3.
— Bellatrix! — Narcissa's voice rang firm, full of authority. — You swore. Only what I command. Only what I allow. Behave.
Bellatrix held her sister's gaze for a long moment, until, with a frustrated sigh, she leaned back in her chair, still keeping her eyes on Rita.
— Very well — she said, as one who yields without truly yielding. — But she will hand me the wand.
The journalist paled, looking from Bellatrix to Narcissa in search of salvation.
— Do it, Rita — said Narcissa, calm but relentless. — Afterwards, we'll talk business.
With trembling hands, Rita pulled the wand from her coat and placed it on the table. Narcissa picked it up with the same delicacy one would adjust a napkin. Then she cast a cold glance at her sister.
— Lower the wand, Bella.
For a moment, silence felt heavier than stone. But Bellatrix, with a half-smile of disdain, slowly withdrew her hand from under the table, obeying without hurry, as one savoring the discomfort of command.
Rita exhaled sharply, but the sense of danger did not lessen. Bellatrix's gaze remained fixed on her, twin blades ready to strike at any misstep.
— Now — said Narcissa, adjusting herself elegantly in her seat as if nothing had happened — tell us, Rita. What information do you have?
The journalist swallowed hard. Her hands sweated beneath the table, and every fiber of her body begged her to flee. Speaking with Bellatrix beside her was not in her plans. That woman made every word a mortal risk.
Unsure of what to do, Rita stabbed the fork into the food in front of her, from Narcissa's plate, and brought it to her mouth, more reflex than hunger. The taste was gray, metallic. It only bought her a few seconds of courage.
Then, clearing her throat, she straightened up. Eyes fixed on Narcissa, never on Bellatrix, and in a low but firm voice, she began:
— I was very clear in my message, my friend. I have the information your husband failed to obtain. All I need is for you to allow me to speak with Him.
While the journalist spoke, Bellatrix brought the fork to her mouth, tasting a generous portion. But after just two chews, her expression stiffened. With a sharp gesture, she set down the utensil, raised the napkin to her lips, and spat the food into it with icy contempt.
— I'll kill that cook — she muttered, her voice dripping with bad humor, as if the dish had been deliberately ruined.
Narcissa ignored her sister's comment.
— Taking her to him will not be a walk in the park. If she steps on this ground, no regrets will save her.
— I can make this one sing like a bird, everything she knows, without wasting the Lord's time — said Bellatrix, with a crooked smile that seemed more like an open scar.
Narcissa didn't bother replying. Her silence was like polished steel: firm, elegant, impenetrable. She turned to Rita, and her voice was calm but heavy with gravity:
— What you are asking, Skeeter, is a dangerous path. There is no turning back. And no regrets.
Rita took a deep breath. Her stomach churned, but she held her gaze.
— I know — she said firmly. — I'm prepared.
A faint glimmer of approval passed through Narcissa's eyes. She rose with the grace of a swan, her white dress fluttering like wings, and nodded.
— Then follow me. — Her words fell like a verdict. — You want to see him? Prepare to face the abyss.
The trio crossed the silent hall.
Rita followed Narcissa between polished glass tables, where chatty tourists cut into juicy meats and laughed at unfunny jokes.
— Don't get lost in digressions. When you find him, be direct and objective… — Narcissa warned, entering a narrow corridor filled with the scent of garlic and wine.
The kitchen boiled to the left: knives clanged, pots hissed, hoarse voices shouted orders in French. At the far end, another door led to the back exit. Narcissa extended her hand, opened the back door, and let the damp, dark alley reveal itself. The afternoon air was cold, heavy with the smell of wet stone and distant smoke.
Only then did Rita turn. Her heart leapt in her chest. Bellatrix was not behind them. The journalist saw her enter through the left door, wand in hand, steps deliberate.
— Who was the idiot that cooked that dish? — her voice rang out, resounding like hammered steel.
One of the cooks raised a hand. That was enough. A green beam sparkled, slicing the air like a blade. The dry thud of the body hitting the floor made cutlery and plates fall, scattering like out-of-tune bells.