2. ENCOUNTER WITH THE FACE OF EVIL — PART 1
The wind danced through the streets of London, carrying with it a sheet of newspaper that spun like a wounded bird. The headline screamed to the world:
"Sirius Black: Innocent Until the Last Breath — Died Seeking the Truth That Would Set Him Free."
Before it could escape, the paper was crushed under the sharp heel of Rita Skeeter, clad in a red dress that seemed to defy the gray mist of the city. Her sculpted figure, curves blending audacity and elegance, drew covetous glances from men who turned discreetly as she passed. And Rita smiled lightly, aware of the charm she possessed and the attention she commanded.
Upon entering Café Lumière, a haven of polished marble and golden lights exuding understated luxury, Rita's green eyes fell on Narcissa Malfoy, seated like a queen in voluntary exile.
Despite her tired and worried expression, her interwoven silver and ebony hair gleamed under the chandelier light, while her slender fingers turned a page in a book. Her beauty was a counterpoint to Rita's. Not fire, but ice sculpted in perfect lines, the serenity of someone who commands grand halls.
— Sorry for being late, Narcissa — Rita slid into the chair opposite her, her voice honeyed. — Blame the director, you know how these old, fat, unbearably boring men are.
Narcissa, focused on her reading and without lifting her eyes from the book, took a sip of tea. Rita glimpsed the book's title: "The Eye of the World."
— Good choice of reading, interesting for breakfast… — she commented, but was interrupted.
— Patience is a virtue of saints, not mine. — The page turned with a sharp snap. — I assume you didn't come here to discuss dystopian literature. Skeet, speak — she said, closing the book.
A waiter appeared silently, placing two plates on the table: one in front of Narcissa and the other to her right.
Rita frowned. Why leave the second plate out of reach? she wondered. Ignoring etiquette, she stretched out her hand to grab it.
— That's my plate — interrupted a voice, firm and slightly hoarse.
Rita startled, raising her eyes. She recognized her immediately: Bellatrix Lestrange.
For a moment, Rita forgot how to breathe. The name Bellatrix Lestrange carried whispered rumors and sensationalist headlines. Standing before her was like seeing a nightmare materialized in broad daylight.
Bellatrix settled beside her sister with the naturalness of someone taking what is rightfully theirs. She was still a beauty, though marked by long years in Azkaban. Her aristocratic features were harsher, her eyes deeper set, yet a wild intensity made her impossible to ignore. Her simple, form-fitting black dress contrasted dramatically with Narcissa's elegant white. Light and shadow side by side.
— How amusing… — she said, dragging out her words. — I barely arrive, and already someone is nibbling at my plate. — Her voice took on a cutting, almost playful tone. — Do you usually eat from others' leftovers, Skeeter? Or is this your usual way of feeding… on someone else's crumbs?
Rita froze. A flush rose to her cheeks, hot and humiliating. She wanted to respond, but the words died in her throat.
— Bellatrix! — Narcissa interrupted immediately, her tone firm, glacial. — That is inappropriate.
The elder merely raised an eyebrow, satisfied with the effect she had caused.
Rita cleared her throat, forcing the blush from her face and adopting a cordial smile.
— It's an honor to share the table with you, Bellatrix — she said in a honeyed tone, choosing her words carefully. — Your presence, even after everything, still commands respect.
Bellatrix leaned forward, eyes flashing. A dry laugh escaped her lips.
— After everything, is it? — she repeated, her voice soft yet cruel. — Funny… I remember your articles well: "The Most Dangerous Witch Alive", "An Insane Look Rivaling Dementors"… ah, and my favorite: "Beauty Ravaged by Madness." — The words were spat like blades, sharp and cutting.
Rita froze. Under the table, she felt a cold, metallic poke at her abdomen. A wand. Her body stiffened, and her cordial smile transformed into a petrified grimace. The message was clear: one wrong answer, and her life would end there.