"Potter, treat a lady!"

"No way. You're bad, Bella. You killed Sirius."

"Awwww…"

It was all happening inside a solitary cell of Azkaban. What were Harry Potter—the vanquisher of Voldemort, the Boy Who Lived, the beacon of hope—and Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's right hand, a crazy bitch and so on, both doing in the same cell?

Well, fuck if anyone knows.

Maybe Kingsley does, now that he's the new Minister. Or Dumbledore. Or maybe God Himself knows, because Harry sure as fuck doesn't, and neither does Bella. By the way, "Lestrange" should probably be "Black" now, since her "husband" is no longer among the living. And "husband" is in quotes because that marriage never really panned out before Azkaban. I mean, Bella never put out, and after that Lestrange simply couldn't.

How does Potter know all this? Because they've been stuck in the same cell for three days. Bellatrix has talked about all sorts of crazy shit—anything to pass the time, as long as she doesn't try to strangle him in his sleep. Harry doesn't give a fuck about her blabbering. He wasn't searched at the entrance, so he's been calmly and steadily getting hammered this whole time. Merlin's underpants can witness that Aurors should have searched his spatial pocket, but somehow they didn't. Lucky him.

"Potter-r-r, have a heart: you're getting drunk off the Black family stash and not sharing with a true Black!"

"Well, you shouldn't have killed Sirius. Now you can suffer," the Boy Who Lived responded in that lecturing tone.

In truth, he couldn't give a single fuck. Like, he straight up does not care. And he's not about to share his booze. His supply isn't endless, after all. It's only about twenty liters in total.

"Second question: what the hell is a man and a woman doing in the same cell?" Harry mused, raising the bottle to his lips. Three days now, and the same thoughts keep circling around. You've gotta do something besides drinking and listening to a certified nutjob's ramblings.

As he lowered the bottle, he noticed the crazy witch wasn't taking her eyes off him. Her expression was both pitiful and hungry, like someone who's been wandering a desert for three days and is staring at water.

Did he feel sorry for her?

Pff!

Of course not. He's never felt sorry for anyone.

"So, who stood to gain by putting a guy and a crazy bitch together in one cell?" Harry went on thinking. "It's clearly not so I'd break her. I've never shown myself to be a rapist or even a particularly cruel person. She's not gonna break me with sex either. At least I can't imagine how that would work. And if they wanted us dead, there are more inventive ways."

Unfortunately, his drunk head had latched onto the notion of sex, and now it wouldn't let it go. Especially not with a very attractive woman right in front of him, wearing nothing but a prison robe.

She seemed to notice his devouring gaze, which he tried—and failed—to conceal.

"Hey, where are your eyes drifting? My body belongs to my Lord!" the woman declared pompously, even standing up a bit.

"Maybe I should tell her that I have all of Tom's memories, or maybe that I am Tom himself? Nah, fuck it. Like I need to prove anything to this psycho," Harry thought.

"Who the fuck wants your body anyway? You're what, fifty?" he said mockingly.

Of course, that was a lie—he definitely wanted that body, preferably right now. And his boozed-up brain was persistently whispering, "the sooner the better." After all, she's a pureblood witch, and at fifty she looks maybe thirty at most.

"Forty-seven, you fucking half-blood," Bella snapped, clearly offended. Women, no matter how screwed up they are, never like being reminded of their age.

Well, Harry didn't give a shit about her before. Why should he start now?

"Potter," Black growled again, then suddenly realized something and switched to a different tone, more… stirring something inside him. "C'mooon, just share some, and I…I won't try to bite your throat out tonight?"

Her look was all innocent, lips pouty—would've been comical if not for the insanity in her eyes and the grim setting that didn't exactly encourage laughter.

Assessing the situation—both of them clearly had plans for tonight, and they seemed to head in the same direction—Harry decided to relent. He pulled out another bottle of wine, which Bellatrix promptly snatched and began inspecting frantically.

"Where did you get this?" Even the madness in her eyes seemed to recede for a moment. "This is a collector's wine from Uncle Cygnus's personal vault. You couldn't possibly have gotten your hands on it…"

"Does it fuckin' concern you?" Seeing that she was about to interpret the question literally and answer it, Harry cut her off. "Where I got it, there's no more. Drink or I'll take it back."

She took his ultimatum surprisingly seriously. She latched onto the bottle like a leech, clearly intending to drink it down in one go. Considering that they ate last about five hours ago, the consequences were not hard to predict.

"Hey, hey, you crazy bitch, not all at once! The last thing we need is you puking all over the cell. I'm not gonna take it back, okay? Drink how you like. For Merlin's sake, who twisted your screws so tight?"

"Shut up, half-blood! There's nothing wrong with my screws… What kind of vulgar expression is that anyway? Is it proper to say such things in the presence of a lady?" She lifted her nose proudly, making her lush, curly hair fall over her face.

No, that didn't give her any extra charm or make Harry fall for her. It just reminded him that he was sitting in front of mentally unhinged Bellatrix Lestrange-Black. You don't have to look for logic in a drunk person's head. It just reminded him, that's all.

"What's so vulgar about it? It just means—ah, fuck it, why am I even explaining?" The Boy Who Lived waved it off, watching as she went cross-eyed trying to blow the strand of hair off her face, taking swigs of wine in between attempts and occasionally risking hyperventilation.

This idyllic, motherfucking scene was interrupted by a loud stomach growl.

"Half-blood, maybe you've got some food in there too?" Black asked with guarded hope. "Gotta use the chance while Potter's still drunk. Otherwise he'll start going on about 'dirty blood' and Sirius again, and I'll get fuck-all from him," she thought.

"I've only got a cock in 'there,'" the wizard grinned shamelessly. Back in the day, as a pretty Slytherin prefect, such blunt hints worked like a charm, even on the snootiest aristocrat. Well, those were the forties—different times, simpler morals. The second time around in a Peverell descendant's body it didn't go so smoothly, mostly because Harry wasn't as brash and self-assured. But alcohol had stripped away all these extra layers of hesitation, leaving a straight-up goal.

Both of them had one, really.

She just needed to pretend that she was giving it up solely because of the booze, so that afterward she could bargain for more drinks. He needed to act as if he didn't really want it that badly in the first place.

"Ew, Potter, what crude insinuations! I'm a proper lady!" She knew how to play with intonation like a pro. The wizarding world definitely lost a great actress in her. "So now you're suddenly interested in my body, hmm?"

"Maybe I'm into grannies," Harry smirked. He'd only learned that word "gerontophile" recently, but no need for her to know that.

Bellatrix's derailed mind, which was probably the Disneyland of insanity, failed to process the unfamiliar term right away. She just stared at him, the mad gleam in her eyes fading for the second time that evening. A record, really.

"Gods, fuck this world. I said: I want you, Bella. You got what you wanted," Potter said, rising from his corner of the cell and sitting down next to the ex-Lestrange.

"When the hell did I ever want your half-blooded body?" the witch flared up.

"What do you mean? For the past three days!" the wizard chuckled, casually putting an arm around his cellmate. She didn't flinch, instead pressing closer. It was cold in there, after all! Meanwhile, that asshole was sitting comfortably under warming charms, hadn't given a single fuck for three days.

"Pff, keep dreaming, boy!" Black huffed, but despite her words, she leaned in for a kiss. No point dragging this out.

Well, at least this night promised to be better than the previous ones.

"Will you at least pull out in time, kid?"

"Don't flatter yourself, you nutcase. I've got condoms. Who knows what you might've picked up from your noseless syphilitic Dark Lord."

"You vile little half-bloo—"