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Chapter Text

Bellatrix Lestrange was angry. Livid. Furious. Boiling. All of the adjectives. 

But, she supposed she was technically once again Bellatrix Black, because, well, she was currently very much dead (the root cause of said adjectives).  

Her name-change was a pathetic consolidation prize, but one nonetheless. As horribly binding as pureblood marriage bonds were, even they didn’t transcend death, and if she was going to have to live on (could she call it that if she was dead? die on?) in this bloody purgatory of teenage hormones, she was certainly going to do it in style: with her own last name.

Yes, Bellatrix Black was angry, and, very unfortunately, dead. 

—

After dying in the battle of Hogwarts, and, by some twisted turn of fate, ending up materializing in the castle a few scant weeks later as a ghost (what happened in the meantime, she had no idea) Bellatrix of course had tried to escape. 

She tried to leave the grounds, flying through the air like the spectre she now was (which was, honestly, quite fun as far as forms of travel go) until she had reached the barrier of the wards. When she passed right through she cried out in triumph, laughing and smiling to herself. There were much better places to spend eternity (or however long ghosts lived? lingered?) than Hogwarts — namely Black Manor. 

Only to have found herself appearing back in the Great Hall mere seconds later. 

She was nothing if not stubborn, and so she had tried again, and again. Tried going out through the skies, the forests, the old tunnels underneath the Black Lake. Tried apparating, which of course didn’t work since she couldn’t do magic like a witch, only magic like a ghost, which was horribly limiting. She even tried to smuggle her way out in one of McGonagall’s handbags when she went for tea in Hogsmeade. 

But nothing worked.

The next thing she tried was far more maudlin, and even she had to admit that she didn’t think she would succeed. But anyways, she tried to kill herself (which was really improper terms, again. un-ghost herself? banish, maybe?). She threw herself at all the dangerous creatures in the Forbidden Forest, tried to taunt McGonagall into Avada-ing her (didn’t work, old bat didn’t have it in her), and finally tried to drown herself in the Black Lake (a fitting place to die a second death, she supposed, for a Black). 

Nothing. 

So, as the autumn term arrived, Bellatrix found herself watching the students enter the fully restored Great Hall, taking in the castle with awe and excitement. Chittering and chattering, all full with happy little feelings and bright shiny futures and delusions of grandeur. Sparkly unicorn, pygmy puff, pink happy rainbow shit. It was revolting, and made her twitchy. 

She was dead, she was stuck in the castle with adolescents, she couldn’t do normal magic, and on top of all of that, and quite possibly the worst of all…

Bellatrix Black was bored. 

—

An idea to rectify her boredom came during the announcements after the feast, and with it came a sense of clarity, of purpose.

History of Magic was taught by Professor Binns — a ghost, so ghostly, in fact, he looked ghostier than Bellatrix. By far! If he could be a teacher, a Professor, then why not her?

Not that she had ever wanted to be a teacher, mind, but it would be something to do, and would also give her a way to corrupt the young minds of the youth and to carry on the legacy of the Dark Lord’s teachings. Bla-bla-bla, blood purity yay. 

She found herself much less motivated by ideals as a ghost, and more motivated by her own sense of self. Not self-preservation, either, because that really didn’t matter. Just self. 

She was dead, and so she was going to do… whatever the bloody fuck she wanted to. End stop. 

So yes, Bellatrix Black was going to be the new Professor of… Dark Arts and Black Magic. Pun abso-fucking-lutely intended. 

It had a rather nice ring to it, and so she made herself known to the masses (basking in the gasps of fear and awe as she appeared in all her corseted glory) and announced her plans. 

“Dear… students. My name is Professor Black, and I’ll be teaching Dark Arts and Black Magic this year. My classes will be…” She paused, trying to think of a time that would suit. “Yes, eight-o-clock on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, in the old dueling hall. Show up, or else.”

She nodded, looking around at the cowering students in satisfaction, and then started to float away, only to be interrupted by McGonagall’s angry tirade.

“No! Madam— Miss— Bel— BLACK! No. You are not a teacher. You do not have permission to teach any class, let alone the Dark Arts! Students!”

Bellatrix watched as McGonagall turned her beady eyes on the four house tables in turn, lingering longer on the Slytherins than any others in a clear warning. 

“Detention, to anyone that shows up at ANY… event or class or… tea-party arranged by Bellatrix Black. It is dangerous and highly unsanctioned. We are… working on banishing her but it’s a difficult process.”

Bellatrix grinned, not realizing they too were trying to help banish her. Good, the old cat-lady was being helpful for once, least she could do really. 

McGonagall’s words only increased her desire to teach her class (and thus create as much mayhem as ghostly-possible). Either she’d have fun, or get dead (for real this time). 

A win-win situation. 

—

Thus, at exactly eight sharp on the following Wednesday, Bellatrix floated down to the old dueling rooms. She was properly convinced that she would find no one there (the students would at least pretend to heed McGonagall’s warnings), but to her surprise, the room wasn’t empty.

No, in the center of the room, sat primly in front of a desk, with parchment and quill already in hand, bushy hair and all, was Hermione fucking Granger. 

—

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?” Bellatrix screeched.

Hermione made a show of casting a tempus. “It’s eight. Time for class, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I don’t teach mudbloods.”

Bellatrix watched the girl, but she didn’t even flinch at the slur, and Bellatrix resisted the urge to pout. 

“Hmm…” Hermione looked to the left, then to the right, then back at Bellatrix. “Then I suppose you don’t teach at all.”

“Fine by me.” 

Bellatrix folded her arms against her chest stared at Hermione, waiting for her to leave, but she stayed put, staring at Bellatrix. 

The silence pressed on until Bellatrix couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“Well? Leave!”

Hermione’s face split into a wide grin. “Can’t. I’m logging this as my fourth extracurricular activity this term, which means I actually have to attend, you see…”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Of course, little annoying swot. 

Hermione continued, watching Bellatrix carefully. “I’m taking twelve N.E.W.T.s, plus four extracurriculars, which means that if I get all Os, I’ll—”

It dawned on Bellatrix, a creeping, horrifying, maddening sense of indignation. It made her want to squash the girl in front of her like she did her cousin’s toad as a child.

“Break my record.” Bellatrix finished, almost to herself. 

“Yes. I’m pleased you’ll be around to witness it, actually. Feels like karma.”

Her mind spun. It was unfair! Totally, royally, unjustly unfair. Ridiculous. Trollshit! 

There had to be a way to invalidate it. 

“How old are you, anyway? You look too old to be a student. It doesn’t count if you’re too old.”

“How old are you?” Hermione shot back, nonplussed.

“I asked you first, Muddy.”

“Fine. I’ll be nineteen when I take my exams, and the Education Proclamation of 1956 states that N.E.W.T.s can be obtained as normal up until the age of twenty-one, after which the adult education system becomes involved.”

Bellatrix pursed her lips. Bugger. She’d been hoping the witch’s scores would have been disqualified on default. 

“So. Your turn. How old are you? I mean, I know you’re dead, but…”

Bellatrix tutted. “I prefer the term unalive, these days, if you will... But if you must know, I’m thirty-two.”

Hermione blinked once. “No… you’re not. You’re like, at least forty-five.”

Bellatrix floated over to the younger witch, allowing her to get a clearer look at her beautiful face. More than she deserved, an honor that she didn’t bestow on many, really, but Bellatrix needed to prove her point. 

“Nope. Thirty-two. Decided to subtract those years in Azkaban, I did. Didn’t count as living, anyway. Look at me — no wrinkles. Flawless skin. I don’t look a day over thirty-two.”

“You’re transparent, you don’t have skin.”

“Fuck off!”

Bellatrix was about done with their conversation. 

If Hermione didn’t attend every Wednesday and Sunday all term, she wouldn’t be able to log her attendance, and she wouldn’t break Bellatrix’s record. 

So all Bellatrix had to do was scare Hermione off.

—

That was unfortunately easier said than done. 

She tried all the usual ghost tricks. Passing eerily through her body at breakfast, making strange noises in her dorm at night, she even took a page out of old Myrtle’s book and flooded her bathroom (she drew the line at toilet-lurking). With a lack of other ideas, she ended up resorting to appearing behind her at random times and shouting. 

Most ghosts, as she understood it, would say something boring and pedestrian like “Boo!” but she had far more creativity, and would shout the incantations of her favorite curses as if she still had a wand and was halfway to casting them. 

It worked beautifully for the rest of the student population (even many of the teachers). But not the mudblood. 

“Crucio!”

Hermione startled slightly but then calmly looked up from the book she was reading to meet Bellatrix’s gaze. 

“Hello. You’re late. Class started ten minutes ago.”

Bellatrix pouted. “Why aren’t you scared of me? Didn’t I torture you? I'm arguably the scariest Death Eater!” 

Hermione rolled up the sleeve of her robe to display the scar there, still red and raw and weeping as if it had been made yesterday. 

“You did. If you weren't… unalive, I might be scared. But you’re… like a declawed cat. I’m not afraid of you at all.”

“A cat?! Why is it always cats with you Gryffindors?”

Hermione smiled at her, and that just made Bellatrix even more put out, if possible. 

“This is why I’m here, actually.” Hermione motioned to the scar. “I’m willing to bet this counts as ‘Dark Arts and Black Magic’. I’d like to learn how to remove it.”

Bellatrix laughed. Like there was even half a chance she’d ever teach the girl to remove her artwork! No, she’d rather eat fresh hinkypunk dung. 

“No. I told you I don’t teach mudbloods.”

Hermione shrugged. “Alright. Then I’ll see you on Sunday.”

—

It continued like that, Hermione as the only student showing up to her class, and Bellatrix getting more and more exasperated as the term dragged on. No matter what she tried to do, no matter how many rude insults she came up with (and her mind was a veritable treasure-trove of those, creative she was!), the girl simply would not give up, and attended twice a week like clock-work. 

She had to change tactics. 

If she couldn’t scare away Hermione Granger in the traditional sense, she’d have to freak her out in some other way. Make her so horribly uncomfortable that she didn’t want to see Bellatrix anymore. 

She knew exactly what to do.

Bellatrix enacted her plan on a regular Wednesday. Instead of starting the class with an insult or a curse or scattering Hermione’s parchment as she was want to do, she tried something different. 

“Tell me, Muddy. Are you as naughty in bed as you are in class?”

Bellatrix watched Hermione closely, waiting for the blush, the stammer, the embarrassment. 

Hermione looked up, and Bellatrix’s utter dismay, winked. 

“Want to find out, Professor?”

—

Chapter Text

Of all the things Hermione could have said, her response was the least likely on Bellatrix’s list and left her completely at a loss. For half a second. 

But she was nothing but adaptable, and fully committed. If this was going to work she had to go for it. No holds barred. Tits out — literally. 

She floated closer to Hermione, tilted her body forward so that her ghostly cleavage was perfectly on display (she was so thankful to have been killed in her corset) and fluttered her eyelashes. 

“Be careful what you offer, pet. I always collect.”

Hermione still didn’t look uncomfortable, and Bellatrix would’ve sworn she saw her eyes dart down before looking her in the eye again.  

“Then it’s a good thing I always deliver. I’d invite you over, but… you already know where I sleep.”

With that, Hermione spent the rest of the class time reading, before sauntering out with an extra sway to her hips. 

—

Bellatrix couldn’t help but think that Hermione had won their battle that day, and that just wouldn't do. 

She had to call the girl’s bluff.

There was no way she would be expecting Bellatrix to show up in her dorm, and she was confident that doing so would finally knock some sense into the stupidly brave, cocky, snarky, annoying, know-it-all mudblood (that Bellatrix spent all her time thinking about, which was a Problem). 

She floated through the wall with a dramatic flourish, a thoroughly filthy list of possible one-liners fresh in her mind, ready. 

Only to stop short, losing altitude and almost falling through the floor at the sight before her. 

Hermione Granger was lounging on her bed, clad in nothing but the raciest, skimpiest, tiniest set of black lingerie Bellatrix had ever seen. It was so flimsy that she could have torn it with her teeth (not that she was thinking about that) and so see-through that hard nipples were fully on display (not that she was looking). 

“This answer your question, Professor?”

Bellatrix gaped. 

“I’m not a very good girl, but maybe detention with you would teach me a lesson.”

Hermione: 2. Bellatrix: 0. 

—

Things continued like that. 

Bellatrix flirted, spent hours thinking of pickup lines, made more daring advances, until their “class time” felt like Bellatrix was a Floo-call sex witch, only her caller was in the same room, and without fail, Bellatrix felt that she was the one nervous and off-guard and uncomfortably warm (or she would have been, if she wasn’t a ghost). 

She didn’t know where Hermione Granger had learned those words, those phrases (must be books — it’s always the quiet ones). 

But Circe’s tits she was no innocent schoolgirl. 

If she wasn’t a mudblood, and Bellatrix wasn’t unalive, she might have been a little in love. 

As it was, these new feelings were becoming quite the Problem, and she needed to stop it. 

At this point, there was only one option. 

—

Bellatrix was uncharacteristically silent for the first few minutes of class. 

“You’ll need the dagger I used, powdered moonstone, and blood.”

Hermione looked up at her uncomprehending for a moment.

“Aren’t you going to take notes?!”

Hermione scrambled for a piece of parchment.

“It’s simple. Your blood on the dagger, dip it in the moonstone, then in Black blood, then slice once over the scar. It’ll heal normally.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. 

“Black blood?”

“Yes.” Bellatrix sighed theatrically. “You’re going to have to contact my sister…”

—

Bellatrix swooped into the room, expecting to see her sister (blonde hair and haughty I’m-better-than-you attitude). What she didn’t expect was her sister (brown hair, trying to hide her I’m-better-than-you attitude under cheap robes and the remnants of a vomit-stain). 

“Granger! I told you to bring me my sister.”

“Yes. You never said which one, so I chose. You’ll have to be more specific, babe.”

Bellatrix wished she could have taken a photograph of Andromeda’s face the moment Hermione called her babe, or at least have access to a pensive so she could relive the memory a few more times. 

“I’m not going to ask… Hermione, dear, can we just get this over with?”

Bellatrix watched Andromeda watch her as she placed a hand low on Hermione's back. 

Bellatrix glowered. Andromeda smirked, and proceeded to do it as much as possible.

A petty revenge, but effective. 

An hour later, Andromeda was gone (thankfully) and Bellatrix was watching Hermione leave the room, curse-free. 

She turned back and looked at Bellatrix, a startlingly genuine smile on her face. Not a smirk, or that wry little grin she sported when she was being cheeky. No, this was soft. 

“Thanks, Bella.”

Bellatrix was having a minor heart attack over being called Bella by the witch when she turned back once more, smirk firmly in place. 

“Don’t think this means I’m not coming back. Nothing will stop me from beating your record, babe.”

Hermione: probably like 562. Bellatrix: 0. 

—

Bellatrix didn’t announce her course for the second term, and yet Hermione showed up anyway. Neither witch was surprised. Neither witch mentioned it, and if (frequently) asked about it by McGonagall, neither witch admitted anything. 

Bellatrix’s Problem only got larger, worsened by the impending, looming knowledge that Hermione (her only entertainment, only fun, only Frie— no, that was too far) would be graduating Hogwarts soon, and leaving Bellatrix behind. 

It didn’t sit well with her, and, on the last night before summer, she found herself floating to Hermione’s dorm. 

Purpose: Unknown.

But Hermione was busy. 

Her hand was moving beneath the sheets, head thrown back, and chest thrust up in the air. 

Before she could stop herself, Bellatrix was swooping over, moving her body horizontal so it was like she was hovering above Hermione on the bed. Hermione didn’t open her eyes or notice her, only let out a whimper and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Bella”. 

“I don’t know, Hermione. You look like a good girl to me.” Bellatrix purred. 

Hermione opened her eyes, and promptly came. 

Hermione: too many. Bellatrix: 1. 

—

Chapter Text

Without Hermione to flir— annoy, being unalive was terribly boring. 

Any novelty had quickly worn off, and even the students had stopped being afraid of her. They were young and dumb and hadn’t lived through the war — at least not without nappies — and she was quickly classified as “just another ghost”, instead of “Death Eater that we must Banish immediately”. 

Even McGonagall just… got used to her. 

She tried flirting with some of the other ghosts, but the Bloody Baron was too male for her tastes, and the Grey Lady was still hung up on some dead boyfriend, and anyways too straight to appreciate even Bellatrix’s cleavage, which was really saying something. 

Then, finally, after five years, Hermione Granger came back to Hogwarts, set to become the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. 

Bellatrix floated through the ceiling of the Great Hall, and there she was. Older, still bossy and annoying (she could tell just looking at her) with wild hair. 

Those old Feelings and Problems rose up with a vengeance. 

“Well fuck me.”

Hermione looked up at Bellatrix and grinned. 

“Gladly, if you can figure out the mechanics.”

Yes, Bellatrix had to admit she had missed her. 

—

Bellatrix’s uncharacteristically good mood died a horrible death (worse than hers, and she was blasted to bits) when she learned that Hermione was dating Ron Weasley. A redheaded, pimply, gangly, flat-as-a-board, absolute mediocrity of a wizard. 

When he showed up to take Hermione out, he brought flowers. Daisies. Hermione smiled sweetly, and displayed absolutely none of the fire, the wit, the snark, the passion. 

She simpered. It was revolting. 

It was like all the things Bellatrix lo—liked about her were smothered by disgusting puppy-love, domesticity, pedestrian, happy-ever-after codswallop. 

She stood behind Ron and mimed gagging as he blushed and stammered his goodbyes.

“You could do so much better, y’know. Taller, darker, deader.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Ron’s taller than you.”

“Fuck off!”

When, a few months later, she learned from Professor Binns (an unexpectedly vapid gossip) that Hermione had ditched the sniveling simpleton, her mood improved so drastically that McGonagall started searching the Hogwarts grounds for dead bodies. 

—

A few years later, Bellatrix thought back fondly to those days, because her newest rival (and yes, she was acknowledging it) was much more formidable.

Hestia Jones was older, powerful, smiled like she ran the world (which, she was high-ranking in the D.M.L.E.), and possibly worst of all, even she had to admit the witch had really nice tits. 

Bellatrix loathed her immediately. 

Something had to be done. 

She started small with petty sabotage: spilling wine on her cloak, encouraging Peeves to hide dungbombs in Hermione’s quarters, interrupting when the witch spent the night. 

But when she actually witnessed Hestia with Hermione, snogging in the library at night like horny students, she snapped. 

The next morning, Bellatrix watched from an abandoned goblet as Hermione woke up (next to Hestia, to Bellatrix’s dismay) with a message in bright red on her left arm. 

MINE 

It wasn’t blood, though it looked like it. Peeves had helped, it was tomato paste from the kitchens — she wasn’t a psychopath (anymore)!

Hermione was momentarily startled, and then smiled despite herself. 

This started a row with Hestia, who didn’t miss her reaction and was sharp enough to make the connection. Their relationship dwindled quickly after that. 

Mission accomplished. 

—

Eventually, Bellatrix resurrected (ha!) her old desire to become a teacher, and decided to join in on Hermione’s Defence classes. The first day, she made a dramatic entrance through the blackboard, rotating in the air while chanting an old blood curse. 

Of course, Hermione didn’t miss a beat.

“Good morning, class. This is Professor Black. Apparently she’ll be assisting today.”

“Assisting,” Bellatrix huffed. “I’m practically the unliving authority on the Dark Arts.”

“Sure you are, babe.” Hermione replied without thinking, and the students quieted to a hush, making eye contact. 

Bellatrix could practically feel the rumor-mill churning. This, she could do something with.

Throughout class — in between bouts of flirting with Hermione extra loudly — Bellatrix also drifted among the students, offering unhelpful commentary. 

“Excellent aim, yes you with the nose. Have you considered joining the Dea— oh, right, that’s frowned upon now.”

The student had the gall to laugh, as if she was joking! 

Hermione sighed, and Bellatrix sent a puff of air to rumple the witch’s hair, blowing her a loud kiss before floating off to advise on the wand movement for a blasting curse.

The students ended up adoring Bellatrix, and while she usually thought of them as useless, smelly little flobberworms, she found herself basking in the attention.

After class, Hermione glared as Bellatrix floated beside her, smug. 

“Same time tomorrow?”

—

Rumors spread faster than dragonpox, so by the week’s end, the castle was buzzing with it. 

Hermione calling Bellatrix “babe” had become more legendary than the tale of Harry and the Chamber of Secrets (which, over the years, had evolved to involve far more snakes, and Harry’s own “basilisk”), or even when Filch’s new cat had tried to mount McGonagall’s animagus form. 

Professor Granger is dating a ghost!

Is it even possible? Can ghosts… like… y’know?

Don’t kinkshame, Michael!

Bellatrix heard it all, and fueled the rumors, especially around Professors. 

At dinner, she hovered behind Hermione, resting her ghostly chin on her shoulder and whispering filthy endearments into her ears until she pinked.  

“Oh, don’t mind me, just haunting my Professor. You don’t mind, do you love?”

McGonagall choked on her tea. Flitwick fell off his cushion. 

Bellatrix cackled. 

—

Eventually, it was almost an accepted fact that there was something between the two of them. 

“You know, everyone thinks we’re together.”

Hermione looked up, unsurprised. “Bella… you can’t even touch me.”

It wasn’t a denial. 

“Oh pet, I don’t need to touch you… remember the night before graduation?”

Hermione blushed, and despite her words, Bellatrix’s mind reeled. 

If touching was all that stood in her way, she’d figure it out, one way or another. 

—

Chapter Text

Apparently the rules of being a ghost were tricky. 

Binns could grade assignments and move parchment, but had no idea how he did it. Nearly-Headless-Nick could (almost) remove his head, but Bellatrix herself (even though she had been blown to bits) couldn’t split her body into said bits. Moaning Myrtle had control over water, and this Bellatrix had managed too to a certain extent, but unless she wanted to limit herself to very creative shower sex (which, honestly, was much better than nothing…) she needed to find some way to gain control over objects, if not wrangle herself a body.  

She also learned that as a ghost, she wasn’t meant to be able to learn anything, or change her views. It was why Binns was incapable of teaching modern history, unable to retain anything after his own death. 

Which left three distinct possibilities for her Problem: 

1: Bellatrix had been in lo—infatuation with Hermione before she died. Interesting, not entirely impossible, bit of a daunting prospect. 

or

2: She wasn’t actually a ghost in the traditional sense. What would she be instead? No idea. The prospect of her having an unintentional Horcrux somewhere in the school crossed her mind, but she shrugged it off. She might have been crazier than a crumpled-horned snorkack by the end, but she was pretty sure she would have noticed losing a part of her soul. 

or 

3: Fuck the ghost rules, they didn’t apply to her. 

She decidedly decided that it must be option three, and vowed to keep trying for the touching. But, in the meantime, she had a date with Hermione’s shower (and Hermione). 

—

The shower was the only one of its kind in Hogwarts, a muggle thing apparently, and installed at Hermione’s insistence. Bellatrix had never been more grateful (or grateful at all) for a muggle invention in her entire life (or afterlife). 

Turns out, Hermione was quite amenable to the idea (and quite pent up from Bellatrix scaring away all of her potential lovers, sorry-not-sorry) and so Bellatrix found herself under the spray, deftly using air to direct the stream of water until it hit just perfectly—

“There! Oh, God…”

She moved her hand away immediately. 

“Not God… My name's Bella.”

“Ugh… Bellaaaaaaa. Good enough for you?”

 “Quite. Now, where were we? Yes, right…”

“Fuck!”

—

On Hermione’s thirty-second birthday, Bellatrix showed up bright and early in her quarters.

“Happy Birthday! We’re the same age now, y’know.”

Hermione sat up and rubbed her eyes. 

“Not likely. You’ll always be a cougar, Bella.

“Again with the cats!”

“You don’t mind when I talk about my pus—”

Bellatrix cut her off with a spray of water to her face. Served her right, cheeky little swot. 

—

Where there’s a will, there’s a way (muggle-saying, she learned it from Hermione), which she translated to mean that if she wanted to fuck Hermione enough (instead of just fuck-with-her), she would eventually be able to. 

She was nothing if not horny, and had nothing but time. 

So, finally, Bellatrix figured it out. 

Water was the key, and as long as a solid object was mostly water (which surprisingly many things were) Bellatrix was eventually able to move it to some extent. It took quite some years of practice, but eventually this broadened their horizons immensely.

It also got her banned from Hermione’s Defence classes for two years straight after she once tried to “finger” Professor Granger under her desk during an exam. 

She’d like to point out that Hermione only banned her after she came. 

It was totally worth the punishment, in her opinion. 

—

Once Hermione took over as Headmistress from McGonagall, it took no longer than two weeks before all the occupants (even Dumbledore) started to evacuate their portraits whenever Bellatrix swooped in. 

She took this as a compliment and personal triumph. 

—

“I’m going to die soon.” Hermione stated matter-of-factly. 

Hermione was one-hundred and thirty-seven years-old, and had finally stopped calling Bellatrix the cougar in their relationship, though she only started showing her age in the last decade. 

“Stop being a know-it-all. Even you can’t predict your own death. You sound like Trelawney.”

Hermione pulled a face at the mention of divination. 

“No, I’m serious. But I have a plan.”

Of course Hermione would have a plan — she always did. Bellatrix waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t, simply pulling a vial of potion from her robes. 

“Ghosts retain physical traits from before their death, even if they’re potion-induced.”

She downed the contents, and Bellatrix watched as silver hair flushed with color and wrinkles smoothed into soft skin. 

Bellatrix gasped, understanding the intention. 

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Oh fuck off!!”

Even in death, Hermione just had to one-up her somehow. 

—

They (un)lived happily ever after, even if the mere idea of such sickly-sweetness made Bellatrix pretend to gag. 

—

To be clear, happily-ever-after didn’t mean the chaos stopped. If anything, it increased. 

She could finally touch Hermione, and Hermione could finally touch her back. Which meant that they might have been a tad absent the first few years of Hermione’s afterlife (hiding in an unused third-floor corridor that Hermione claimed she had fond memories of) just enjoying their newfound physicality. 

But after that, they returned to a more obvious presence (disruptance) in the castle, and it didn’t take long for the staff to regret their return.

“Professor Granger!” McGonagall’s portrait bellowed one morning from her place in the Headmaster’s office (Hermione, since she stayed as a ghost, didn’t get a portrait as that would have been overkill). 

“Would you kindly stop necking in my eyeline?”

“We’re dead, Minerva,” Bellatrix replied primly. “We don’t have necks to neck with.”

McGonagall mumbled something about how she should’ve banished Bellatrix when she had the chance, while Bellatrix tugged Hermione by the hand towards the Great Hall. 

“You’re a menace, Bella.” Hermione reprimanded, as though it hadn’t been her idea to snog in her old office in the first place. 

“Your menace. Posthumously yours, at least.”

—