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Chapter Text

There was never a time when Rita hadn’t noticed Bellatrix Black. There were the obvious reasons of course. The eldest daughter of the oldest wizarding family in Britain – or so they claimed – had a personality that struck fear into the hearts of those too weak to handle it. Everything revolved around her, Rita and Bellatrix had never really interacted, different houses, different friends, but from their first year at Hogwarts stories had circulated about the Black daughter. Duels in the Slytherin common room, hexes that verged on Dark, curses and poisons and rotting teeth.

There were the less obvious reasons, as well. At eleven she had been a tiny, snooty, ball of hair. Rita had seen her at the sorting, hair plastered back in a tight bun. She’d curled her lip at the raggedy Hat and pranced to her new table like a cat who’d got the cream. The Hat had barely touched her head.

But at the table, where all her fellow Housemates sat around her like flowers to the sun, the girl sat with her shoulders back and her head tilted, superiority written in the planes across her face. And a certain proud relief, some reassuring release of breath turned the stubborn, haughty Black to just a child.

And then a third year who made a comment about her sister – Andromeda, maybe – turned up the next day. Rotting.

They said he was alive, just with some infection.

They said it was a potion gone wrong.

They said he’d lost an eye, a hand, half his body. They said his skin was rotting and his flesh had bubbled and melted like swirls of toffee in a sweetshop.

A fourth year murmured to her friends, eyes wide and glistening, that she’d caught a glimpse as she got some Pepper Up from the Matron.

She said she didn’t see anything – except half a hand, dangling off the bed. It was green. It rotted. She didn’t see anything except a foot, peeking out the curtain, wrapped in bandages. She said a maggot fell out, and crawled, wiggling across the shiny white floor.

Her pen skittered, jagged against the page, paper creasing in her grip. Crescent moon marks indented on her left palm.

Her friends sniffed.

She said that she couldn’t … she just couldn’t get that smell out of her hair. Out of her nose.

From the looks on her friends’ faces, they couldn’t either.

Rita had heard these stories from the Ravenclaw common room, tucked into an alcove above the floor. A thousand portraits, bookshelves, and statues peppered the walls and spoke of stories. It was an interesting place, where the echoes and whispers and hushed comments of the room travelled around the walls and carried themselves to Rita, purring warm over her shoulder and dripping sweet poison into her ears. She picked the ripest fruit and pruned the dying vines to find that –

Bellatrix Black was mad, bad and incredibly sad.

But incredibly fun to watch.

The tone for each week – for the whole school – could be found in the letter sent from Druella Black, neé Rosier, each Monday morning. When Bellatrix gnashed her teeth and ground her jaws, brow furrowing like storm clouds closing in on a previously sunny day, Rita knew the week would bring news of whispered insults and petty hexes.

When Bella grew blank and stiff, hiding her emotions behind a stone faced wall that almost gave more away, Rita would lie in wait for visits to the hospital wing. For hair mysteriously falling out over Charms textbooks and bloodstains on the pillowcase.

Sometimes Bellatrix laughed and crumpled up the letter and sometimes she folded it sharply in thirds, tucking it away for the future, shoulders tense. Sometimes her riotous curls crackled with static and lightning glinted from her eyes, wand ready to cast – other times the nervous energy dissipated into calm dedication and careful planning.

Bella wanted to be the best – she achieved it either through those clear patches of steady studying, or the wild fury of pulling others down.

Bella wanted to be feared – any other pureblood witch her age would be considered weird, would be ostracised, would be looked down on and gossiped about and pushed to the mud with a thousand kicks of laughing eyes and turning backs. Also a few dozen hexes. Not her. Not ever Bellatrix.

Rita could chart the ups and downs of Bellatrix’s moods like a meteorological report by third year. Which was, finally, when Bellatrix started noticing her too.

***

In the second week of their third year, the sun broke through the dark grey clouds in straggling rays of pale gold. At nine o’clock in the morning – on a Saturday, no less – a small crowd congregated on the Quidditch pitch. Decked in green and setting aside sneers, around half of Slytherin House had arrived to watch the tryouts for their Quidditch team.

Rita had gone to see the tryouts too, sitting underneath the benches with a pair of binoculars, a quill, and her new green shoes. The Ravenclaw Captain had offered her 20 galleons and first dibs on all the gossip she knew for a complete assessment on the other House’s teams and tryouts. Not really her forté, sports, but for that offer Rita would do her best.

At 9:03 exactly, Bellatrix strolled onto the pitch. A few Second Years already shifted from foot to foot by the captains, whilst students trying out from the years above sauntered in after Bellatrix. The team stood in formation, five men and women, as the heavens thundered.

“There are twenty one of you here today, to try out for this team.” Stuart Craggy started, pacing in front of his team mates, “At minimum, two of you will get in. We don’t choose based on favourites. We don’t choose based on talent. We don’t choose –” He paused in front of Laughalot, “ – based on intelligence.”

Laughalot scowled.

Stuart started up again, dark brown hair flattening under the drizzle.

“If you can outfly anyone already on this team, you get the place. You outfly your competitors in the Beater or Keeper bracket, you get the place. We will win this year with the best team possible and if anyone – anyone – has an issue with my leadership – if you whine to Mummy about not getting a place–” He stared at Bella, “Or think you can threaten us into accepting you–” He stared at Bella, “Or if you in any way damage our chances at winning, or my peace of mind, not only this team but rest of the fucking House will hold the perpetrator responsible. We intend to win this year, and my decision is final.”

Bella stared back at him. She smirked. The rain set in with grim determination, spattering warm droplets onto the grass green field. A droplet fell on Rita’s parchment, untroubled.

Stu was brave but he wasn’t insane. He nodded at her quickly, assured, then spun on his heel, yelling over his shoulder –

“Everyone into groups – Beaters, Chasers, Keepers, Seekers!

Immediately, the team split up into four groups – the team’s Seeker, Metellus Belby, standing tall like a pole in the wind.

Rita frowned. Bad simile.

Bellatrix immediately marched to the Beaters group. Aside from Cordelia Chasegood, the resident Beater, five men stood with their shoulders set, gripping brooms tightly to their side. Barely matching Corban, the only other Third Year trying out, she shook the rain from her hair and glared up at Cordelia.

The tryouts started.

From the very beginning, it was clear Bellatrix would get the place without even needing to hex anyone. In terms of strength, speed, experience, and probably raw skill, Cassius, Joseph, and Jacob probably outstripped her.

Cassius Axbridge was a gruesomely handsome Fifth Year that basically every girl in the school rightly hated, but he had a deadly aim and the force to back it up. With him on the team, the Quaffle would be whacked away from the opposing Chasers before they even had time to make a play.

Then Joseph Ingely – beefy, bulky, smart as a whippet. Maybe not as good at aiming as Cassius, but about twice his size and able to use it. Rita knew Stuart didn’t have an issue with a little bit of rough play, and Joseph would certainly take advantage of that.

And Jacob.

Rita chewed the spider charm on her glasses chain.

Honestly, the less said about Jacob the better. And it wasn’t as if he’d get it.

She skipped over Corban and Harold too, poor dears. Corban had been shivering since seven this morning, alternately from stress and the cold. Even from the Ravenclaw table, Rita’d been able to see him, knees knocking together. Harold was good too, but painfully average. Not really worth the ink it’d take to write about him without embellishment. And that wasn’t what Sirona had paid her for.

This left the rest of the page free for Bellatrix – a meteor on the pitch.

Sure, she wasn’t as strong, fast, or skilled, but Merlin, was she violent. Was she breathtaking.

She plunged to the Bludger like a kingfisher in water; heedless of any barriers or any impact that could happen. Her broom – top of the line, of course – cut through the air like a sharpened knife, singing. She dove first and she pushed harder and although her aim was sometimes off, and her blows sometimes weak, she was back on the bludger to compensate before the flaw had time to take effect.

She flew.

Sitting on the ground, hiding beneath a horde of snakes that shouted and screamed for each good hit, Rita almost couldn’t tear her eyes off her. The sun broke around the girl, high in the sky, silhouetting her form with a golden flame that haloed her thorny hair. When she spun and paused and – danced would be the wrong word. Too flowery. Too soft or elegant or kind or too undeserving of the desperate ritual taking place above.

Bellatrix fought, as she fought everyday, against the Bludger and her competitors, and she gripped the broomstick tight as she curled into a corkscrew dive, bat tucked underneath her arm. When she raised her hand to aim her weapon, she looked as if she were caught in a painting, for a single blinding moment. A Valkyrie on the battlefield.

Rita looked down at her parchment.

Bellatrix Black – violent, relentless, reckless. Soon-to-be Beater.

The vane of her quill rustled in a sudden breeze that snapped Rita’s eyes back to the pitch. Facing directly at her, pointing downwards, was the aforementioned Third Year.

Rita ran.

***

“Well, you don’t really know that much about Quidditch, do you?” Sirona Ryan glanced down from the curled sheet in her hand, dark brown hair frizzing out of her ponytail. Rita flushed. “Never mind, it’s still good. I can’t imagine what Black must have done to get on the team–” The older girl peered at Rita again, searching her face for some sign of trauma, “ – but we can take her.”

Sirona paused, rolling up the parchment.

“You know, you gave a good description for someone who wouldn’t know Blatching from Bumphing.”

“You’re making words up.”

“I wish I was,” Sirona sighed, “You know, I used to play football in primary school. At least things were named normally then.”

Rita frowned.

“Football?”

“A muggle thing,” Sirona waved her hand dismissively, “Anyway, what I was going to say was that they need a new commentator for the matches. Wiggins’s given up, I think.”

They shared a moment of contemplation, vague expressions of fear on their faces.

“You write the student paper, right?”

Rita looked up excitedly, glass’s chains swinging.

“You read it?”

“God, no.” Sirona looked disgusted. “I’d rather die. But at least if you become the commentator, people might stop using it for Transfiguration practice. Or, you know, pick it up.”

For all of Rita’s efforts, advertisements, and threats, her student paper – The Hogwarts Herald – had never really got off the ground. Hard hitting pieces about the state of Hogwarts’ teaching, student care, social options, had all resulted in about the same reaction: bored disdain.

Critique of underlying social hierarchies, future options, and the state of Wizarding Britain had eliminated half her sources of intelligence before Rita realised what she’d done, and the paper had pretty much become the equivalent of a Wisbit’s Arrow. In other words, social death.

It had pretty much been on hiatus since the Christmas of Rita’s Second Year, when she’d worked out that the student population of Hogwarts wasn’t that interested in learning about their country. Some muggleborns had shown interest, and a few people had said it’d been interesting. But overall, Rita’d deemed it a huge failure.

Not that she was giving up on it.

If she could gain more social visibility, some new sources of gossip – rearrange the structure to make it more appealing to other students – if she could market it properly this time – finally, she might achieve it.

Journalism.

Rita let out a dreamy sigh.

Sirona looked at a loss. The edges of the Ravenclaw common room came back into vision for Rita and she looked at Sirona again.

“How wonderful!” She could feel her smile gleaming, all her shining bright teeth on display. Sirona leant back. “And do you know who I should talk to about this?”

Sirona stared at her, mind whirring. Nobody was in Ravenclaw for nothing – Rita frowned to herself – and even if the stereotype of slightly psychic, obsessive genius wasn’t exactly applicable to most, Sirona had a reputation for analysing people’s weaknesses. It was how they’d won so many times with her on the team.

“Alright,” she smiled back, eyes glinting, “You talk to Flitwick, get him to set you up. It won’t be easy, Skeeter, you know what happened to Wiggins.”

The moment of contemplation returned.

“But if you want the role, you’ve probably got it. And if you can keep this up –” She brandished the parchment, “Then you’ve got a guaranteed backer for your paper.”

They both grinned, locking eyes.

Slytherins were ruthless and got what they wanted – but Ravenclaws wanted knowledge and they wanted it all. Some were eccentric and some were creative and most loved knowledge for the sake of knowledge.

For Sirona, knowledge revolved around the perfect Quidditch team and tactics. Also the effect of Duskin’s Theory of Transmutated Aether on homegrown magical flora but that was less relevant to her Captaincy. Rita had seen her strategy plans: ritualistic, complicated, preparing for every possibility and every surprise. The combination of this weather and that Beater, of this feint and that manoeuvre, turning into something as mundane as school sports into an art. She had a paranormal ability to look at a person and assess what they could do, that turned Ravenclaw Quidditch games into a preordained victory. The Team under her leadership was finely oiled, preternaturally skilled, and always won.

She was a genius.

As were they all.

But Rita couldn’t shake the feeling she’d forgotten something.

Chapter Text

It was Arithmancy, the next day, when Bellatrix came up to Rita. Gnawing on her quill and frowning at the calculations on her desk, Rita was trying to plan the conversation with Flitwick in her head. She needed this role as commentator. Whilst before it had never crossed her mind, she was sure now that it was the only way to get The Hogwarts Herald back up and running.

It wasn’t as if there was anyone else who’d go for the role. Who’d want it? It was generally accepted that commentators would not only be biassed, but also be the only acceptable spectator for Beaters to hit Bludgers at.

But Rita wouldn’t be like that. She’d beckon in a new age of objective analysis, fascinating commentary, even handed opinions … maybe she could even get some interviews for the paper…

Sitting in the commentators box, on top of the whole pitch, she could spin out quips and witticisms at lightning speed, making Quidditch accessible to those who had literally negative interest.

Rita frowned. She’d need to figure out the rules before the interview.

She scratched another answer onto the parchment, half paying attention to Professor Atwick’s lecture. Genius that Atwick was, she was hardly a good teacher. Rita scribbled harder. These were the issues she’d brought up in her penultimate edition … despite Hogwarts position as the best Wizarding School in the world, classes were taught by experts, not educators. As much prestige as Atwick brought to Hogwarts, she didn’t do much for helping her students. But no one wanted to hear about that.

The nib of her quill broke on the parchment, ink running all over her desk.

“Shit!” Rita burst out, pushing her chair away from her desk with a loud screech. She leapt out of the chair, searching through her satchel for some rags.

She paused. Why would she have rags.

The whole class stared at her. Professor Atwick stood at the front, hand hovering in front of a complicated equation, gazing slightly to the left of Rita’s head.

A saccharine voice came from the front right.

“Rita, have you studied Transfiguration at all, for the last three years? Or basic charms? I know one that can help if you really need it.”

Bellatrix Black sat, leaning forward on her desk, dark eyes fixed on the blonde. Rita’s hackles rose. The Black might be fun to watch, and interesting to analyse, and have an irresistible fascination that kept some part of Rita’s brain aware of her – dark arts, no doubt - but she’d never asked for Bellatrix to notice her in this way.

She’d always imagined it in a far more positive way for some reason. Maybe after winning a prize or becoming a Quidditch star or interviewing Bellatrix for the Herald.

Not being made fun of in first period Arithmancy, on a stifling Monday morning.

Rita flipped her shining blonde hair over her shoulder, twirling her wand. This could be salvaged.

“I was just checking it hadn’t gotten in my bag.” She crooked an eyebrow, “Why, what were you thinking?”

She got rid of the mess with a nifty charm – none of that static which usually came after Vanishing spells. Rita rolled her eyes.

“I’m the editor of the student paper? I know how to get rid of spilled ink.”

She sat back down again, pulling her work back towards her and summoning a new quill. Bellatrix had turned to face her fully, lounging over the back of her chair.

“You know, Skeeter, I wouldn’t exactly boast about that achievement of yours.” Rita sat, frozen, desperately thinking, “I mean, when was the last time someone actually read it?”

Professor Atwick moved her eyes from one window to another.

A long curl over Bellatrix’s face shifted softly, waving as she continued.

“Besides,” Her voice took a crueller, sharper tone, “It never really had much weight. Personally, I could never trust the words of a spying cheat.”

Rita froze.

How typical. Public confrontation.

The room wasn’t quiet before those words but now everyone paused, holding their breaths as they watched the two girls. Rita had made no secret of her views on academic integrity; it was the one thing that really separated her from being sorted into Slytherin. Whatever she said – however cruel, manipulative, underhanded, or gained from gossip – was true. And all, plausibly, things that could be common knowledge.

To be called out like this – insulted – crossed lines Rita would spill blood over.

Her eye twitched.

Once.

Twice.

The class was still quiet and Bellatrix still watched her, head crooked to the side, eyes fox bright with a sinister glint.

When Rita spoke again, it was with a honeyed edge that mimicked the childish tones of Bellatrix not two minutes ago.

“Bella, that’s a huge accusation to make. Me? A spying cheat?” Two hot flushes rose on Rita’s face, high over her cheekbones, and her heart beat fast. “Where are you getting this? From my better marks than you? From the fact that I actually talk to people and know things? I hate to break it to you but not only is this absolutely groundless, but it kind of shows your ignorance.”

Bellatrix’s hard glare remained unaffected and by the looks of everyone else, Rita wasn’t doing a good job of defending herself.

The claims weren’t true – Bellatrix didn’t have any evidence – everyone knew that Rita couldn’t abide cheating – and yet a change was crawling over the faces of her classmates, clouding their eyes in a suspicious, judgemental gloom that threatened to cast Rita in a despondent shadow forever.

The liar. The cheat. Nobody would trust her, nobody would talk to her, nobody would listen to what she said or wrote.

Her voice grew louder, more strained.

“Come on – come on, Bella,” she forced herself to smile, “Why would you say this? What – in the name of Merlin, Morgana, and Rowena herself – could possess you to think that?”

She tried to bring tears to her eyes. Pity bloomed in the eyes of a few.

“What have I done?”

Bellatrix just stared at her, stone faced. She wasn’t talking.

Whilst the rest of the class slowly lapsed into mutters – Rita stroked a charm on her glasses chain to help her hearing – that seemed to be mostly on her side, Bella just sat silently. Rita stared back, wracking her mind for what Bellatrix might –

Oh.

That’d teach her not to write things down properly

The Quidditch Match.

The prospect of becoming commentator had completely wiped the memory of Bellatrix seeing her from her mind.

No wonder Bellatrix had said that: she’d just made the team and a girl in her year had been spying on team manoeuvres and tactics. So what if it was a thirteen year old girl with no knowledge of the game? It reflected pretty badly on Bella.

Rita smiled.

And it would be far far worse if her and Bella were friends.

***

The rest of the lesson was rather uneventful after that. Professor Atwick had finally turned their attention to Lible’s Twenty Ninth Theorem and the Ravenclaws spent the last half hour collectively crying. Mentally at least.

It was one of the most fundamental parts of commanding automatons, the basis for the next two years of their Arithmancy education, and Atwick managed to share only half of the rules. Calliope Treble, next to Rita, started whispering furiously to everyone who could hear about Atwick’s butchery of the topic.

Which was probably the main reason Rita was tearing up. Calliope was stressful.

Rita didn’t care too much on the whole – Runes were more interesting to her – but it would be an important part of their OWLs and the implications of this weren’t exactly inspiring. Two weeks into the term, she’d managed to get an idea about how the Arithmancy course would be: inordinate amounts of self-study.

At ten o’clock, everyone left the room in a tumultuous jumble of flying robes and emblazoned satchels. Bellatrix miraculously managed to whack Rita right in the face with a bag that probably contained some stolen bludgers, with how heavy it was. Considering Rita was a full head taller than her, it was quite an achievement.

Rita stood at the doorway, staring after the girl.

If she could get herself associated with Bellatrix, she could stop any more slander before it began. Other people would be less likely to gossip, and Bellatrix wouldn’t be able to share the little spying incident with the rest of their year.

This plan had some faults, of course. Namely the fact that Bellatrix now hated her, and was a bit mad.

They’d all seen the Black traits popping up in some lesson – or hallway brawl – in the last two years and two weeks. Half the school was terrified of her, the other in awe.

Those lines generally fell across blood and House boundaries, but Rita was proud to say she wasn’t like them.

She was scared, admiring, and intrigued, all at once.

Her previous passing interest in the Black now had an opportunity for further investigation in her new mission, and a second goal for the year was set.

Befriend Bellatrix Black, or make the school think they were close.

At the edge of the classroom, at the top of a flight of stairs, Rita held her bag close and fixed her glasses. Smile wide, eyes calculating, ink and parchment close at hand, she was ready.

But first, Flitwick.

***
The Head of Ravenclaw House was new this year. Their previous Head had left to go and focus on academia, having had a passionate interest in potential magical cloning within the last few months of her tenure. Rita suspected it had something to do with eliminating the teenage years of a wixen’s life, but she wasn’t sure.

Maybe a heart of maternal affection really did lie somewhere, deep down inside Professor Eckhursts’ heart. Maybe she wanted even more teenagers!

Rita doubted it.

Professor Flitwick was vastly different from Eckhurst though. He was excitable, and asked about their lives. He’d set up meetings with every student in his house across the last two weeks, to ask about their progress, interests, and goals.

Rita had already had hers, in which she mostly lamented the loss of her favourite passion. He’d tutted and commiserated in a way that Rita thought could truly be genuine, before suggesting some other things she could dig her teeth into. They’d actually been pretty good ideas. But he hadn’t mentioned this.

“Professor –” She knocked on his door, opening it slightly and poking her head around, “Professor, I was hoping I could talk to you about something? For extracurriculars?”

Professor Flitwick looked up from where he sat, reading a leatherbound book on his desk. He smiled at seeing her, getting down from his chair to beckon her in.

“Ah, Miss Skeeter, correct? I’m happy to talk about anything you need to.”

He’d put a note on the Ravenclaw notice board about his office hours: from five until seven everyday, he had an open door policy. Outside of that, a note could be slipped under his door to arrange an appointment.

Currently, it was half six, and everyone was down at dinner.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Rita smiled, putting her bag and books down, “But I was hoping to ask about how I could apply for the Quidditch commentator position?”

Flitwich had resumed his seat and stroked his moustache, thinking about it. The setting sun outside the tower hit the bronze embellishments to the room and cast a burning glow to all the furniture.

“In the last staff meeting, I heard something about Professor Mcgonagall taking it over. I’m not sure why exactly – although she’s very passionate about the sport – but I doubt she would object to a student taking up the position.”

The eagle carving on the arm rests of Rita’s chair were smooth, sharp edges wiped away by countless stroking hands, and she looked up to the corner of the ceiling, pursing her lips .

She turned back to Flitwick and pulled her hair over her shoulders, staring at him seriously.

“Professor, I really want this position. I think that it would be so helpful to me in so many ways, such as participating in school life and preparing for my future job as star reporter for the Daily Prophet.”

Flitwick looked at her, rather bemused.

“And I don’t want to just go up to the person currently holding the role – or in charge of the role, or whatever – and say hello, could you give it to me?’ She continued, “If Mcgonagall is who I need to talk to, I’ll send her an owl immediately, but I’d appreciate it if I could have you as – as a supporter, or reference, or something like that.”

She opened her eyes wide, imploringly. It wasn’t like there was any competition for this role, but Rita didn’t trust Mcgonagall. The Professor was too much of a fanatic – she might try quizzing Rita on her Quidditch knowledge, or require her to spout out the last hundred years of Quidditch trivia. And Rita probably wouldn’t be able to do that.

Besides, even asking might make the Transfiguration teacher hate her.
If she could get this done – gain the role – without any actual confrontation with Mcgonagall, that would be perfect.

She didn’t want the woman holding a grudge after all.

Flitwick looked back at her, smiling slightly.

“You’d like me to recommend you?”

Rita grinned, squeezing her fists and relaxing slightly.

“That would be incredible!” She reached down to her bag from some parchment. “I actually made a template – you can write it out again though – that you could follow? It’s very simple, just says that you think that I would be a brilliant candidate and could handle it capably.”

She placed the roll on Flitwicks desk, beaming. The desk was cluttered, covered with books and quills and essays from Charms lessons. A marble resting by the ink pot rolled, pushed by a slight breeze.

The wizard unfurled the parchment, reading through it, eyebrows raising.

“Well, you’re certainly dedicated –” Rita sat up straighter, smiling graciously, “And there isn’t anything wrong with your – ahem – template. I don’t see an issue with recommending you at all.”

Rita almost collapsed on his desk. First goal for this year: attained.

She held out her hand, grabbing his and shaking it twice.

“Thank you so much –”

She picked up her bag,

“ – I really appreciate this –”

and stood up,

“ – and I hope you know how much this will help me.”

She held open the door and stared at the Professor.

“You’ve truly given me a gift today.”

The door closed behind her as she let out a sigh of satisfaction. Quidditch commentator today, journalist tomorrow.

Everything was going well for Rita Skeeter.

Chapter Text

Bellatrix Black hated to condense her life into four short words – which could constrain and restrict and leash, and turn her from the warrior that she was into something small – almost as much as she hated the soliloquies her Mother would spout at the balls they went to war in. But in this dire situation, she’d lower herself to that position.

Bellatrix Black was fucked.

She glared at the girl across the Hall, gripping the silverware tightly. Everything had been as it was meant to be this year. She’d done everything she could. And yet the fates above conspired against her.

She was the smartest, fiercest, best at pretty much everything in her year. Even the prefects in Slytherin leapt at her command and she’d proven her word and wand at every opportunity. She was strong, she was deadly, she was perfect. She didn’t have to be anything and she was herself. Third Year Beater, Defence prodigy, avenging Valkyrie of the doomed and condemned. Feared.

Also, absolutely fucked.

Narcissa was at home all alone in that house which echoed cold and empty. Andromeda had barely spoken to the Slytherins in her year. Her OWLs were coming up and Mother was sending her letters. Father kept on looking at her. Her cousins were growing up.

Also, the bitch at the Ravenclaw table was threatening her spot on the team.

Bellatrix’s scowl deepened painfully as she glared, furrowing her brow until she could almost mark the mountainous contours of her forehead shadowing her eyes. The cutlery cut into her hand.

She’d worked for that place. She’d fought for it. And if that bitch thought that she could ruin Bella’s chances of winning, of becoming even more than she already was, she had another thing coming. Bellatrix wouldn’t let anyone spy on her team. She wouldn’t let anyone threaten them.

Next to her, Rodolphus looked at her hunched figure and frowned.

“Black, what are you trying to do to that fork?”

Bella slowly turned her head towards her friend, not moving an inch of the rest of her body. Her eyes squinted, and she set the silverware down, unfurling her hand finger by finger.

“Lestrange.”

Bellatrix sat there a moment more, surveying her situation.

“Lestrange, if you think I’d tell you, you’re a fool.” She smiled. “But you should find out soon enough.

She could see it now. Grabbing hold of the blonde – a hex or two to prove a point – and dragging her to justice. The praise – the acclaim – the victory.

A wide white smile stretched sharp into a sneer on Bellatrix’s face. Her posture relaxed even further, settling into a self-assured coil of a predator preparing to strike.

Rodolphus followed her gaze.

“Who’s that?”

“Rita Skeeter.”

Rodolphus looked blank.

“Who?”

Bellatrix blinked, turning to look at him, frowning.

“You know.”

“Know what?”

“You know, the paper.”

“The paper?” Rodolphus drew his eyebrows together, confused.

“The Hogwarts Herald.” Bellatrix gestured towards Skeeter. “She wrote it.”

A light dawned on Rodolphus’ face, recognition colouring his features with a disgusted kind of grimace. Bellatrix snorted, rolling her eyes. Took him long enough. To think, he might be the one she married.

Bellatrix banished the thought.

“So what, you’re worried she’s going to write something in that gossip rag of hers? Have you read it? No one takes it seriously.”

Rodolphus turned back to his food dismissively.

His friend looked at him, affronted.

“Lestrange – don’t imagine she’s a threat. She’s just annoying me right now –”

“And Merlin forbid she do that.”

Rodolphus didn’t dignify Bella with a look. She fumed.

“Look, Bellatrix. I don’t know what she did that’s resulted in your campaign against all the cutlery in Hogwarts, but I doubt it’s anything breaking all the silverware on our table. Ignore it.”

He snapped his eyes towards her for a second.

“And do not blow up about it. We’ve got Runes tomorrow with her as well. You’ll have to manage.”

***

The fact of the matter was, with Bellatrix, that despite her razor sharp wits, intellectual genius, and all-round popularity, she had a hard time controlling her temper. She’d known this for years – it had been the favourite remark of her mother when she’d had a tantrum, or cried.

Bella, she’d say, stepping over the broken chandelier on the floor. You have got to learn control.

But Bella had learnt early that there were few ways to get what you wanted in this world. Standing out and screaming was one of them. Demanding it. Giving people no options but to obey.

She’d learnt that things don’t just get given to you. That sometimes you need to take them. And take, she did.

She’d taken the favoured seats in the Common Room – she’d taken the respect and love of her parents – she’d taken her rightful place in her world.

She didn’t find someone threatening that, funny.

Especially not the Skeeter girl.

Bellatrix had noticed her first during their Sorting. Gleaming yellow hair and acid green glasses that dangled charms like stars from the sky. She’d walked to the Sorting Hat with a spring in her step and unwavering confidence that came not from blood scratched from sharpened nails, or screams or kicking feet, or overpowering displays of magic, but the easy existence of never being challenged. Of never being told she wasn’t enough.

At eleven, Bellatrix had found it insulting and glared at her from the Slytherin Table.

At thirteen, she still did.

Skeeter had swanned through their first two years at Hogwarts untroubled, never looking back or straining hard. Any work she’d put in had been an afterthought, secondary to her hobbies and dreams. Bellatrix, hunted and hounded by the sniping letters of her parents and the plaintive notes from her sisters, didn’t envy her.

Not at all.

The easy peace of self dictated goals was as distant as the constellation she’d been named after. The indulgent passion of personal projects loomed east of the sun. Freedom, north of the moon.

Bellatrix had fought and taken and been taken from. She’d shown potential that secured her future, and wrath that protected her present.

The effort she’d put in – blood, sweat, and tears – well –

It paid off.

Bellatrix hadn’t disliked Skeeter, until now, not really. But sometimes she’d held up the picture perfect life of the unthinking blonde and gazed through that lens at hers. It stretched out behind her.

What could’ve been, what should’ve happened.

But as Skeeter blazed through life in a whirlwind of neon colour, Bellatrix trudged a path to leave behind, smoothed; a path for her sister’s to follow.

They were different. Entirely.

But sometimes Bella didn’t want that as much.

***

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

Alecto slammed her book bag between them. Bellatrix pouted, affecting a puppy-dog gaze which parodied the look her sisters persuaded her with every summer.

“But Alecto! Don’t you want to help me?” Bellatrix pushed the taller girl’s satchel to the side. The library hummed with the quiet noise of a hundred thousand books sitting still, watching in silence. Dust motes danced in the golden air of the sepulchre, home to the remains of a country of dead animals. Vellum, mourning life.

Bellatrix leant in close, intense.

“Alecto, don’t you love me?”

Alecto kept on working.

“Alecto, it feels like you hate me.”

Bellatrix sprawled all over the desk, feigning affront. She twitched one eye open, watching.

“Alecto, that doesn’t feel very nice to me.”

The twin didn’t stop. Out of all the Sacred Twenty Eight girls in their year, it was Alecto that gave Bellatrix the room to exist, and held firm against the changing tempest of her moods.

As such, she was the one who helped her whenever Bellatrix needed something.

The thirteen year old frowned at her parchment. Bella leaned over. Alecto was mean, cold, probably didn’t understand what emotions were, and dumb as bricks in everything other than Defense.

Bella adored her.

“Alecto, I’m worried you don’t care for me any more. I know you would never do anything as silly as be nasty to me, but I think that this is coming close. Don’t you agree? I mean, this is definitely hurting my feelings …”

Alecto paused.

She answered without looking at her friend.

“I’m doing my homework. I need to do my homework to pass my exams. If I don’t pass my exams, my parents will be annoyed. I don’t want my parents to be annoyed. So I’m doing my homework. So no to helping you.”

Bella pouted.

“Helping me will help with your homework.” The pout twisted into an ugly sneer. “Hang your parents and your homework. Find some Ravenclaw’s to copy.”

She flashed a grin, porcelain teeth gleaming, and propped her head on her hands, curls dangling onto the desk.

“Steal Skeeters.” Her eyes flashed. “Get everything we need in one go.”

Alecto had gone back to ignoring her, steadfastly writing her Charms homework around the black-brown river of Bellatrix’s hair on her parchment.

“You help me hurt her – help me make a curse.” Bellatrix pushed herself up properly, smile gone once more, rocking back on her chair now and staring at the abyss which curled on top of the book shelves. It went on into the sky. All the cloying niceties of her earlier persuasions were gone, all the spitting anger, like sparks falling from a bonfire and fading into the night.

She spoke calmly – rationally – mind no longer crashing with overwhelming fury against the rocks and smashing white foaming flecks of burning spite into the salt filled air, but steadily, slowly, dripping down. Like a stalagmite, built over centuries, an idea began to be constructed in her mind.

“We’re Third Years, we’re us, we can manage it. A curse – to only speak the truth and to reveal your worst secret.” Words dropped from an acid mouth into the hush of the humming library.

“Write your parents for spellbooks – no, better, search through them over Yule. I’ll do the same.”

Alecto had looked up to listen.

“We want something untraceable – so something new – all I can think of are poisons with a definitively Dark aspect.” Bella continued. “We need to do this at school – maybe before exams. Have everyone find out about what she’s done.”

Her face started to change like an ripple through previously still water.

“I want people to know about her spying. She’s a cheat and a liar and I want everyone to find out.”

Alecto watched her.

“Before exams, her reputation and academics are ruined. She wouldn’t be able to focus on them. Hopefully then it could last until summer. See how her family likes that.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Bellatrix smiled.

“Fun.”

She paused.

“Also we can blackmail her for tutoring or notes for you beforehand.”

Alecto shot up and crammed her parchment away, shoving her parchment in with quills, mouth pursing with unsuppressed anticipation.

“Bellatrix, yes.”

Chapter Text

On the next day, when every owl and bird and flying beast in the sky seemed to invade Hogwarts to deliver letters, an inked roll of parchment dropped into Rita’s cereal.

“Ew … “ Elyse Greengrass whispered on the other side of the table, staring at the sodden note with a crinkled nose.

Rita stared at it, scarcely breathing, before fishing it out, clasped between her fingernails. The green ink had smudged slightly in the milk, obscuring letters and words like clouds blooming in the sky. She grimaced before unfolding it, casting a quick charm to reverse the damage.

Her heart beat like hail on the ground, sending a thumping noise to her ears.

Calliope lifted her head from where it had been slumped on Rita’s shoulder to look at the letter as the blonde scanned the words quickly.

“What is that?” Calliope looked closer. “Is that from Mcgonnagal?”

Rita was grinning sharply, all her teeth showing. She stroked the side of the parchment with a finger as she turned bright eyes to her friend.

“Yeah, it’s from her.”

“Good news?” Elyse asked.

“Yeah, I mean – I mean it definitely is good!” Rita paused and read through the note again. “She wants to set up a meeting about the Quidditch position though – commentator, not player – and I’m just realising again how little I know.”

Elyse grinned.

“I thought you’d been imperio-d for a second there. It’s okay, the rules aren’t too complicated. You could definitely learn them soon. When is it?”

“You’re only saying it’s easy because you play it!” Calliope pulled a face at Elyse. Her hair was rumpled and a red mark was wedged on her cheek from resting it on Rita’s shoulder all breakfast. The bags under her eyes stood out.

Elyse rolled her eyes in response.

“Yes, Calliope, typically people understand the rules of the game they play. I’m just saying, I can help Rita and it shouldn’t take too long.” She frowned at the blonde again. “When is it, Rita?”

Rita had sat up straighter, smiling at Elyse.

“Lunch.”

Calliope groaned, sitting back.

“Elyse, no – Rita’s going to spend all morning going over the rules now! She’s going to be useful in Herbology.”

“She’ll have to if she wants to learn them by lunch time.”

“You said it wasn’t complicated!” Calliope frowned, stabbing a knife into her toast and leaning half across the table. “

“It isn’t, it’s just that–”

Rita started to tune out her friend’s bickering as she sat back to think. The whole Quidditch commentator question was pretty much settled now. From here, she just had to actually commentate.

The sun glanced through the glass of water in front of her onto the shiny brown table, lighting it up with a golden rectangle that stretched across her cutlery and bowl. Idly, she watched the dustmotes twirl as she went over the next item of the day.

It was pretty much just all the core subjects without inter-house classes – Charms, Transfiguration, and History of Magic. Rita pulled a strand of her hair around her finger as she considered the situation. She could pretty much only get close to Bellatrix in their electives but she sat next to Calliope in all of them. And Rita wasn’t going to just ditch.

Except … Rita narrowed her eyes at her friend behind her glasses, watching the girl wave her hands around in the air as she talked passionately to an unimpressed Elyse. Maybe she could convince Calliope to partner with someone else. Cal would have an issue, of course, but if Rita explained properly – about how Bellatrix had looked at her, and what Rita had done, and how much she needed this – then she’d surely have to agree. It wasn’t as if Calliope wanted Bellatrix to ruin Rita.

And this was the only way Rita could prevent that.

Outside of classes, Rita didn’t have much in common with the Slytherin girl. They didn’t do the same clubs, weren’t part of the same societies, were in different Houses.

Calliope slammed her forehead to the table in exasperation, moaning in annoyance.

“Why … why Elyse … both you and Sirona … it’s such a waste…”

Rita and Elyse exchanged a glance over Calliope’s muttering head as their friend lamented the Quidditch spirit which seemed to possess so many. Rita was on Calliope’s side more than Elyse’s, to be perfectly honest, but still. Maybe not anymore. She didn’t exactly have such a black and white image of the game as she’d used to.

Mcgonnagall’s letter still rested on the table next to her, half unfolded in a strip of warm light.

Rita had two classes, one sport, and no extracurriculars with Bellatrix. And she would make it be enough.

“By the way,” Calliope raised her head suddenly, “have either of you finished Binns’ work?”

Elyse and Rita froze.

The table burst into a frenzy of motion as they scrambled off the tables and tried to walk as quickly as possible to the Entrance Hall, Elyse semi-hobbling in her attempt to hurry and not seem to be hurrying.

Bellatrix could wait. That homework was due next period.

***

“Well, it doesn’t seem as if there’s any issue.”

Professor Mcgonnagall peered over her glasses at Rita with a disapproving stare.

Rita smiled back.

“I suppose you’ll be our commentator.” The older woman sighed, reluctantly softening her stern demeanour. She sat back and pulled out a box of mints, thoughtfully plucking one out to roll, briefly, around her fingers. Rita sat there, back straight, on the edge of her seat with a carefully eager look.

Mcgonnagall gave off the impression of being a stern, impartial judge that knew not to trust anything students did, but anybody with half a brian could notice her slight prejudice against Slytherins and for Gryffindors. She was the head of that house – it was expected, really, and still something that could be taken advantage of. That was the thing Rita had noticed. Nobody really looked for people who were in between Houses; if you were in Hufflepuff, you were kind, Gryffindor, brash, Slytherin, awful. Ravenclaw? Erratic and single minded. Rita’s curated smile – excited, earnest, hopeful – painted her as the perfectly stereotypical Ravenclaw with a raging hard-on for a single thing.

It would have been easier if Rita had been in Gryffindor, of course, but nothing could be done about that. Besides, it wasn’t as if Rita would change her entire house just for one step on her career plan.

She frowned inwardly.

Well.

She’d campaigned harder for Slytherin under the hat for a reason.

“ – and of course, neutrality is expected,” Rita snapped back into it for the last of Mcgonagall's speech, “although not typically stuck to.”

Rita nodded fervently, eyes wide.

“Professor Mcgonnagall, believe me, one of my core tenets in life is honesty. If you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything. If people don’t believe what you’re writing is true, they won’t read it. And I would never damage that trust. Ever.”

Professor Mcgonnagall paused to look at Rita over her glasses again. She adjusted them slightly.

“That is an … admirable … reason to be honest, Rita. I hope you keep it up.”

Rita relaxed into an open smile, lowering her head modestly.

“Thank you, Professor. I just really want this to go well. I think it would be good to branch out of just journalism, you know? It might open more career paths in the future.”

Professor Mcgonnagall looked at Rita.

“Well, yes, that’s very true. I think I read some of your previous work when it came out…” A frown crossed her forehead briefly, deepening the lines already born from years of dealing with students. “It was very … interesting, Rita.”

Rita beamed.

“So, when’s my first match?” She asked, bouncing her hands under her legs.

A stack of parchment zoomed out of a corner of the office, slightly yellow and wrinkled, covered haphazardly with a half burnt and patchy leather binding. It slammed onto the desk in front of Rita, with half legible gold gilt writing glinting on the top. Rita squinted at it, and adjusted her glasses. The Comp ….. tal, and Unqu … onable Rules o .. ditch, she could make out.

“The 15th of October. Read the rulebook, memorise it, and I expect to see you bright and early on the Saturday.”

Mcgonnagall smiled.

“I’m excited to see what you’ll bring to the position.”

***
The afternoon free’s brought to Rita the waning sun through the dusty library windows, as she took up a table in a twisted corner with Quidditch rule books, analyses, and commentaries. To be able to give a thorough and valid assessment – and to aid valuable researching skills – she needed to understand how the game was played.

Rita frowned and curled a strand of hair around her finger. Mcgonnagall might also replace her if she didn’t know how to do it. Although, again, Rita mused, who else would do it?

Finishing another page of notes on Quidditch techniques and forms, the distant sound of bells ringing and doors slamming drifted up from underneath book cases and through the wavering windows. The din of students rushing from their final lessons to clubs broke even the quiet tranquillity of the library, snatching away the warm silence which usually rested heavy upon the people working there.

Rita sighed.

An entire afternoon spent on this, and really, what had she learnt? The dismal sketch of a Wrontlent Whisk manoeuvre peeked out on one of the many sheets she had spread out in front of her. After hours of studying, could she remember what it meant? She leant back in her chair and tilted on the back two feet, taking off her glasses and rubbing at her eyes.

No.

And there was still homework to do for other classes – things to investigate and people to talk to – her friends –

“Skeeter.”

Friends.

Rita slammed the chair even again, poking her glasses back on and turned a thousand watt smile upon the speaker, straight backed and eager.

“Black. I heard you officially made the team – one of the few Third Years playing across all houses! How do you feel about that?” She flicked a pen to action and tilted her head back up at Bellatrix, tall and dark eyed and buzzing with electric anger. “Intimidated? Excited?”

Bellatrix Black stared down at her, thick brows stuck in stony assessment of the blonde.

Rita didn’t wait for her to respond, leaning in conspiratorially.

“You know,” she winked, “I saw some of your trial.”

Bellatrix’s eye twitched.

“And you were the obvious choice. I made some notes on your performance though. As you can see, I’ve been thinking of some ways you could improve. Want me to share it? Maybe I can talk to your captain – let them know what I think? Or maybe you don’t like that. Do you want a repeat of Arithmancy here?”

She finished with a smug smile, staring up at Bellatrix. Black stayed silent, almost fuming. Her eyes sparked viciously, glittering like the milky way on a clear night. Her face had gone freakishly white, with high red splotches on her cheekbones. Rita sighed internally. Some people get all the luck in life.

Except, of course, when the fact their classmate spied on their team’s practices and try outs and sold the information to a different team with the implication that they were complicit in it is used as blackmail. Not so lucky.

“Skeeter, you look like a cat begging for food, stop it.” Black pulled a chair out and sat down, leaning startlingly close to Rita. Her eyes were huge. “I came to congratulate you.”

Rita blinked. Oh.

“Oh.”

Bellatrix’s face had calmed down, and taken on more of a predatory gaze as Rita grappled with the idea of Black congratulating anyone.

“You’ve gotten the position of commentator, what you wanted, right? I’m sure you’ve heard this from many, but I hope you have better luck than Wiggins.” Bellatrix’s stare became even more intense. “I think everybody wants that. Some Firsties still have nightmares. But I’m sure you’ll do great! With all that academic integrity, and honesty, and never spying, and lack of bias –”

“Obviously–” Rita pushed out, scowling at the implication, “Obviously, I’ll be that and do that be, like, unbiased and everything. Everyone knows that's me.”

“Do they? Not everyone.” Bellatrix spat, suddenly, face heating up again before she visibly wrestled it under control.

Rita stilled.

“Skeeter, I’m not here to yell. I’m just here to say that if I see any repeat of what happened at tryouts, I’ll end you. I don’t know why you think you can ask me these questions, and don’t you dare write anything, but we’re not friends. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. You know full well the position you’ve put me in with your actions. Don’t make it worse.”

A chill came over Rita that raised the goosebumps on her arms and sent shivers down her neck – the shadows deepened above her, nestling in the junction between bookshelf and wall, ceiling and air, Bellatrix and the world. The light through the dusty air, spiralling through the window in lazy curls, seemed to weaken and darken and the corner of the library where they sat, Bellatrix staring at Rita with eyes that promised pain, turned grey and cold.

It could’ve been an empty threat. Just big words.

Looking at Bellatrix though, and being the gossip she was, Rita could almost hear the cries of others in the same position. The third year rotting, eventually sent to St Mungo’s. That girl in First Year who’d thought to make comments behind Bellatrix’s back.

Rita looked at Bellatrix and knew, in her gut, curled around her knowledge of Bella’s madness and blatant fear, that Bellatrix would tear that same gut open and use her intestines as a scarf if Rita threatened her.

Parchments slowly fluttering in the draught, Rita nodded.

Maybe she needed to rework some ideas.