4.
Rita brought her hand to her mouth.
Narcissa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and with the composure of someone who keeps patience in crystal jars, followed behind her sister.
Rita, driven by a mix of horror and fascination, couldn't resist and peeked through the door.
The scene hit her like a punch to the stomach. A man lay on the ground, his body still warm, eyes open but seeing nothing. Dead. The green beam of the Killing Curse had snuffed out his life as if it were a candle blown out.
Five other cooks were cornered against the walls, some on their knees, others trying to hide behind cutting boards. A woman ran to the dead man's body and fell to her knees, crying a loud, animalistic wail that tore through the air like shattered glass.
— Bellatrix! — Narcissa entered, her voice harsher than ever. — This is indiscriminate. Killing over a dish?
Bellatrix spun on her heels, eyes flashing, a jagged smile on her lips.
— Indiscriminate? — she laughed. — He served that abomination. If they dare poison my palate and my sister's, they dare disrespect both of us. Then they deserve to pay. And you know well… respect is earned through fear.
— That's not logic, it's barbarism! — Narcissa retorted, maintaining elegance even in indignation. — Every death has consequences, trails.
— Consequences? — Bellatrix took a step toward her sister, her voice dripping with mockery. — I am the consequence.
Rita barely breathed. What shocked her most wasn't just the death, but the ease with which Bellatrix took a life over something as petty as poorly prepared food.
The woman's cries continued echoing. Loud. Piercing. So loud that they drowned out even the argument between the two sisters.
Suddenly, three waiters appeared from the dining hall door. Seeing the body sprawled on the floor, they widened their eyes.
— What happened here?! — one of them shouted.
One of the cooks, still trembling, pointed a finger at Bellatrix.
— It was her! She killed Jean!
The waiters, joined by the surviving cooks, felt a spark of courage in their chests. They grabbed whatever they could: pots, spoons, kitchen knives. Miserable weapons against magic, but their numbers ignited them. The human impulse to defend their own flared.
Bellatrix raised her wand with a laugh that sounded like a shriek.
— See, Cissy? We need to clean up this mess.
Rita barely saw anything. Only flashes. Green flashes. Dry cracks. Screams cut off mid-sentence. The metallic smell of burning iron in the air. The sound of pots clattering to the floor.
Seconds later, she was in the alley, bent over, vomiting until her throat burned. Bitter bile was the only relief from the flood of images repeating in her mind: bodies falling, blank eyes, hands reaching out in despair.
They were innocent. Innocent.
Behind her, firm footsteps. Narcissa appeared, cold, meticulous, holding a piece of thick white chalk, like a bone. She approached the damp alley wall and began to draw precise, firm lines. Each stroke glowed faintly, forming the frame of a door.
— Weak — Bellatrix's voice came right behind, laced with mockery. — Vomiting like a child. She will never survive.
Rita had no strength to respond. She only wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand.
— I'm disappointed in you, Bella — Narcissa said, not stopping her drawing. — You promised restraint. You said you'd do only what I commanded. I will not go out with you again.
— Oh, Cissy, spare me the lecture — Bellatrix replied, bored. — Rules, rules, rules… — she stepped forward and passed through the portal that opened with a soft glow, disappearing without looking back.
The silence that followed was heavy. The chalk fell to powder in Narcissa's hand. She turned to Rita, who was still sobbing.
— Compose yourself — she said, extending her hand. Her voice held no compassion, only clarity. — Much of what my sister said… is true. You made a choice with no return when you sought us out. There is no innocence in this path.
Rita lifted her stained face, eyes still watery. Narcissa looked like a cold statue, impeccable, unyielding.
— You will need to ignite the flame of chaos within yourself — she continued. — It's in you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be the journalist you are, nor would you have had the courage to come to us.
Rita swallowed hard. Her skin trembled, but there was a spark somewhere inside her, a flame that refused to die.
Narcissa extended her hand once more. Hesitant, Rita accepted. The witch's cold strength pulled her back.
— In the place we are going, there is no tolerance for weakness. You will be devoured if you do not ignite the flame within you — Narcissa said.
Rita swallowed again. And before they stepped through the portal, she looked back. Smoke was already rising from the restaurant's roof. The fire would lick the walls, consume the tables, erase any evidence of what had occurred.
— Such a pity — Narcissa murmured, gazing with restrained melancholy. — I liked this place.
Rita realized it wasn't just a restaurant burning. It was the world she knew being consumed by fire. And with each step toward that portal, she sank deeper into certainty. There was no turning back.