Archive of Our Own ^beta

How do you decide the value of a life?

How is it possible that something you never cared for before only gains worth when it is gone? How can you love something you never knew? How can you only feel regret once you’ve gone too far to go back?

How can you love someone more in death than you ever did in life?

She supposes this is karma.

It’s not like she should care. She’s never cared before. This one shouldn’t be any different.

The bastard child. Half Black. All blood traitor.

But she was used to killing Blacks, wasn’t she? Bellatrix had killed her own cousin just a few years before. Merlin, had it been years already?

She’d been so happy this time. She never felt as alive as she did with spells flying around her, with her hair in a frenzy as she dodges the hexes that wouldn’t be deadly anyways. Even in war, the Order never use unforgivables.

Bellatrix does. She’s famous for it. It what she’s good at. It’s what she enjoys.

She enjoyed this one too. The way the green light hit that enemies chest, the way it enveloped her for a moment, rivulating and flowing. The way she fell, so graceful, death only enhancing her beauty.

She doesn’t remember exactly what the girl looked like. Just an image of choppy pink hair and eyes that were too courageous until they realised it was too late. The look of horror made Bellatrix giddy, the way her eyes darted around and her lips formed a word she would never speak. Bellatrix had wondered if she would have called for help, who she would have called for, which disgrace would have rescued her. All these people were abominations. They would hurt her family, her actual family, not just her sisters but the family that had taken her in and cared for her when her own parents hadn’t.

The Dark Lord was caring, and he loved her, but they could never see that. The sorry excuse for wizards and witches claimed to be the fairest, yet they could never look past the harsh exterior to see him for what he truly was. A home. A protector. Someone that wanted the best for those he cared about, not just her but Narcissa too.

He’d promised not to harm Andromeda. She knew she shouldn’t have asked, that it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. He saved her, even had her freed from that atrocious muggleborn that had condemned her, that had stolen her from her sisters. Stolen her from Bellatrix.

Bellatrix and Narcissa were the only ones that truly cared for Andromeda. Bellatrix could never hurt her.

But now…

Now she saw her sisters lifeless form on the floor, and Bellatrix was holding the wand.

But it wasn’t Andy, not really, it couldn’t be. She wouldn’t be here, she would be at home, caring for her granddaughter.

Andy had sent Bellatrix a letter to tell her. It had been named after the muggleborn. Bellatrix had had half a mind to rip it up, but she couldn’t. It was the only proof of her sisters handwriting she had, the only evidence she still cared, even after everything.

The child’s father had been a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, but the one her dear cousin had run off with all those years prior. The thought curled rage deep into the witches core. How could he? Did he not know all Sirius had sacrificed for him? It was him that caused Sirius to leave, to abandon his family, it had to be! He’d left for love, just like her dear sister. And now that love had moved on. Did the beast even care?

Bellatrix had known. She had known, she’d always known, but nobody ever listened! Why did nobody listen? All she wanted was to protect them.

So if Andy hadn’t been here, who was lying dead on the floor in front of her? Who’s eyes stared up, accusing her, calling her a murderer more than any journalist ever had.

Bellatrix hadn’t killed Andromeda. She knew she hadn’t, she never would, she couldn’t. Bellatrix had not killed her sister. Oh, but she looked so like her. Except, something was off. The nose. It was far wider, and did not have the pointed nose of a Black.

This child was not a Black.

Bellatrix didn’t remember killing her at all. The person she had slain had looked completely different. Pink hair, a wider face, larger eyes, curled eyelashes. The girl on the floor in front of her had deep set eyes, hair that was wavy and dark and brown, and the face of her sister.

Mostly the face of her sister. Bellatrix Black had not killed her sister.

She had killed her child.

And she felt remorse. She hadn’t when she killed her, Merlin she hadn’t even known who she was killing. Did that make her any better? Would Andromeda be able to see it as any better? Would she even know, or would her daughter, Bellatrixs niece, just become another casualty of this war.

Watching the body fall, watching the face transform from that of a stranger to that of family - that had broken her. She’d never known Andy’s child, never tried to find out. She wished she had. She wished the first time she’d seen  the kid hadn’t been with her last breath still ringing in the ears of her murderer. She wished she had known.

Bellatrix couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. She’d joined this war, she’d killed for her cause, she wouldn’t stop just because her conscience had re-arisen. She would protect the people that she cared about, or what was left of them at least. What was left of her family that she hadn’t destroyed.

But she was weak now.

Bellatrix Black would’ve been glad that it was Molly Weasley who killed her. She would have looked into her eyes, seen another woman trying to protect her family, and she would have understood. And maybe she could have dodged, maybe she could have kept fighting, or maybe she really was bested by another protector. One with more left to save. Either way, at least she wouldn’t have to see her sisters face when news of her daughters death had struck. Either way, her other sister would make the right choice, and walk out of that battle alive and with her son.

But Bellatrix Black was a protector, and she placed her bets on The Dark Lord, and she let him down. But at least he cared when she died. He believed in her as a person.  He thought she deserved the world. It may not have been true, but he thought it was. That was better than she could say for her actual blood.

Andromeda Black didn’t even cry.

Somewhere in the afterlife, Bellatrix didn’t blame her.