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Bellatrix would never admit it, not to herself, not to anyone, but Sirius had always been her favorite cousin. Even from the start, she saw in him a reflection of herself: a spark of rebellion, a flair for the dramatic, a penchant for defiance that neither of them could fully contain. They were kindred spirits, in a way, both too wild for the suffocating halls of Grimmauld Place.
When they were children, before the world dragged them to opposite sides of the war, they had their own secret game. They called it "Catch the Shadow." It was simple enough: one would play the Shadow, darting through the maze-like corridors of the Black family home, while the other was the Hunter, trying to corner them in the shifting light of flickering sconces and darkened alcoves. Sirius, the younger one, with his endless energy and quick thinking, almost always won. Bella would laugh and accuse him of cheating, her eyes sparkling with the rare warmth she reserved only for him.
"You’ll never catch me, Bella!" he'd tease, his voice echoing through the halls.
"Oh, I will," she’d reply, her grin sharp, her determination fiercer than ever.
But then they grew up, and the game turned into something darker. Sirius, the blood traitor, ran for a different reason now: for freedom, for light, for everything she claimed to despise. Bellatrix, with madness in her eyes, still chased him, not through corridors but across battlefields.
In the end, it was her who struck the final blow. The spell hit Sirius squarely in the chest, sending him reeling backwards into the abyss of the veil. His smirk faltered as he fell, swallowed by the swirling archway, his body gone, his shadow extinguished.
Bellatrix stood there, panting, her wand trembling slightly in her hand. Slowly, a triumphant grin spread across her face as she whispered, "I won."
But the grin faltered, her triumphant laughter hollow. The silence was deafening, and for a fleeting moment, she was no longer the Dark Lord's most devoted servant. She was just a girl who'd lost her favorite playmate. There would be no next round, no rematch, no laughter echoing through the halls.
"I won," she repeated, softer this time, the words tasting like ash.
She had won.
But they'd never play again.