Chapter Text
A small pile of books and parchment sat on a desk in the study of Grimmauld Place. Beatrice sat on the old wooden chair, slowly working through the pile. There were only a few, but she attentively read each sentence, soaking up the information. She was looking into the magic behind the Resurrection Stone. She soon learned that there wasn't much to find. Of course, Dumbledore had made a few thoughtful notes on it, but it didn't bring her any closer to what she wanted to know. She had read the tale of the Three Brothers a million times, but it was far too vague. Although she realised that the details might be a little gruesome for a children's tale, she was still disappointed.
She turned to her surroundings and soon found some new sources. The house she lived in had three or four books that discussed the topic. She found many papers in one of the bedrooms. But it was still lacking.
The Resurrection Stone had a major flaw that no one addressed.
It didn't work. And she needed to know why. It summons the spirit of the deceased, allowing them to be seen and heard while present. But she needed it to do more, like resurrect people. None the less, it would make for a good base to work off of.
A line caught her eye.
"The heavens do not offer gifts; trades need to be made.”
These were the words of a familiar wizard, Regulus Black. He was her mother’s cousin and the brother of Sirius Black. He wrote about death, horcruxes, and the myth of immortality, but his works were never published; instead, they were left in his room. The room where Beatrice had made herself at home.
She read it a few times before underlining it roughly with her quill. She jotted the line down on a piece of parchment. She wanted to look at it more.
She took a sip of coffee before moving on.
The more she read, the more she enjoyed his writing. Everything was eloquent, neat, and organised. It was brilliant, clearly the work of an ambitious and cunning wizard.
“The soul and body are not alone.”
She stared at that one a little longer before underlining it as well. It made sense. If the soul and body were alone, then the Resurrection Stone would work. The summoned spirit would be able to possess a body, but it can’t. There is something else. There has to be.
After underlining a few more, she carefully took off her glasses before putting them on the flimsy table. She stood up, silently padding towards the kitchen. It wasn't necessary for her to be quiet. She was alone in the oversized house, so it really didn't matter. The only other living things would be her owl, Frog, and the stupid portrait by the door.
The remaining members of the Black family, Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and Andromeda Black, gifted her the old family property. After she settled in, she gifted the house elf back to Narcissa. Kreacher was irate, refusing to serve a filthy, undeserving half-blood.
The kitchen was both empty and crowded, cluttered with useless things. The Black family didn’t believe in muggle appliances, and the only thing she had brought with her was her beloved kettle. She sighed before pulling her coat off of the hook on the wall. She slipped it on over her pyjamas, not having the patience or motivation to change.
She realised that she looked like a hobo. Frizzy hair sprouted from her head, not having seen a hairbrush in a bit too long. Her nails were unkempt, as was her skin. The dark coat that had been Remus's hung like a curtain over her, hiding her pale pink sleepwear. It wasn't actual pyjamas, just regular clothing that had gotten too old to be acceptable in any other environment. Her pale blue sandals did little to prevent the cold from numbing her toes.
She stood between two shelves in the muggle shop, staring for a while before deciding that the contents were uninspiring. She bought some water and a packet of chewing gum, hoping to at least survive the night. The cashier gave her a weird look. It was almost midnight, but Beatrice didn’t mind.
In the past, she was cautious and afraid. Now she walked around at night in muggle London, unconcerned with what could happen to her. It didn’t really matter, she supposed. No Death Eaters scared her anymore. No fate could be worse than the one she was already enduring. Maybe if some muggle pressed a gun to her head, she'd come to realise how miserable her life has been. She lives mostly in isolation, and her dearest are dead. How can she be happy? How can she be happy when her world has stopped turning?
Besides, her life didn't matter all that much.
No one would really miss her. No one was left to miss her, except maybe Bill, not that they spoke anymore, and maybe Draco; she was his cousin after all.
She walked back into the cold house, walking past the portrait of her mother’s aunt, Walburga Black. The portrait was asleep, luckily. Usually, she would be yelled at, as she is only half-blood, like her father.
She looked around, seeing layers of dust on old furniture. The old house reminded her of the Order of the Phoenix and all the memories she shared with the members. Although the group was disbanded after the war, she remained in contact with some of them, the most notable being Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hermione Granger. She wouldn't call them friends. They were merely acquaintances who were looking for a second opinion. They shared many political opinions, and between the three of them, no subject was unexplored. But did they care about her like others did? No, they did not.
She looked past the mess in the living room, walking back to the room she inhabited. She didn't care enough about the space to clean it. The room was only there so she could fill it with useless things. Mostly muggle inventions that she rarely paid any attention to. She only really used two rooms: the kitchen and Regulus’ bedroom.
The bedroom was equipped with a bed, a wardrobe, a shaky desk, and an old wooden chair. A small ebony owl sat atop the wardrobe.
She sat down, the rotten wood giving a loud crack. She picked up the book from Minerva, looked at the blurb again, and decided that it would be best to finish the book tonight. She popped a piece of chewing gum in her mouth before picking up her glasses and continuing her search through the stained, stiff pages.
Beatrice didn’t expect to find anything new in the books she borrowed from Minerva McGonagall. She had read them before, while attending Hogwarts, but that was different now that she was searching for something. Clues to answers to unasked questions.
She managed to find some gold between the pages.
“The soul wears the body down. It expects too much from the limited capabilities.” She understood the basic meaning of this line, but she underlined it still, certain that she hadn't yet uncovered the writer's true message.
"Insanity is not caused by a surplus.” This was the only line in the third chapter that she couldn't decipher, but she had a suspicion that it was still consequential.
“Animals and humans are separated by complexity, not intelligence or ability. The human soul will ask too much from the body of an animal.” This made sense to her logically, but the writer had more than just the baseline understanding that she had. There was more to it—something she was missing. Something significant.
After turning to the final page, a handwritten note appeared in the back of the book. It read:
Dear Beatrice,
This book wasn’t written to be an entertaining read. You requested this book for a very specific reason, and while I may not know the cause, I feel the need to warn you. This book is dangerous; proceed with caution.
M.M
She sighed; she knew. One wrong step, and suddenly her father would be proud. The book was dangerous in the wrong hands, as it explored the possibility of immortality. Her research could not affect her morals, or all would be in vain.
A few hours passed before a patronus appeared in front of her. She did not think it unusual when a shimmering silver otter appeared in front of her. Hermione Granger’s voice rang through the silent room.
"Good evening, Beatrice. I am inviting you to a drink with Kingsley and me tomorrow morning at the Leaky Cauldron, preferably at nine. Please respond as soon as possible.”
She sighed before lowering her head onto the table, quickly picking it back up when the table creaked, groaning in pain.
She took a piece of parchment, scribbled something down, and stood up to give the short letter to her owl. She had agreed, deciding that it would be good to get away from this disgustingly dirty, dreary place. /p> "To Hermione Granger, thanks, Frog.” The miniature owl jumped down onto the desk before snatching the paper and taking off through the window.
She gave a chuckle at the ridiculous name she had given the poor thing. At the time, she thought it stupid, but over time, it became the only slightly humorous thing in her life, so she appreciated the sliver of joy it brought her.
She wasn’t able to produce a patronus anymore, so she mainly used owl posts. A patronus is produced from a happy memory, but lately the memory she had used in the past only reminded her of the deaths the war had brought...
It was a memory with Sirius and Remus, when the three of them had a lighthearted discussion about food. A drunk Remus was trying to convince Sirius and Beatrice that anything could be food if you tried hard enough—or used enough chemical transfiguration.
At the time, the moment held no significance, but now she realises that every detail she can remember is precious. She treasured the happy memories she had with them, as, under the circumstances, they were few and far between.
It had been three months already. A lot had happened in those three months. Hogwarts was rebuilt; she helped, among many others. Harry and Draco started Auror training, and Hermione is still floating around looking for a suitable job in the ministry after going to Australia and successfully restoring her parents' memories. Ron is in mourning with the rest of his family, but he helps George with the shop.
Narcissa and Andromeda reunited, being the only true blacks left. Narcissa and Draco let go of their pureblood beliefs, and Lucius is trying his best to deal with the deaths of many friends and acquaintances. Many Deatheaters were killed in the war. She alone managed to kill four.
Anthony Dolohov killed Remus, and she needed revenge. It was her first time using the Killing Curse. Next was Alecto Carrow; he aimed a Cruciatus Curse at Neville, and she could not let it slide. Then came Fenrir Greyback, and when she saw him, she knew he was hers to kill. He had brought so much pain to Remus and Bill. She could not let him live. She scared herself with his murder, not knowing that she could be so cruel as to properly use the Cruciatus Curse. And finally, she murdered Augustus Rookwood; he screamed at her for being a traitor to the Black family, just like Sirius, and her temper got the better of her. And the worst part was that she was proud of the lives she took and the bloodlines she ended.
It made her feel like a monster, but it was for the greater good, right?
That was a question she knew all too well.