Marie-Antoinette

Chapter Six: Dinner at the Lestranges'

When, much later, I recalled the first dinner I attended at the Lestranges', the earliest memory to come back to me was the lights. The heavy chandelier hanging from the ceiling was supporting three dozens of candles that flooded the dining room with a soft, golden glow, the pool of warm light gently lapping at the thick and venerable tapestries hanging from the high walls. The porcelain plates were circled with a thin band of gold that gleamed with a quiet luxury against the dark red tablecloth, and silver flashed every time a guest moved their cutlery. The crystal glasses, the rich-coloured wine, the bright jewels on Bellatrix's neck and on her sister Narcissa's fingers and ears, Potter's wristwatch and the metallic frame of his glasses, my baptism medal and my wedding ring, all caught the light of the candles and filled the room with multi-coloured shimmers.

There were six of us: Bellatrix Lestrange sat cross-legged at the hostess's place, majestic although a bit stiff, and doing little to conceal her impatience as the dinner dragged on; in that she resembled my husband, James Potter, who sat on her right and spent most of the dinner nibbling nervously on his lower lip, barely touching his food. His eyes were cast downwards and the hand resting on his knee tensed involuntarily, causing the tendons on the back of his hand to show through his pale skin -- as if all he wanted was to turn his back on everyone and leave the brightly lit room.

On the other side of Bellatrix was her husband; Rodolphus Lestrange seemed to take malicious pleasure in Potter's struggle to remain seated and calm and in his own wife's impatient sighs, as himself finished his plate with purposeful slowness. His conversation was light and witty, his voice silky and caressing. Although he barely said two words to me, preferring to discuss with his brother-in-law, his eyes often flickered in my direction; and he appeared oddly pleased to see me much more at ease in that formal atmosphere than my husband was.

The other two persons were Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix's sister and brother-in-law. From the moment I had arrived, I had been instantly drawn to Narcissa: she had an innate grace in all of her moves and a crystalline laughter, deliciously feminine, which easily made up for the few flaws in her appearance. Of course, to the trained eye, it was easy to see that she was a little too skinny, or that her eyes were of an unimpressive shade of grey-blue, rather dull in an already colourless face; and whenever she spoke, one could hear the annoying and slightly affected drawl in her voice. However, her gaiety and liveliness quickly made me forget what had at first struck me as disadvantageous in her.

As for her husband, he was a tall, blonde-haired man, who looked a few years older than Potter; my first impression was that he probably was as much of a noble wizard as Lestrange himself, but, for some reason, I suspected he did not have the same fortitude. He looked vain, rather than proud; and his moves and voice were more affected than refined.

"...outstanding Legilimens. I doubt that even that old fool of Dumbledore would be able to lie to the Dark Lord; in such conditions, do we really have reasons to fear spies?"

"My dear Lucius," replied Lestrange, sounding amused, "your faith in the Dark Lord is nothing short of touching. However, the Dark Lord has innumerable servants; it is unlikely that they all get to speak to him, let alone make eye contact with him. A spy could hide among some of those who aren't of the Inner Circle."

"Of course, of course," Malfoy unctuously agreed. "But all information has to come directly to the Dark Lord's most faithful servants. It would require a master at Occlumency to get past one of us, don't you think?"

Lestrange smirked as he took his glass of red wine and brought it up to his lips, in a gesture tinged with this graceful nonchalance that I had come to automatically associate with him.

"Yes, I have no doubt that your friends Crabbe and Goyle would immediately detect the slightest lie, Lucius," he shot at him, just before taking a sip.

Everyone except me laughed at Lestrange's answer, Narcissa with her usual sophisticated elegance and Bellatrix with a frank glee marked with malice; Malfoy half-heartedly imitated them, although his eyes remained cold. I even thought I saw the ghost of a smile on Potter's lips.

"Dear Merlin, we're being horribly rude," Narcissa suddenly exclaimed as she noticed I wasn't laughing. "Mrs. Potter, you can't appreciate how funny what Rodolphus just said was... Mr. Crabbe and Goyle are old friends of the Malfoy family's, but you should see them! They wouldn't be able to give a coherent order to a house-elf --"

"The purity of their blood and their faithfulness to the Dark Lord are beyond any reproach, and that's all that counts," Malfoy dryly cut in. He had obviously been moderately amused at Lestrange's witticism.

"Well that's a question of point of view," Potter unexpectedly said, his voice even as he raised his head to meet Malfoy's eyes. "I wouldn't want for a servant someone who isn't able to use a Summoning Charm without hurting themselves, or whose vocabulary doesn't include words with more than two syllables; but then that's Voldemort's choice to make, I guess."

The name 'Voldemort' seemed to strike all the guests with the violence and suddenness of a stone thrown fully in their faces. Narcissa brought a hand to her chest as she gasped, her grey-blue eyes widening with shock, while the other two men went oddly, dangerously still. But the most violent reaction came from Bellatrix: with an inarticulate snarl of anger, she abruptly drew her wand from the belt of her dress, in one startlingly fluid gesture. She jabbed it at Potter just as I saw my husband's hand dive in his pocket, in search for his own wand, but he was too slow: a curse was already forming on her lips -- but it was a cry of pain and surprise that came out of her mouth as her husband slapped her hand down with astonishing brutality.

The slap sounded in the quiet dining room like a gunshot. Bellatrix dropped the wand, and it rolled across the table to slowly come to a rest against my glass. Beside me, Potter remained seated, but his hand was still in his wand pocket and it was obvious that he would be ready for the next attack. Indeed, Bellatrix did try to reach for her fallen weapon, but Lestrange's fingers curled around both of her wrists and maintained her solidly in her seat; she instantly turned to her husband eyes burning with fury, her teeth bared in an almost animal expression.

I still don't know what instinct urged me to speak up at that precise instant.

"A question of point of view, indeed. Lineage and faithfulness are virtues, just as much as skill or intelligence; you just have to find an appropriate use for each of them."

The insignificant words fell from my mouth in the tense atmosphere, just as droplets of cool water spilling into a furnace; and at once five pairs of eyes abruptly turned in my direction. Eyes full of suspicion, anger or shock openly scrutinised me as I very naturally resumed the conversation, blind and deaf to the disturbance that went against every rule of the pure-blooded society. I chose to keep my gaze locked to Lestrange's unreadable one, keeping a light smile on my face while I pointedly ignored the fact that my interlocutor was busy restraining his wife with all his might -- his knuckles were turning white as she struggled against the strong grip he had on her wrists.

I dropped my eyes again and, just as Lestrange had done a few minutes earlier, delicately took my glass of wine and brought it up to my lips. I took the time to taste the pleasantly fruity alcohol, then lowered my glass without putting it down yet as I met Lestrange's eyes again. Bellatrix, I noted, had stopped struggling.

"It seems to me that the Dark Lord knows perfectly how to use all of his servants' qualities," I evenly concluded. "After all, he won the war."

Lestrange released his wife's wrists without warning, almost causing her to fall out of her chair. He ignored the curse that escaped her as he kept staring at me with an eerie intensity.

"He most certainly did," Lestrange quietly acquiesced. Then he averted his eyes from me and, abruptly switching back to his usual suave tones, politely asked, "More wine, Narcissa?"

Narcissa hid her confusion with remarkable ease, although I had caught the slight start she had given at Lestrange's question; but when she held out her glass with a charming smile and a light comment, I felt the tension in the room ease at last as everything went back to normal.

I took a deep breath and briefly put down my fork and knife in order to wipe my sweaty, trembling hands against the material of my dress.

"Where were we, Rodolphus?" Lucius drawled out as the chiming of cutlery filled the room again.

"Spies and Legilimency, I think," Lestrange responded with an admirably discreet, but quite noticeable, yawn of boredom. "Although I do think everything that needed to be said--"

"Since you sound so eager to give your opinion, Mrs. Potter, why don't you tell us what you think of the use of Legilimency against spies?" Bellatrix unexpectedly shot at me.

I am ashamed to admit that she caught me off guard; my stomach clenched painfully at the sudden attack, and for several, interminable seconds, I was unable to think of anything to say as all eyes once again turned to me.

Bellatrix's blow had been unexpected; just as unexpected was the hand that suddenly took mine, under the table, and squeezed it in a silent injunction to remain quiet.

"I fail to see the point of this discussion," Potter shortly answered, drawing everyone's attention to him. "No one would be enough of a fool to try spying on the Death Eaters without being a Master at Occlumency. Surely you could've thought of this yourself, Mrs. Lestrange?"

Potter's hand was still gripping mine tightly, under the protection of the dark red tablecloth; I tentatively gave his fingers a gentle squeeze in return, wordlessly assuring him that I wouldn't breathe a word, and he released my hand immediately. I ignored the strange feeling of loss that tightened inside my chest as he let go, and I brought my attention back to Bellatrix.

"I don't believe I was talking to you, Potter," she snapped in annoyance.

"But why would you ask my wife such a question?" he shot back. "She barely just arrived to England, and I doubt she is knowledgeable in Voldemort's politics; which I can't blame her for."

"Bellatrix," Lestrange growled out in warning. His wife had paled with rage at this new mention of Voldemort's name. "I will have to agree with Mr. Potter on this. This pointless discussion has bored everyone around this table, and I would be a mediocre host if I allowed such fine ladies to suffer any longer a tedious politics talk."

"Why, Rodolphus, you are too kind," Narcissa trilled in response. "That will save me the embarrassment of falling asleep in my plate, like a common Mudblood."

"Narcissa darling, sometimes you have the most extravagant ideas," Lucius interrupted, cold and haughty. Narcissa took the rebuke in silence, but an expression of great weariness fleetingly crossed her thin face at her husband's words.

The rest of the dinner was spent in idle chatters and exchanges of witticisms, in the kind of light, pleasant atmosphere I had been accustomed to in my parents' lifetime. But my stomach was still painfully knotted and I barely ate anything; besides me, Potter and Bellatrix showed for the content of their plate as little interest as I did. The three of us were longing for the dinner to end.

After the meal we retreated into the living room. The three men gathered in a corner, where a house-elf promptly brought them a box of expensive-looking, stupendously long cigars. Lestrange and Malfoy both took one from the box, and Potter imitated them after a second's hesitation. The elf trotted back out of the living room, the dark red material of its toga shimmering with the waves of golden heat that a huge, crackling fire was generously dispensing; it was soon back, this time carrying a heavy silver tray loaded with a square bottle made of crystal, full of dark amber liquid, and, to my great surprise, four glasses.

"That's Firewhisky. The men's drink par excellence," Bellatrix said. I turned to her, an automatic and politely intrigued smile plastered on my face, and I found her watching me intently. "And the reason why there are four glasses is that I'm having some, too. That must shock you, doesn't it?" she added with a smile of her own, a smile that was far from mirroring my empty one; there was a feral quality to it.

I cast a quick look around; Narcissa was standing at a few steps from Bellatrix and me, adjusting her hair according to the directives of a critical, disembodied voice that was coming from the mirror in front of her. No one would be there to overhear our exchange.

I took a step closer to Bellatrix and answered in a low voice, looking up in her burning eyes, "Why, Mrs. Lestrange -- I'm shocked that you don't smoke one of those cigars as well."

"Be careful, baby girl," she hissed in reply. Her voice was even lower than mine, and her smile had faded when she had heard the mockery in my tone. "Just because Potter had his hand on your thigh all through dinner, you shouldn't start to feel all confident. What?" she scoffed as I failed to repress a start. "You thought I hadn't seen your little game? Holding hands under the tablecloth? Pathetic..."

"Madam," squealed a house-elf's voice at our feet.

Bellatrix turned away from me and bent down, picking up a glass full of Firewhisky and a packet of white cigarettes. I turned my back on her when she blew a first cloud of smoke in my face; I had to make an effort to contain the trembling of my hands as I did so. The way she had deliberately dirtied and belittled James Potter's gesture at dinner had aroused in me an anger I hadn't thought myself capable of. It was like a burning-hot poison seeping inside my entrails and heating up my blood, clouding my mind to the point where all I wanted was break Bellatrix Lestrange's long and white neck with my bare hands.

As I passed her, however, my shoulder brushing against hers as I walked up to Narcissa, her hand seized my wrist and held it in a brutal, vice-like grip. I halted; I halted because I had a choice between walking on, thus having my arm torn off my shoulder, and stopping in the hope I'd remain whole. But I didn't give her the satisfaction of looking at her.

"Listen to me, baby girl," she whispered in my ear. "Watch your mouth. Never provoke me again. Never stand between me and my prey again. I can crush you, you know. I am the Dark Lord's most faithful servant. I will crush you."

"Speaking of which," I answered softly, "I believe this is yours."

And out of my pocket I drew Bellatrix's wand, which I had picked up when it had fallen from her grasp during dinner. I held it out to her, meeting her eyes for the first time since she had stopped me.

"This might be useful if you ever plan to crush anybody, don't you think?" I lazily said.

I must say that, for a fleeting instant, I enjoyed greatly the look on her face at the sight of her wand; this satisfaction, however, only lasted until I had to stifle a cry of pain as Bellatrix viciously twisted the wrist she was still holding.

"Well, what are you girls chatting about?" rang Narcissa's voice from behind me.

Bellatrix instantly let go of my wrist, sneering at me as I tried to take deep, soothing breaths. My wrist was throbbing, the pain shooting in painful pangs up my arm every time I moved it.

"Nothing," Bellatrix replied. "I'll let you chat up Baby Girl on your own, Cissy, I'll be a little further away with my cigarette. The smoke would make Baby Girl cough."

She walked away, her pace quick and brusque, the white cigarette she held between two fingers emitting lazy ribbons of smoke that curled in her wake as she went.

"Sweet Morgana, Bella looks angry," Narcissa noted. "What were you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing really, I... gave her her wand back," I mumbled truthfully. I didn't trust myself to speak more loudly; my wrist was hurting badly and my voice might have quavered. "She had lost it during dinner."

"Of course, how could I be so silly?" Narcissa exclaimed, her face lightening in comprehension. "No wonder she's so furious, after what Rodolphus put her through tonight. In my opinion, he was right," she added, dropping her voice with something akin to guilt. "Bellatrix is the bravest, smartest and most powerful witch I've ever known, but she ought to have better manners in society. I could tell you stories from when we were little..."

I was surprised to find, after several minutes of listening to Narcissa, that I was truly enjoying myself. The young Mrs. Malfoy had a gift for storytelling; anecdotes from her childhood were told with inimitable wit and liveliness, and soon we were both sitting on the couch, talking as if we had known each other for years. I also learned quite a lot about her school, which was known to be one of the very best in the world. It was called Hogwarts, and she told me about it with an odd mixture of disdain and fondness. It was clear to me that, although she affected to despise the school -- as did most of her entourage, from what she told me -- she still felt for it a kind of guilty longing.

"I'm sorry, what's Slytherin?" I asked after a while.

"Oh, I keep forgetting you just arrived to England... Slytherin is one of Hogwarts' four houses. They're like big groups of students, with their own classes and Quidditch teams; well, 'group' doesn't exactly cover the notion. I'm sorry, I'm terrible at explaining."

"Don't worry," I grinned. "I understand. We have the same system in Beauxbâtons Academy."

"Really?" she said, her voice laced with a carefully controlled, but genuine excitement. "You will have to tell me all about your school; I'll invite you over to tea one of these days -- just the two of us, no sister and no husbands."

"I would be very happy to come," I said sincerely. "So -- you were in Slytherin?"

"Oh yes. All those currently standing in this room used to be in Slytherin. Except your husband, of course."

At these words I automatically turned in my seat and glanced in Potter's direction. He was standing next to the two other men, immobile and silent, looking tense and weary once again. I wondered if I had ever seen him wear an expression that hadn't been tense or weary.

"He was in my year," Narcissa murmured pensively. Her gaze had followed mine and she was, too, staring at my husband with a dreamy expression on her face. "He and my cousin Sirius Black were best friends, and both in Gryffindor house. They were always causing a lot of trouble... But they were popular and admired. It's weird to see Potter like that -- all sombre and brooding. He no longer looks like himself."

"Sirius Black is your cousin?" I repeated, distracted by that surprising bit of information.

"Yes, first cousin. But he hates Bella and I," she replied offhandedly, turning her eyes back on me. "He was kicked out of the Black House when he was sixteen, and went to live at Potter's."

"But I thought he lived in his family house?" I asked, frowning as I remembered something Sirius Black had told me.

"He does now," Narcissa confirmed. "He and Potter were both on Dumbledore's side during the war. When Dumbledore was defeated, most of his followers were captured or killed. Sirius and Potter were detained in Azkaban prison for weeks, you know, along with their families and several other blood traitors. I think Potter's parents died in there. I'm not sure of what happened next... They got out of prison, were tended to in St. Mungo's Hospital, then released on the Dark Lord's orders. It was a big surprise for everyone, we all expected them to be executed. The Dark Lord only told his reasons to Rodolphus. Even Bellatrix doesn't know, and she's one of his all-time favourites."

"A blood traitor..." I repeated thoughtfully. Was that the husband I had been given? A traitor to his lineage and his origins?

"Well, I guess he is no longer considered as such," Narcissa admitted. "Especially now that he's married to you. I've heard that you are from the oldest French nobility, is that right?"

From then, our conversation mainly dwelled on the French and English wizarding nobilities. Narcissa asked for stories about old French families, which I was happy to give her, and rewarded me with fascinating tales of the pure-blood society in England. Our pleasant tête-à-tête had almost lasted an hour when the Lestranges, Potter and Malfoy joined us by the fireside, their glasses empty and their cigars reduced to ashes filling crystal ashtrays. Rodolphus Lestrange was the only one to take a part in the conversation, relating a few anecdotes and correcting Narcissa, who sometimes got mixed up in the genealogy; and he did so with such charming manners and such delicacy that I was, once again, utterly and completely subjugated.

It was getting late, and soon the Malfoys took their leaves of Rodolphus Lestrange and his wife. From a comment that Narcissa let slip as her husband helped her with her cloak, I understood that they had a very young child named Draco; apparently they did not want to leave the child too long at the hands of the dirty-blooded witch they had hired to watch after him.

It was not a bad idea, I thought to myself as Potter, too, said his goodbyes to our host. My house-elf Lali was the best servant I could hope for, but she was so busy with the house and the garden that I couldn't expect her to take care of my clothes and hair. Hiring a chambermaid would be useful -- preferably before I got more invitations that I would have to return.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where to look for a chambermaid. I knew that a Muggleborn would probably cost me a lot less than a half-blood, and given my restricted budget, this was an aspect I couldn't afford to neglect. However, I had never seen Muggleborns on Diagon Alley, or even true half-bloods; most shopkeepers there had certificates proving their parents and grandparents were all magical.

And since Narcissa had left, there was only one person I could ask about the Muggleborns' possible location. Dread knotted my stomach as I looked around, seeking a tall figure clad in brown, to finally find her standing by an open window; she had turned her back on Lestrange and Potter and remained motionless, staring through the window at a black, starless sky. I quietly made my way to her.

"Mrs. Lestrange," I called in a low voice, making sure that none of the two men heard me. Bellatrix turned around at the sound of my voice, a newly lit cigarette in her hand. Her mouth immediately twisted in intense dislike as she studied me.

That would not be easy.

"I need to ask you something," I continued, against my best instincts. "Information that I'm not sure I could find anywhere else."

She did not answer, merely raising her eyebrows in my direction as a cloud of cigarette smoke escaped her parted lips.

"I need a new chambermaid," I said bluntly before I lost my courage and gave up. "But I have no idea how to find one. I imagine that, given your high rank in the Dark Lord's court, little would happen without you being aware of it. If you could have the kindness of recommending one to me... I absolutely trust your judgement."

The flattery disgusted even me; I hated this woman with an intensity I had never experienced towards anyone else. But I needed her. I had been clumsy enough to mock her an hour earlier in the living room, and make a dangerous enemy out of her; but perhaps it wasn't too late to fix that mistake.

As I waited for Bellatrix's answer, a hand unexpectedly came to rest lightly upon my arm.

"We're going," Potter said in a low voice. He stood right behind me, so close that I could feel the heat emanating from him. "Now," he whispered a little more urgently.

God forgive me, I was only seventeen; his touch, albeit light, and the words he breathed in my ear were enough to completely distract me from the task at hand. My cheeks heated up and I reflexively shied away from the hand on my arm, while another part of me guiltily longed to lean into him. My confusion increased as I was torn between contradictory emotions, and although Potter did not seem to notice, Bellatrix unfortunately did.

"What do you need a servant for? You can always ask him to do the ironing," she jeered cruelly, with a jerk of her chin in Potter's direction.

My breath caught in my throat as if I had received a violent blow in the pit of my stomach. Potter's eyes widened slightly, travelling from Bellatrix to me and back again as he searched for an explanation to our hostess's words.

...Pretend. Pretend she didn't hurt you. Pretend you didn't understand what she just said. Pretend, come on, pretend!...

She was laughing, laughing at me, laughing at my stupid teenager's agitation, laughing at him. I hated her. I wanted her to scream and whimper and sob, and be ridiculed and humiliated. I wanted to spit in her face and trample her. I wanted to rip her hair off and yell insults that would make her cower under the outrage.

"It was a lovely evening, Mrs. Lestrange," I said instead with a gracious smile. "Good night to you."

And upon those words, my husband and I finally left the sumptuous Lestrange Residence.

***

A loud cracking noise disturbed the still air of the November night as Potter and I Apparated back in front of our house. He immediately released my arm, which he had been holding quite tighter than necessary; he seemed to be under the impression that I couldn't Apparate on my own. I had not disabused him.

The heavy front door opened at a flick of Potter's hand, letting us into the darkened hallway. As we both stepped inside, Potter locking the door behind us with particular care, the grandfather clock sent a single tinkling note ringing through the hallway. It was half past midnight.

No house-elf rushed forward to rid us of our cloaks; Pomy, I knew, was keen on avoiding me as much as possible, and Lali was simply too overwhelmed with work to have time for my personal service.

"We need to hire a chambermaid," I said aloud.

Potter, who was hanging his cloak to the coat rack standing in a corner, threw me a perplexed look over his shoulder.

"You already have two house-elves," he pointed out.

"As you can see, there is obviously too much work for them." I lightly touched the tips of my fingers to the fasteners of my cloak in explanation.

Potter's hand dropped from the coat rack and he slowly turned to face me completely; his expression was hard to read in the flickering light of the only torch.

"You can't take it off yourself?" he asked in a neutral tone.

I tore my cloak off my shoulders with such violence that a silver fastener popped off the thick material and fell, landing on the paved floor in a clear jingle of metal. I did not bother to pick it up and walked up to the coat rack, holding my cloak in hands that trembled slightly with repressed rage.

"Merlin. May I ask how I was unfortunate enough to provoke your ire?" Potter asked as I passed him by. He was imitating Lestrange's suave tones with such insolence that I instantly feared he had noticed the fascination I had for our host.

"By acting as if you didn't understand, perhaps?" I answered through gritted teeth. The coat rack was a little too high for me and my cloak kept slipping off the wooden peg.

"Do enlighten me."

"You know perfectly well why I want a chambermaid," I shot at him in frustration, without looking at him or pausing in my attempts to hang my cloak. I was highly aware of how ridiculous I probably looked, struggling with a coat rack, and it did nothing to ease my growing exasperation. "You know perfectly well that I can take care of myself, I don't have much choice since you periodically leave me alone in the house! It's a question of principles, you just can't receive visitors if no one is there to rid them of their coats--"

"Here," he interrupted me, his voice completely different.

He took my cloak from my hands and hung it himself, with a few calm and precise gestures. We were once more standing very close, but I didn't step away; I couldn't bring myself to. I dimly wondered why he had that effect on me; when I had stopped seeing him as an enemy, or as a complete stranger... But I was too tired to think further of it. It might just have been that I was starting to feel extremely lonely, after all.

"There you go," Potter said, letting his hand fall back at his side. "Was that what Bellatrix was referring to, just before we left? You had asked her about getting a chambermaid?"

I nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. My burst of temper had left me even wearier than before, and his suddenly softer tone made me feel vaguely ashamed of losing control over myself.

"I see," he murmured.

I chanced a glance at his face; he appeared to be lost in thought, and his eyes that he kept fixed on me were glazed-over, as if he wasn't really seeing me at all.

"I see," he said again after several silent seconds. "Well, I'm pretty tired now, so if you have nothing else to tell me I'll take my leave."

He finally stepped away from me, nodding in my direction as a goodbye, and started walking up to the foot of the stairs.

"One question actually," I blurted out before I had the time to think.

He paused, one foot already on the first step of the stairs. It was too late now to be cautious.

"Why did you take my hand at dinner?"

He frowned, but it wasn't quite as if he was annoyed at my question. He rather seemed to be looking for the words that would best render his thoughts.

"Because," he slowly answered at last, "it can be dangerous to talk about certain topics in the presence of people like the Lestranges or the Malfoys. In some occasions it is safer to elude the questions."

"Why would you care about my safety?"

Just like the first one, this question had escaped me before I could think it through. However, this time he didn't need to think before giving an answer -- it came immediately.

"Because I'm in enough trouble as it is, without you adding to it."

***

This sounded like one of Aimée's terrible romance novels, I reflected as I distractedly brushed my hair in front of a mirror spotted by moisture, in the large bathroom adjoining the conjugal bedroom. An arranged marriage between two people hating each other on principle, but who would finally fall in each other's arms and confess an undying love. I couldn't help laughing at the ridiculousness of these thoughts. We were very far from passionate declarations, what with Potter announcing most naturally that I was a burden, someone who 'added to his trouble.' The periodical exchanges of money that were the essence of our relationship were not particularly romantic either. Nevertheless, I couldn't find a logical explanation for this curious desire I had to lean on him, to trust him and especially to touch him -- in other words, this longing for a genuine intimacy between us.

Intimacy... Intimacy with a man who was seven years my senior, an Englishman whose past was completely unknown to me; a man who was never keen on being in my presence more than he had to, or talking to me when it wasn't absolutely necessary; a man who did not care for me or even trust me in the least.

But also a man who was my husband. The one human being who lived in the same house as I did. The one human being I was expected to spend the rest of my life with. The one that I should be able to be completely intimate with, in every sense of the term, without any second thought.

I put my hairbrush back on the side of the huge sink and gathered my long hair in my hands; it crackled with electricity against my palms from the rough brushing, making it difficult to handle as I started to plait it for the night.

That was probably the explanation, I thought. I couldn't help thinking of Potter as my husband, and every time I used that word I was reminded of what reality it was supposed to represent. I was tired and sick of being alone; perhaps I unconsciously nourished the hope that he would, one day, be interested in me. Indeed, at the thought of the interminable years of loneliness that were to come, a shiver shook my entire body as if a deadly cold was seizing my limbs. My ribcage suddenly felt too small for my heart to beat at ease, and a painful lump came up in my throat.

I let go of my hair, the half-done plait hanging down my back, and my hands went down to curl around the sides of the sink in front of me. I leant forward and rested my forehead against the mirror encased in the wall of my bathroom. The porcelain under my palms and the glass against my forehead were cool and soothing, and as I stood there with my eyes shut, the disorderly hammering of my heart slowly faded back into a normal, regular beat.

I didn't need him.

I didn't need any of them.

I would live and rise in spite of them all; in spite of him too if I had to. The games and rules of the pure-blood society were familiar to me. Someone who knew how to play by them could quickly get more influent, and influence is power. Power, which the little French schoolgirl so cruelly lacked, or so they thought.

I could do that. I had to try. I had my whole life in front of me. And once I would be independent and powerful enough, then I would worry about being happy.

Loneliness was just another thing I would have to get used to.

I was still leaning over my sink when a sharp tapping sound, coming from the near bedroom, caught my attention. Straightening, I pushed open the bathroom door and peered inside the empty room. My eyes soon fell on the window: a large tawny owl was precariously perched on the narrow window ledge, its huge, round yellow eyes staring unblinkingly at me from the other side of the glass; its beak was clasped over a large square envelope.

My first thought was that Aimée had written to me again, and I practically ran to the window in order to let the owl in. It immediately dropped the letter on my desk and took off again with a satisfied hooting, its claws screeching against the dirty stone of the windowsill.

I reached out and picked up the letter, and as I deciphered the name scribbled on the yellowing parchment I felt my smile slip off my face. The letter was addressed to Mrs. Potter, a name Aimée took care to never use. I toyed a second with the idea that it might come from Sirius Black, or why not, Narcissa Malfoy; but then I turned the letter over, to find a splash of blood-red wax that sealed the otherwise unblemished parchment. I recognised the Lestrange seal.

I stared down at the seal with a feeling of deep confusion mingled with dread. The letter could not have been written more than half an hour ago -- in other words, not long after we had left the Lestrange residence. Why was Lestrange writing to me at this hour of the night, and after I had spent several hours in his company?

I slowly sat down at the desk and broke the seal. The parchment I unfolded was covered with a handwriting quite unlike the one I remembered from Lestrange's invitation: it was jerkier and slightly tilted to the right, completely deprived of the sophistication that I had noticed in the Minister's calligraphy.

Mrs. Potter--

After you left I remembered a detail that might be useful if you are still willing to hire a chambermaid. A Mudblood will be cheaper than a wizard of better ancestry, so I'd recommend you visit the Mudbloods' village number 4. You can get there by Floo powder. In that village are gathered a lot of young women and single mothers, who will be only too happy to work for you. Single mothers in particular will probably work for any salary you may suggest. I advise you to send a message to the guardian of village number 4, a half-blood named Stan Rocade if I remember correctly, so that he can select good candidates for you.

Regards,

Bellatrix Black Lestrange.

I remained immobile, eyes wide open staring at the signature and searching in vain, in this letter brimming over with unexpected recommendations, for Mrs. Lestrange's cruel sarcasms. In my astonishment, I barely noticed that I had left the window open and that the cold of the November night was piercing the thin material of my nightdress, enveloping me like a coat of ice.

My sentiment of confusion had deepened. So had my feeling of dread.

It was just too strange.

***

"Bella, do you plan to ever come to bed?"

I wheeled around to face Rodolphus, who was already in bed, the sheets pulled up to the middle of his bare torso. He was staring me with an amusement that made my blood boil with fury.

"You can't wait? Touch yourself then," I snapped. My crudity made him wince, but unfortunately it failed to wipe that condescending smirk off his lips.

"Your vulgarity never ceases to amaze me," he drawled with insufferable nonchalance. "Tell me, this letter you just sent... Did you sign 'Bellatrix Black Lestrange' again?" He chuckled, derision dripping from every single one of his words.

"Shut up," I snarled.

"So you did," he said gleefully. "I sometimes wonder if you're trying to go against as many customs as you can, just to upset me. The attention is flattering, Bella, but it's a tad pathetic nonetheless."

"Because humiliating me in front of that little goose and her blood traitor of a husband was the epitome of courtesy, was it?" I hissed at him. Rodolphus didn't seem fazed by my reminding him of his detestable behaviour of tonight.

"Oh, so that's what it's all about," he said. "Well dear, you'll find that, if I had not -- ah -- humiliated you, you would have started duelling with Potter in the middle of my dining room. And that is hardly the epitome of courtesy, as you would say."

"Potter," I growled, "deserved to be tortured to insanity."

"He did," my husband agreed without blinking. "He still does. But Potter himself isn't important, his name is. His family is as old as mine, or yours, my dear. Killing him before he has a chance to reproduce would behead the English nobility, you see. For the Dark Lord, this is not an option."

"Why the hell not?"

Rodolphus raised his arms and crossed his hands behind his neck, addressing me a glance that betrayed, to my great satisfaction, a certain annoyance.

"Why don't you ask the Dark Lord yourself?" he shot back at me. "Oh wait, I remember... he doesn't want you to know, does he, Bella?"

"You--"

"Quiet," he grunted. "You know I can't tell you more so stop breaking my head with your questions. And come to bed."

"I'm doing whatever the bloody hell I want," I retorted, turning my back on him once again -- the fourth time in the past half an hour.

I resumed my staring out of the window, waiting for my owl to come back; a few minutes passed, during which I reflected on some of the words Rodolphus had uttered. Very intriguing words, in fact. Without turning round, I asked aloud, "So as soon as Potter's goose gives him an heir, I can kill him, right?"

I heard Rodolphus chuckle again behind me, before he answered in the same amused voice, "That's the general idea. As you know, he has a child -- a boy, I think -- who has been denied every right to succeed him as the Potter patriarch. A pure-blooded mother is necessary... But that isn't the only reason why Miss de Syrnac was chosen to be Potter's bride."

I couldn't help it -- I turned around again, to find him looking at me with an expression of triumph. I was, however, too curious to feel irritated.

"The French goose? How could she be useful to us?"

Rodolphus raised his eyebrows at me, before a self-satisfied smile came to stretch his lips; he was obviously delighted at my being forced to ask him questions. He loved having me in the dark. It probably was good for his inflated ego, for I knew he loathed having a strong-willed woman for a wife; a girl like Syrnac would actually seem more appropriate a bride to him. I hated to give him satisfaction, but my thirst for answers was stronger.

"Think about it, Bella," he said softly. "You've told me yourself that she is an outstanding Occlumens. Her blood is the purest you can find, and she resolutely believes in the pure-blood supremacy. She's young, impressionable, defenceless... I dare say that she found me quite dazzling at dinner tonight... and she happens to be married to one of Dumbledore's most faithful followers."

Comprehension dawned upon me. "A spy," I murmured. "You want to make her spy for us on Potter."

"Your quick-mindedness is absolutely astonishing, my dear," Rodolphus jeered.

I ignored him. A spy... Did that mean I would have to befriend her, and gain her trust? Hell no. I hated pure-blooded snobs -- my husband being the worst of them all -- even more than I despised spying. Hiding, sneaking, lying... I much preferred a good long duel with a couple of nasty curses tearing the opponent to bits. The Syrnac girl happened to be everything I detested in the world; I wouldn't grovel at her feet, whether she was on our side or not.

At that point, my train of thoughts was interrupted as my owl came soaring through the window and landed neatly on my shoulder. The letter to Mrs. Potter had been safely delivered.

I let out a slight laugh as I sent the owl away again. That goose would dearly pay for my humiliation of tonight.

"So, are you done with your childish games?" came Rodolphus' bored voice from behind me.

"I am, yes," I answered with satisfaction, walking up to the bed.

"Perfect," he said curtly. Those were all the words we exchanged before he seized my wrist and roughly pulled me down to him, his other hand grabbing the back of my neck as he crushed his mouth against mine in a brutal kiss.

It always ended like this.