Chapter Text
Bellatrix Black’s first memory was of pain. It was of hurt, of anger, of jealousy. It was of the raging fire underneath her skin that she would quietly tend to, building it higher and higher as she grew older.
She remembers being 5 years old, yearning to be hugged again—to be coddled and loved. Her younger sister, Andromeda, was there too, and their Aunt Walburga was playing with her. Andy was always the one that was liked more because she was pretty, because she was just like their mother, because she knew when to hold her tongue.
Bellatrix was none of those things, but she didn’t understand why it mattered. It hadn’t been etched into her skin that a woman’s worth is determined by her hair color, by her weight, by her blood. By her ability to sit by in silence. She didn’t know that her love for being wild and crazy and rambunctious would be looked down upon. That it wouldn’t get her a ‘good enough’ husband.
She knew that her parents didn’t approve of her wildness, but how else was she supposed to get their attention? Even if it’s just an exasperated sigh, it’s better than nothing. She gets a goodnight kiss, but so does Andy. So does little baby Cissy. Bellatrix doesn’t want what her sisters’ have; she wants something of her own.
She remembers her father coming in and complaining about all the noise, and her mother getting angry. She remembers her father’s harsh words turning soft when he picked up baby Narcissa. She remembers Andy getting a hug and a lollipop.
Bellatrix remembers crying because she didn’t get a lollipop. She remembers her father yelling at her to be quiet and she remembers an off-hand comment made by her Aunt Walburga.
She remembers pain when her aunt cast the curse. It wasn’t physical, it was her mind screaming and nothing coming out of her mouth.
Her mother’s brow furrowed, but she did nothing to make it stop.
Bellatrix remembers hearing the single word before losing control.
“Imperio.”
She remembers the pain of not having any sort of control over her own body. Of the complete paralysis that had overtaken her as she hovered a couple inches off the floor of their kitchen.
She remembers the white-hot rage that boiled beneath her skin, the need to scream and hurt and take away the look of enjoyment on her aunt’s face. She remembers feeling like a balloon, like a bomb; she remembers feeling like she’s about to burst. Like all of her would be spread over the room, her too-pale skin, her blood that isn’t Black enough, her eyes that are too close together, her hair that is too wild. All of her would just combust, like a star in the night sky.
Bellatrix remembers opening her mouth like a gaping fish, with nothing but air coming out. She would have been screaming herself hoarse, but there was no sound.
You could have heard a pin drop in that house, until Cissy broke the silence. Bellatrix remembers the giggling and clapping of her baby sister at the unexpected show of magic. She remembers the confusion on Andy’s face. For some reason, Bellatrix remembers the anger she felt at her aunt for making her sisters watch.
Back then, Bellatrix still wanted to keep them safe.
Back then, Bellatrix still thought she could.
That was some of the pain, too, along with the rest of it. Along with the look on her father’s face. The realization that had dawned. He discovered something new that day. A forgotten way to keep his children silent, to keep them in line, to make them behave.
After five long minutes of pain, Bellatrix’s mother finally began to protest—and it wasn’t even for the sake of Bellatrix. It was for the sake of her other daughters; it was because she wanted to get Cissy ready for bed and Bellatrix was always best at reading stories (it’s true, her parents never did get the voices quite right).
With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Aunt Walburga dropped Bellatrix onto the floor, but she still couldn’t talk. Her mouth was not her own and her limbs still felt odd, detached somehow, even though she could move a little. With another protest from her mother, Bellatrix could talk again.
But she didn’t. She kept silent, as she had learned her lesson for the day, for her life. She knew now that her actions would not be dictated by herself—but by her parents, her family. She knew now that her life would not be hers to lead, but it would be written out in advance by her parents in her father’s study. Every choice she would make would not be her own.
Even though Bellatrix was no longer under the Imperius curse, she still felt like a puppet. Until she could speak freely, she felt resigned to knowing that the feeling would never go away.
How desperately she wanted to shout out. How great was her need to talk again, to know that the pathways inside of her worked. That the signals her brain sent out would not be ignored in favor of her Aunt’s wishes. How much she wanted to scream and yell and make the world listen.
But Bellatrix just mutely followed her mother and Cissy up to their bedroom, holding Andy’s hand as she clamored up the creaky wooden stairs. As she read a bedtime story, she tried to remember a time without her sisters.
A time when it was different. When she was the baby of the family, when she was the one pampered by Aunt Walburga, when she was the one who got a lollipop. Bellatrix tried to remember when her parents didn’t turn away in frustration whenever she opened her mouth.
She tried so hard, but she just couldn’t seem to remember the year and a half of her life that she lived without Andy. She couldn’t remember the two and a half years after without Cissy, either. They’re just a haze, moving pictures and stories, up until the pain; bright in contrast to the first five years of her life.
Bellatrix can only remember her existence with her two sisters, who were always by her side. When she was little, she hated them. They took all of their parents’ affection, all of their love, all of their time. Bellatrix was used to playing alone, and she didn’t want to share with Andy. Bellatrix wanted to be held like Cissy, but her Mother told her that she wasn’t a baby anymore. Her father told her she needed to grow up.
Eventually, she did. She got older and got closer to her sisters. She taught herself to hold her tongue. She taught herself to stay quiet, to not yell her opinions, to let their parents talk for her. Her aunt didn’t help anything, as Bellatrix learned on the days she was called into her father’s study for talking too much.
There, she felt the Imperius curse, again and again. She grew to hate that study, and everything it meant.
It meant that she had been a disappointment, again. It meant that she had let down the family, again. It meant that she had spoken out of turn at dinner, again. It meant that she shouldn’t have opened her mouth or said that. It meant that she would be beaten into silence, again.
Bellatrix never knew which was worse—the Imperius curse or the beatings. At least the curse never hurt physically. It was all up in her mind, while her father’s belt left open gashes on her back. Other days he chose to use a ruler, cutting up her knuckles and bruising her hands.
Eventually, Bellatrix would learn the something that hurts more than the beatings, than the Imperius curse. But we aren’t there yet, and Bellatrix still has so much to be taught.
As she was struck again and again, gaining more and more bruises, it meant that she was getting hurt and her sisters weren’t. It meant that Cissy wouldn’t be fearful of rulers or that Andy wouldn’t be marred by scars.
So she kept quiet.
But underneath her pale skin, her blood boiled. It boiled with the fury of that first day, that first memory. She wanted to scream out about everything she believed in, she wanted the world to know that they have not silenced her. No—she has kept herself quiet and she will not stand by and wait any longer.
She couldn’t scream out just yet, so Bellatrix had to wait. She waited and waited and waited for the right moment. The time to show her parents that she isn’t a disappointment, that there’s something in her that they can be proud of.
Someday, she knows that she'll show them that what they chided her for, what they struck her for, what they tried to take out of her—is something that she has nurtured. She’s kept it hidden inside of her for years, and now it’s finally blooming.
They won’t forget her, then. They’ll hug her and tell her how proud they are, and they’ll tell her how much they love her. They’ll apologize for trying to silence her.
As she waited, Bellatrix thought her plan would work. She thought she would finally gain her parents love. She didn’t know yet how much she was just another piece in their games—she didn’t yet know how much she would be used.
Three years before Bellatrix would be free to escape her father, escape the beatings, she met Sirius. One night in late November, her aunt and uncle came through the Floo, carrying a small bundle in her arms. Bellatrix’s mother cooed over it and Andy was allowed to hold the baby, even though she was just seven years old.
Bellatrix was eight, but she was not given the bundle to hold. When she asked why, her parents laughed and laughed and laughed. Stubbornly, Bellatrix stomped her foot and asked why. Her father’s face turned red and her mother stifled another laugh.
“Why, Bella, you know why you can’t hold Sirius. You’ll just drop him! You’ll get distracted and forget, and then he’ll have a lump on his head the size of an egg. Silly girl, you’re too clumsy for a baby!”
And so Bellatrix was not allowed to hold her cousin, nor even truly meet him. They would become closer later in their life, or so Bellatrix hoped. She had a large family, they were a twisted tree—but she hoped that her sisters and their cousin would stay close.
Bellatrix stayed silent for another two years, and she met Regulus. He was Sirius’ little brother, and she was still not allowed to hold him.
Similar to Sirius, she hoped that she would get closer to him as he grew older. She hoped that the distance her parents were forcing her to keep between herself and her cousins would not last long.
She caught a glimpse of his small face, round and innocent. Chubby cheeks and bubbling giggles.
She wanted to hold him and put him somewhere safe, somewhere away from their family.
The beating she earned after last time told her not to even ask. Andy and even little Cissy held the baby, but not Bellatrix. Her blood boiled again, but she had to keep it under control. If you looked closely, you could have seen it in the flash of her eyes, the flush of her cheeks, the coldness of her words.
Another year of beatings and curses passed, and Bellatrix was finally able to board the train and go to Hogwarts.
It was magical, every part of it. The moonlight that made the water dance as they crossed over it in creaky wooden boats. The candles that floated all on their own, and the tables that looked like they would fall over at any moment because of all the food piled upon it.
The hat, the Sorting hat. It, too, was magical.
But not in a good way—no, it smelled like her father’s office. It smelled like the musty books that cover the walls. It smelled like the leather of her father’s belt, right before it tore into the skin of her back.
Curses don’t have scents, but if they did—Bellatrix knew that the word “Imperius” would smell like this.
To hide her shaking hands, Bellatrix tucked them into her robes, and made herself smile. She’d done it enough times around Andy and Cissy, to keep them calm, to keep them safe, to keep them innocent.
Bellatrix grinned, even though she felt like crying as the voice inside the hat spoke to her.
“A Black, we should best put you in Slytherin.”
Bellatrix said nothing, only thought about the smiles that might cross her parents’ faces when they hear about her House.
“No objections? No desperate pleas for a different House?”
Bellatrix squared her shoulders and sat up as tall as she could at eleven years old.
“Put me in Slytherin. Put me where each and every one of my ancestors before me has gone. Put me in a House where I’ll make my parents proud.”
“But what about you, dear? What House do you want to be in?”
Bellatrix thinks about her sisters, about her two cousins. She thinks about how much she wants to keep them safe. She thinks about the rage coursing through her blood, the words that ignite the fuel burning inside of her.
Imperio.
She thinks about her pounding heart, her fear of that word. Her fear of her father’s study.
She thinks about her need to protect her sisters—she thinks about the anger provoked inside of her when her dear Aunt Walburga made then watch as Bellatrix was punished.
“Maybe Gryffindor, then?”
“NO!”
“Ah, then it’ll be…SLYTHERIN!”
Cheers echoed from the green and silver clad side as their newest member walked to the table. Familiar faces from elaborate dinners and Christmas parties greet her and politely shake her hand.
She hides her quivering hands and pulls her mouth into a smile, but not a grin. She wouldn’t be some overly excited child. She was Bellatrix Black and someday, nobody would underestimate her.
But today, hidden beneath her robes, her hands shake.
It felt like she’d been stuck on that chair for years.
Apparently, it was only seconds.
Bellatrix is grateful that nobody even guessed that the hat had hesitated. That it could have imagined placing her anywhere else but Slytherin.
Every first year has doubts about what House they get placed in, doubts that it won’t be a good fit, that they won’t live up to its expectations.
Bellatrix didn’t have time for those thoughts. She knew what she needed to do and Slytherin was her only path to get there.
Slytherin would make her parents proud.
Slytherin would get her through life. Slytherin would keep her safe. Slytherin would bring honor to the Black family.
Slytherin would take her great places.
So could—
No. Bellatrix couldn’t have those thoughts. She was in Slytherin now.
She never had a choice, anyways.
At school, Bellatrix had one year where she had no younger sisters, no one to take the attention away from her. Everything was just her, for the moment. Next year, Andy would come, but right now she could build her reputation.
She would keep her sisters safe and under her wing. She would honor her family. She would make her parents proud.
And she would wait. Since that first day she felt the curse touch her skin, she’s been waiting.
What more could seven years do?
It’d be all the same; keeping her mouth shut when it’s the exact opposite of what she wants to do, not speaking up for herself, letting her father beat her and curse her (but, like before, it meant that she was getting hurt and not her sisters).
Over that first year, Bellatrix made friends and she lost friends, but her sisters were constantly there for her. She would never lose them, right? They’re her blood, her family.
Nothing could severe the bond between those three Black sisters.
Even when there were miles and miles of land keeping them apart, they still were as close as ever. Bellatrix wrote to them almost every day, and they wrote back. It was the only interesting thing that happened to them, other than the occasional prank pulled on their tutor.
Andy wrote in practiced cursive, clean and precise, but still unsure. She asked questions about the school, about what Bella was doing at Hogwarts. She asked after Bella’s new friends, after all the magic she was learning.
She never said much about home, but Bellatrix hoped that nothing had changed. She hoped that her role hadn’t been passed on to Andy.
Little Cissy wrote in crooked cursive, still with some regular print mixed in. Cissy was working on getting all her capital letters correct, and their Mother had yet to start monitoring the letters that passed between the sisters, so her imperfections and flaws were able to pass unnoticed and uncritiqued.
Cissy asked questions about how Bella was, and what she was doing outside of homework and studying. She also wrote paragraphs and paragraphs about their old cat and what she did each day that Bellatrix still was gone. At the end of all her letters, she signed her name and always wrote a post script message. Cissy always asked her older sister if she still remembered her, and Bella would always reassure her that she would always be her big sister, no matter what.
A new pain joined in with the normal anger. This pain was less sharp, more of a dull ache. Instead of running through her blood, into the beating of her organs; this settled just behind her heart.
It was a constant reminder to read those letters, to write back to her sisters. It was a constant reminder to do better, to get higher grades, to make her parents proud. It was a constant reminder that Bellatrix was not in control of her life.
Later, as she would discover, Bellatrix found that there was only one thing she could control.
Herself.
She could control the words that passed through her lips and the curses that flew off the tip of her wand (even if control on that front only lasted for a little while, before her magic fell into destruction).
Bellatrix could control how she was manipulated, and she would learn how to manipulate others.
But, we are not there yet, and Bellatrix is still a child. She has yet to learn all the cruelties the world has to offer, but they would come knocking on her door all too soon.
The days passed quickly, and school wasn’t hard for Bellatrix. She kept her words in check, and she kept the ache behind her heart at bay, by her daily letters to her sisters. Bellatrix had fun with her friends, getting high grades in school even though she barely studied.
At first, it was all that she did, but first years never did get a heavy load of work, so Bellatrix found that she didn’t need to work that hard to get top grades. Her parents would never find out, as in class Bellatrix was a perfectly quiet student—teachers were always quick to point out how much she could do with her life.
“Such a bright mind,” they told Bellatrix, smiling down at her.
“Why does she never ask any questions?” they whispered to each other, never noticing Bellatrix in the shadows.
Whenever Bellatrix hears them whispering, she doesn’t hear them wondering about why she doesn’t speak much in class. She hears her father’s stern voice, telling her that to respect an adult is to keep your mouth shut.
“Women and children are meant to sit there and smile, only speaking when spoken to. Their minds were not meant to ask questions, ‘why’ should never touch their lips.”
Bellatrix wanted to ask why must it be like this? She wanted to ask who it was that said women and children are only ornaments to men’s lives. She wanted to ease the pain inside of her that she had yet to name.
“But—”
“No, Bellatrix. This is the way it has always been. You are a little girl and you will grow to become a woman, and you will keep your mouth shut. No man will want you if you are a chattering fool and no man will want you if you try to speak to him about the news, about politics, about subjects made for men.”
“What do I talk about then?”
“You will talk about whatever you are directed to speak about.”
“But who will tell me what I get to say? Why can’t I choose?”
“Bellatrix,” her father warned her, she was asking too many questions. His tone was dark, it was the tone reserved for his study. It was a tone that echoed deep into the dark wood, into the musty books that covered the walls. It was a voice that made Bellatrix fearful when she was younger.
It was a voice that meant pain.
“Let her ask, just this once.” Her mother, voice tired and arms busied with playing with little Andy.
“Fine, but she must learn to keep quiet. Whoever is the man of the house will be in charge of the conversation. Whether it is the host, me—as your Father, or your husband, you will listen to them and speak as they want you to.”
“But—”
“That is enough for tonight, Bellatrix. You have asked your questions and I expect that they will be the last ones for a long time, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Father.”
“That’s my good little girl.”
“Bellatrix?” a voice was asking her. “What’s wrong?” they pried.
These girls at her school pretended to care. They were all Slytherins and they were all nasty, awful people. They pried at Bellatrix’s skin, finding the flaws and picking at them until they peeled away to show what a bloody mess Bellatrix truly was.
It never got to that point, but the nightmares still came.
“I’m fine,” Bellatrix responded, not opening her eyes. The silence in the hallway told her that the girl did not walk away. Bellatrix finally opened her eyes to see who it was, but she didn’t look up.
Instead, her eyes were drawn to her knuckles. Slightly raised lines, white, even against her pale skin, crisscrossed over her skin.
Silence, my dear.
Thwack.
Children should only be seen, never heard.
Thwack.
You shouldn’t have an opinion about such things.
Thwack.
“Bellatrix?” Actual concern in this girl’s voice. Bellatrix wanted to laugh, this girl had no idea what was going on beneath Bellatrix’s skin, beneath her grins and giggles. This girl had no idea about the scars Bellatrix had all over her body, and the gashes in her mind that will never heal. This girl had absolutely no idea.
“I’m fine.” Maybe if she says it enough then it’ll actual happen.
I’m fine. She snarls, glaring at the girls in her dorm when they start to notice the scars covering her body.
I’m fine. She says when a teacher finds her crying in a hidden corner, a crumpled letter in her hand. Andy got her first scars, and Bellatrix could not nothing except hope they were her last.
I’m fine. She writes in her letters to Andy, to little Cissy. I’m having so much fun. She lies, never saying just how much her heart aches to hold her sisters close again.
I’m fine. She whispers at night to herself, trying to convince her mind that there’s nothing wrong with her, that these nightmares are perfectly normal.
I’m fine. She repeats over and over in her head when her grade isn’t perfect.
I’m fine. She writes over and over on her paper when her heart is beating too fast for this quiz to just be a quiz.
I’m fine. She says during the winter holidays after she begged her father to hit her instead of Andy.
I’m fine. She pushes off her sisters when they ask about her bruises and she distracts them by asking about their Christmas presents.
I’m fine.
Bellatrix doesn’t remember most of the rest of her first year at Hogwarts. Holidays were marked by time with her sisters and new scars; dinner parties and stiff dresses.
School was marked by perfect marks on all her tests, completed chapters of homework, and, when she had the time, doing something fun with her friends.
More often than not, she chose to stay in the library instead of going outside. She rather liked the smell of the library, so different from her father’s study.
At the beginning, she couldn’t tell the difference. The library felt like another way to torture her, another way to scar her mind.
Then the smells began to change and began to feel more and more like how a home should feel—warm and inviting. Nothing like her family’s house, nothing like the cold environment she’s grown up in.
The library smells like candles and soft things, like couches and colorful pillows. It’s not the bland taste of her parents anymore, it’s not the musty books of her father’s study.
These books are alive and used and loved. These books are full of stories that jump off the page, not sit there mutely as you read them.
Bellatrix enjoys spending time in the library, surrounded by life and love. Yes, her friends surrounded her with chatter and talk about classes, boys, and other frivolous things—but the library was different.
When she went home for the summer holidays, the only thing Bellatrix truly missed was the feeling she had when she was in the library. The cool soothing that it gave her, the relief of the anger boiling under her skin. The relief of all the words she wants to say but is never allowed to.
The years passed without anything particular to mark them. Andy joined Bellatrix at school, and the two became closer. They shared all their secrets with each other and, if they didn’t look so different, they could have been mistaken for twins. they spent every meal together and could finish each other sentences, no matter the topic. They would spend time in the common room together, study for tests and write essays under candlelight with the other by their side.
Cissy wasn’t there, yet, but they still wrote pages and pages of letters. They spoke about everything, and it was as if Cissy was there with them all the time. Every secret that passed between Andy and Bellatrix was also passed to Cissy.
They were inseparable.
Or, at least, that’s how Bellatrix thought it was.
In truth, Andy and Bellatrix weren’t that close. Bellatrix only tried so desperately to stay close with her sister, pushing away all her other friends in favor of Andy. She tried to keep the connection with Andy and Cissy that they had when they were little, but it was falling apart, tearing at the seams.
In truth, neither Andy nor Bellatrix noted the underlying jealousy written in all of Cissy’s letters. Neither one of them knew how cut off she felt from her sisters. Neither one of them knew the jealously that grew in the pit of her stomach, the jealously that Cissy fought so hard to push away.
If it were Bellatrix, she would have kept it. She would have nurtured it until it consumed her. Just like the anger she keeps hidden, just like the words that fill her head.
They’ll consume her eventually, but for now she’s still Bellatrix Black, first born daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, and she won’t let her world burn just yet.
The year before Cissy was to join Bellatrix and Andy was also the year that Bellatrix learned what is worse than the Imperius curse.
It was Christmas, and Bellatrix’s Aunt Walburga came with her husband and two sons. It was nice to see them, since this time Bellatrix couldn’t possibly be denied hugging them. They’re older now, not as delicate, so it’s not like she could drop them.
Bellatrix didn’t see it, but her two sisters already had a stronger friendship with their cousins than Bellatrix had with any of them. They wrote letters back and forth, while Bellatrix didn’t know either of their favorite colors, let alone any other personal details.
She was blinded by her ideas, by her time spent waiting.
It was Christmas, and all their dinner courses were finished, cleared away by their house elves. Bellatrix was telling Cissy all about the decorations put up around Hogwarts for Christmas, and she told her about the feast they had before leaving for the holidays on the Hogwarts Express.
Bellatrix stopped her descriptions mid-sentence when she saw her Father taking Sirius’ arm and leading him away. Uncle Orion was laughing with her Father about something, but Sirius’ face didn’t show any sign of a smile.
“No—!” Bellatrix cried out, running to Sirius’ side. “Don’t hurt him! He didn’t do anything. Please, take me instead! Sirius didn’t do anything!”
Her Father hardly reacted, only laughing stiffly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bellatrix, what on earth could possibly make you think we’d hurt Sirius?”
Bellatrix felt her heart plummet, her flushed cheeks go cold. Her hands started shaking because why are they doing this? Don’t they understand? She dug her nails into her palms and felt the pain, the sweet pain that took away the anger. That took away this feeling inside of her.
Voice surrounded her.
“She shouldn’t be saying such things!”
“—keep the younger ones away.”
“They’ll get scared, they’ll—”
All of them are lies. Every adult in Bellatrix’s life is lying straight to her face and making her look insane.
“Bellatrix, go to your room. Maybe some time alone will take away this nonsense.”
Her father’s voice, strict and stern. It’s even more angry than when he’s about to strike her. Bellatrix doesn’t want to know what her punishment will be like for this evening. She walks mutely up to her bedroom, tempted to slam the door, but too fearful of the consequences.
Instead, she quietly closes it and places a weak locking spell on it. It doesn’t make her feel any better.
She doesn’t turn on any lights in her bedroom, she prefers the darkness. She lies down on her bed and pulls up green covers, staring up at her ceiling. It’s black, almost darker than the night sky. An enchantment from long ago makes it look larger, makes it look like the real sky. Infinite. Filled with possibilities.
Bellatrix’s eyes start to fill with tears, but she quickly wipes them away. Her breathing is shallow, her ears alert. She hears the faint creaking of the stairs. Her Father is coming to punish her.
The creaking gets louder and louder until it seems to be the only thing she can hear. Bellatrix doesn’t know if she’s still breathing because all she can hear is the creaking and the fear that’s creeping up her spine, making her eyes go wide.
The creaking stops, and she hears the breathing of her father. Then, mumbled words and a brief flash of light. Then, the creaking starts up again. Then, nothing.
Clutching her blankets tight around her, Bellatrix doesn’t dare to move for the longest time. She sits in her bed, her body controlled by her terror.
She finally dares to move when she catches a glimpse of the bright moon and realizes that it must be past midnight. She’d been sitting in her bedroom for close to three hours. Bellatrix creeps over to her door, making sure not to step on any of the floorboards that make sounds.
Rattling the doorknob, she pieces together what her father has done. The door is locked, with a spell much stronger than Bellatrix’s.
Pulling out her wand and stacks of books, Bellatrix tries to find a counter-spell, a way to get out of her room.
She doesn’t remember how much time she spent pouring over those books, over all the spells that wouldn’t work. She just remembers the hunger eating at her stomach after the first few days, the thirst that made her throat dry. She remembers the ache of her entire body after forgetting to sleep.
After being unable to sleep. That was part of the spell, too. No, not spell. Curse.
Bellatrix doesn’t know what curse her father used, but it kept her from sleeping, it kept her from opening the door, it kept her from conjuring any sort of food or drink.
Am I going to die here? Bellatrix would wonder each morning and each evening that the door stayed closed.
Exhaustion slowly overtook her body, and one night she couldn’t get up from the floor to her bed, so she stayed there. After a long, long time, sleep finally came, and the bliss she expected was the opposite of the empty coldness that took her.
The next thing Bellatrix remembers is the feeling of a heavy boot landing on her face. It brings her into another haze of pain, of aches, of forgetfulness. Her sleep isn’t empty anymore—this sleep is filled with her Father’s looming figure and curses flying everywhere. It’s filled with her parents’ words, the lies of her Aunt and Uncle.
“Get up.” Another kick, this time to her back. Bellatrix can barely open her eyes, her left one is swollen shut and her entire cheek feels numb. “Get. Up.”
Slowly, very slowly, Bellatrix eases her aching body up off the hard floor and makes herself stand. Her father leads her away, a look of disgust on his face.
As they walk to his study, Bellatrix realizes how incredibly quiet the house is. There are no creaking stairs, there’s no whispers from her little sisters. She doesn’t even hear the faint click of knitting needles, or the clinking of glasses that means company. Just silence.
“Your mother took your sisters out to see your grandmother,” her father says, adding an explanation for a reason Bellatrix doesn’t understand. Her father isn’t one to explain. If they don’t understand, then don’t explain it. They are either too lazy to figure it out or too idiotic.
“How is her health?” Bellatrix asks primly, always the good daughter, as if the past days have not happened. As if she didn’t want to run out of this house and never turn back.
“Declining.” Her father’s voice is disdainful, he never did like Druella’s mother. He liked Druella well enough, she was never too interesting of a girl, but she could hold up the family standards.
Toujours Pur. She would keep them pure and neither family would be disgraced by the marriage.
The door slams behind them as soon as Bellatrix crosses the threshold of the study and she can barely contain her flinch.
“Sit.” Her father gestures to the chair and Bellatrix listens to his command. The chair feels the same size as it was when she was 5 years old. She’s grown by inches, yet she still feels like a little girl.
She prepares herself for the words of disappointment about to come out of her father’s mouth, for the words telling her how much she has embarrassed both of her parents.
“I have no idea what caused your actions at our dinner with your cousins. I hope that it was caused by some figment of your imagination, or by some lapse of judgement. You embarrassed us in front of our guests and scared poor Sirius. You will be expected to apologize and there must be no further repeats of this incident.”
What is wrong with you?! Bellatrix wants to scream, asking why her father suddenly doesn’t remember all the time he’s beat her, all the times he’s cursed her. Why are you doing this? Bellatrix wants to tear apart her father’s mind and figure out what is wrong with him. She wants to figure out why he is manipulating her like this. Why? She wants to ask him, with tears pouring out of her eyes, down her cheeks. Why? She wants to beg of him, hoping that he’ll answer her. Why? She wants to plead, pulling on his hand and making him answer her.
“Apologize, Bella,” her mother tells her, standing in the doorway. “I don’t know what overcame you last night, but it can’t happen again.”
“I’m sorry,” Bellatrix mumbles, her brain working on overdrive. Are her parents just ignoring everything they’ve done to her? Have they forgotten? Or is there something wrong with Bellatrix? Was she imagining it all? Were all the scars just a figment of her imagination?
“Louder.”
Bellatrix looks down at her knuckles, expecting to see the white lines that crisscross over her skin. Expecting too see the scars, new and old, that have marked her skin for years.
Except her scars are gone. Her pale skin is perfect, unblemished.
“I apologize, Father, this will not happen again.” Bellatrix’s throat aches with all the words she wants to scream at him, all the confusion she wants to pour out, but she keeps a straight face.
“Now, Druella, dear, please send Andromeda in and keep Narcissa busy for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t think she’ll be seeing her sisters today.”
Bellatrix doesn’t move, she’s stuck to this chair and to the memories she can’t tell are real, and to the evil glint in her father’s eyes when the door locks behind Andy.
“Father? Bella? What’s wrong?” Her voice seems steady, and Bellatrix knows she doesn’t want to sound scared, but there’s a tremor to her words that nothing could hide.
‘We’re teaching your sister a lesson.”
“Oh?” Andy says, the tremor more obvious now. “What do you need me for?”
“Bellatrix, come here,” their father directs, gripping Bellatrix’s arm and dragging her over to his desk. He turns both of them to face Andy. “Take out your wand.”
“No,” Bellatrix cries out, trying to refuse, trying to stop whatever her father is going to do. Her father pretends not to hear or, if he does, he ignores her pleads. “NO!” she screams, but she can’t tell if it’s really coming out of her mouth or if it’s all in her head.
Her father’s grip is iron on her wrist as he guides her wand to point at Andy—Andy.
Andy. Bellatrix’s little sister. It isn’t supposed to be like this. Bellatrix should be the one in front of the wand—Bellatrix should be the one getting hurt. It shouldn’t be Andy. It was never supposed to be Andy.
It’s always been Bellatrix and it should always be Bellatrix.
Or has it been Bellatrix? Were all those scars and beatings imagined? They couldn’t have been. In one letter, Andy said she got hit—maybe she’s been getting beatings all this time. Maybe Andy’s been getting hurt when Bellatrix should have been there to protect her.
What has she done? How has Bellatrix messed up so badly that Andy is getting hurt because of her? Where did she mess up? Where did it all go so very wrong? What did Bellatrix do?
For the rest of her life, Bellatrix tries to block out the next few minutes, but the memories always slip through unexpectedly.
Andy’s screams. They were so loud and they lit Bellatrix’s blood on fire, creating an all-too-familiar feeling. When Bellatrix tried to pull away from the spells, from the curses flying off her wand, she felt physical pain inside of her. A sharp twist, as if an invisible knife stuck itself in her gut.
Andy is still screaming. Because of Bellatrix. Because of her big sister who would always take care of her. Who isn't taking care of her anymore.
Now she’s going back on her promise, going back on her entire childhood. What is wrong with her? She made these promises, and now she can’t even hold true to the simplest one.
Andy’s still screaming and it’s just as loud and she’s in so much pain and Bellatrix can’t stop it. She can’t stop any of it and her sister is hurting and she can’t help her. Her sister is hurting because of her and she can’t stop it. The magic is coming from Bellatrix’s wand and it’s all her fault but she can’t make it stop.
Andy stops screaming. No. She isn’t gone. She isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. Andy wouldn’t die that easily—she couldn’t. Bellatrix can’t lose her sister like this, not so soon, not so horribly. She can’t lose her and Andy can’t die because if Andy died it would all be Bellatrix’s fault because it was her wand and it was her magic and it was her broken promise and—
“You’re a monster, Bellatrix,” her father whispers into her ear. Panicking, Bellatrix tries to turn away, tries to see anything but the fallen body of her little sister. But her father won’t let her. He yanks her chin so that all she can see is Andy. “Look at what you just did to your sister. Is this who you want to be? Hurting innocent purebloods? Why can’t you just do what you’re told? Why can’t you take out this hatred on filthy mudbloods?”
“I can,” Bellatrix croaks. “I promise, I will.” She doesn’t think about the words coming out of her mouth, she only thinks that this will make it end sooner. This will bring help to Andy quicker. This will make it end.
Bellatrix was too tired to take careful note of what happened next, but she doesn’t know if she truly wants to remember.
Bellatrix can only catch faint glimpses into that study, into those memories that fade away the harder she tries to focus them.
Her father, bringing out a silver knife. A piece of faded paper, yellowed with age. A forced signature, sloppy because of Bellatrix’s shaking hands. The ink, red—red like her blood. Like the blood coming out of her palm, out of the gash her father tore into her skin with that knife.
When did that happen?
Bellatrix doesn’t know. But it hurts. It hurts more than it should and there’s too little blood, but there’s so much red coming out of that quill.
She remembers black words covering the entire page and she remembers a bright, burning pain as she signed her name in blood.
It all gets jumbled up in her mind and she doesn’t know what came first or last or in the middle.
At some point, Bellatrix knows that she made a promise, a true magical promise, that may kill her if she breaks it.
I promise to rid the wizarding world of mudbloods to create a purer and safer place for all wizards of pureblood status.
Bellatrix remembers staring at the paper, at the words that now control her life. She remembers feeling numb, the fire of her rage gone, the words that usually run rampant, silenced.
They still haunted her, in the depths of her mind, but not as fiercely. They, too, were tired.
“Bella?” Andy asks into the silence of the room.
“Andy,” Bellatrix breathes, rushing over to cradle her sister—her sister! Who she thought was gone for real but who is right here and alright and safe and still Bellatrix’s sister.
“Bellatrix,” Andy says, pushing her sister away. “Bellatrix.” Andy’s eyes widen in fear and she moves backwards, trying to get away from her sister. “It—it was you! You did this!” Her finger points at Bellatrix and there’s no magic involved, but Bellatrix feels something break inside.
Something that was meant to be forever, something that was crucial to being human, something that Bellatrix shouldn’t be able to live without.
But she did.
“Your sister is a monster, but not the type you think she is. She will fight for our side, she will become a monster for the right side of this war. Bellatrix is not someone to fear, Andromeda.”
“What?!” Andy screams in his face. What war? What monster? What sides? “What do you mean?!” Tears pour down her face and she’s screaming again but this time it’s not in pain but it’s in anger and it’s directed at Bellatrix.
“Andy—please,” Bellatrix begs, adding to the chaos of her sister screaming and her father talking. “Please. I didn’t mean to, I swear, I never meant to hurt you, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Please forgive me. Please, I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, I—”
Bellatrix doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because her lips are sealed shut by a quick murmur of words by her father.
“Stop lying, Bellatrix.” He tsks, disappointed in her. Why? What did Bellatrix do? “I thought I raised you to be above begging. I thought I raised you to be above apologizing. What has happened?”
Her father gently cups Bellatrix’s chin in his hand, as if he hadn’t dug his nails into it moments earlier to force Bellatrix to see her sister, lying on the floor like an abandoned doll.
“I don’t know what you mean, Father,” Bellatrix says coldly, dragging up courage to look him in the eye. “Blacks never beg, and Blacks most definitely don’t apologize. I promised and I will hold true to it. I will make this world a purer place.”
“Toujours Pur,” her father whispers before releasing her. What have I done? Bellatrix wonders, going over her words in her head. She starts to move—to who knows where—but her father stops her. “Remember, none of this happened.” He starts casting spells to heal all her cuts and bruises as if they were never there. “Andromeda,” he says in a sickly sweet voice. “Stay behind for a moment.”
With a swish and a click, Bellatrix’s father locks her out of Andy’s life for good.
After that moment there was no turning back.
Bellatrix knows what is going to happen behind that door. She knows how her father will always twist her words to play his own game.
She knows that there will be only two people to remember this day. She knows there will only be one who will ever think it’s real. The other will deny it, and the third has lost their memory of it.
Her father is going to make Andy hate Bellatrix, but take away the memories that explain it. He’s going to make Bellatrix lose her sister, lose Andy. He’s taking her away from Bellatrix.
He's taking Andy away.
He's taking away half her world and trying to convince her that what's left is all made up. He's forcing her to live with memories that are constantly denied by those who supposedly shared them with her.
Bellatrix doesn't know what is going on, but she is sure of one thing.
Bellatrix was told to fight for the right side of this war. If there’s a war, then there’s an end. If there’s an end, then there’s a day when she can speak freely—when she can be free of these chains that silence her.
Someday, this world would shake, and it will all be because of her words. Because of her, Bellatrix. That day has not yet come, and so she will wait. Bellatrix will wait and her words will grow and grow and grow, and they will not consume her because someday, someday, the world will be consumed instead.
But first, she must fight. First, she must survive. Her father called her a monster so she will make deals with the devil. She will become a nightmare and a living hell for whoever meets her.
She won’t be forgiving because those who forgive are weak.
She won’t be apologetic because nobody has ever apologized for making her the way she is.