudder with the impact. The mid-February sky behind Granger was already dark, and Bellatrix felt deeply thrilled. Finally, another detention with her favorite Professor.
Bellatrix looked more closely at Granger. It wasn’t just alarm - it was exhaustion she read on the older woman’s face. Not that much older, though! Hermione Granger was only twenty-seven, one of the youngest professors to ever teach at Hogwarts. She was supposed to be the brightest witch of the age, and Bellatrix relished the opportunity to refute her claim to the title. Callidora Black would give Hermione Granger a run for her money.
Bellatrix flicked her wand at the door, shutting it and approaching the desk with a sense of thrill.
“Don’t -” Granger started, and then she sighed, actually covering her eyes with a hand. Bellatrix could see a hint of the MUDBLOOD scar on her forearm - the Professor had loosened her sleeves, and the buttons at her neck as well, but not as thoroughly as Bellatrix had.
How many times could Bellatrix get Granger to look at her breasts tonight? She approached the desk, leaning forward across it suggestively.
Granger flushed, but as she lowered her hand, she found Bellatrix’s eyes immediately. Her Professor was not a particularly accomplished Occlumens, but neither was Bellatrix a Legimens, so she always had to rely upon reading the older woman’s eyes.
One blush, Bellatrix tallied delightedly. Maybe that’d be enough payoff for her stunt on Tuesday. Bellatrix would have to take what she could get; Granger was irritatingly resistant to her assets. At least she was easy to embarrass.
“Please attempt to prevent yourself from dropping your glamor whenever you enter my office,” Granger bit out. She stood up, moving around the desk to the door. She was always so insistent upon doing things like locking doors like a Muggle.
The door locked, Granger turned to find Bellatrix partially sprawled across her desk across. Ah, got you, Bellatrix thought to herself smugly. The full-body appraisal ought to count for something, and a renewed flush started at Granger’s neck.
“Why?” Bellatrix drawled, crossing her legs deliberately. She’d hiked up her robe to prepare for the move, and again Granger’s eyes dragged down unwillingly.
Such fun. It felt utterly unthreatening to Bellatrix; there was not a harmful bone in Hermione Granger’s body. Bellatrix knew she had no chance at actual seduction, not while she was a student. That wasn’t the point.
“It’s too dangerous,” Granger responded briefly, and she turned with determination away, bending to a table in the corner. “Come over here.”
“Ah, a come-hither,” Bellatrix cackled, and Granger’s shoulders tightened up. Granger hated that tone from her. Probably some sort of long-nursed trauma caused by her doppelganger long ago, probably the MUDBLOOD scar started bleeding or some sort of absolutely shameful and terrible bodily reaction. The poor Mudblood was a perfect target for Bellatrix. Plus, she had information about what happened to Bella over the summer, information that Bellatrix absolutely required… information that was stubbornly withheld from her. Bellatrix had never been one not to leverage every possible asset available to her, and she knew she was sexy. In mid-July, only a week after Bella had been wrenched into this parallel universe, Bellatrix discovered that Hermione Granger, apparently the Golden Girl who’d helped to defeat a terrible creature called Lord Voldemort - and the woman who had the information Bella needed to piece together what her life was - also happened to be a bloody lesbian, of all things.
Bella reached the desk, and Granger indicated some Ancient Runes. Bellatrix was immediately intrigued. She hadn’t ever been instructed to review Ancient Runes before.
She scoffed. “You know I didn’t take that class,” she reminded Granger. Her cover was perhaps blown? Granger’s latest academic articles involved Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, the object of discovery a mystery to all but Granger herself.
“You did, in your last year at Hogwarts,” Granger bit out. She continued to refuse eye contact, and Bella accepted the treatment. One full-body appraisal, one thigh glimpse lingered upon, and two blushes. Good enough for a night out, she thought. “Just… go on.”
Bellatrix took the seat, and was immediately absorbed by the equations. An hour passed, and she’d nearly finished her revisions. Granger was working on a book, and Bellatrix hoped that it was Padifork & Dipples’ Theory and Practice.
“Finished,” she drawled a half hour later, and Granger extracted herself from the text before her with an attitude of reluctance.
“Thank you.”
“I suppose you don’t have anybody better than a seventh-year student to review your texts before publication?” Bellatrix questioned. It was good. Of course. It was Granger’s work, and it would take Bellatrix many weeks of examining to find some gap in her logic.
“Nobody as good as you,” Granger responded. She seemed absolutely exhausted, and Bellatrix sensed an opening.
“This world is shite.”
“I suppose you’d like to be sent back?” Granger bit out. Her wand hand drifted to her scar, caressing it under the sleeve.
Bellatrix curled her hair around one finger, fluttering her eyelashes. Granger was having none of it. “I don’t,” she answered honestly. “If I was fated to die… I’d much prefer life, even in this absolute hellscape of a world. But I’d like to be myself here.”
Granger sighed, shoulders collapsing. She rubbed her face. “It’s far too dangerous,” she muttered, half to herself.
“I’m not even her! They couldn’t possibly hold me accountable for the actions of a madwoman who just happened to share my name, given I’m clearly from a parallel universe that diverged at least forty years ago. Probably longer.”
“I highly doubt that the Wizengamot would be convinced by a legal argument based upon Muggle physics theory.”
“So I’m cursed to wear another’s face?”
“Don’t think that I haven’t noticed, Black. You keep making your hair darker. Keep it red. I do not want to be responsible for you being sent to Azkaban, or worse.”
Bellatrix scoffed. She turned her attention back to the pages. “Well…” She put her glamor back up, and approached the desk as Callidora. “Here’s what I have. Thanks for the chance to grade you, Prof. Cheers.”
Granger dipped her head, and her hands were greedy as they grasped for the papers in Bellatrix’s hands. Their fingers brushed, and despite herself, Bellatrix’s heart lept a little.
You’re manipulating her, you little shit, Bellatrix reminded herself. She made her way down to the dungeons with a slight smile, though. Progress was made tonight. She began to hope.