Author's Note: A very Happy New Year to you all! I hope everyone's holidays were happy and healthy and that 2018 brings you all the joy and productivity you can take. Welcome to 'The Beginning', prequel to 'The Weekend'. As stated, this is essentially how the events in 'The Weekend' came to be from Bellatrix's point of view. Updates will come as regularly as possible and the completed story will consist of about five chapters, so you have that to look forward to. Like 'The Weekend', 'The Beginning' will be eventually rated M for...adult content *wink*

For those eagerly anticipating an update for LODD, that is coming as quickly as I can write it but I hope you all will understand that this trilogy had temporarily taken priority in my mind space. But rest assured, you all will not have much longer to wait. I promise!

Without further ado, the first chapter to 'The Beginning'. Reviews are most welcome and appreciated. Happy Reading! -bellanoire, over and out!

Disclaimer: I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe, that honor belongs to the brilliant J.K. Rowling. I merely play with the wonderful characters.

Once again, this story is dedicated to the wonderful DarkSnow3.

The Beginning

I

"Don't be afraid of the way you feel..." - Surrender, Kut Klose

She grew up in a mansion. A grand expanse of alabaster and marble, that breathed with wards and enchantments, a staff of eagerly attentive House Elves. Each and every one of her wildest whims and fancies catered to as if she were the Minister for Magic. For seven years she attended Hogwarts, and excelled beyond the academic expectations of nearly everyone who came into contact with the savage force of nature with the purest blood, unruly black curls, a wicked tongue, and a feral passion that devoured chaos, using it as fuel to set a blazing fire to any and every thing that thought to tame her, and delightfully watched it all burn to ashes at her feet.

But like most fairy tales, it was a time that was rife with fantasy. A time where she thought nothing in any capacity could touch her or affect her. Nothing outside the realm of the the world she had constructed around herself – a world in which everyone bowed, submitted to her and she was the undisputed queen of endless nights of carnal revelry and lawless abandon.

It all came to halt on its axis when she was forced to marry a wizard whose blood, though almost as pure as hers, she could never love. And then the weight of reality fell upon her shoulders, commanding her to accept that her existence had never fully belonged to her. No, she had won the genetic lottery as far as Galleons, power, and prestige went, but she was never the sole possessor of her own destiny...

Sometimes, that girl seems like she existed in another lifetime, but I always remember her well. So too do I remember the ultimate answer to the unasked demand life tried to shove her way, an eventual response that to this day brings a smile of fierce pride to my face. A resounding 'fuck you'. Yes, I married. Yes, I inherited my millions in the vaults. But I refused to bow, I refused to concede defeat. I refused to put my life into the hands of anyone but myself. Well, no, that is not entirely true. But thinking back on it now, the decision I made nearly twenty years ago was the only way I can say made it possible for me to take back what was mine, what remains mine.

His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle, his half blood status evident in his name. The first and last being quite Muggle. The second, a testament to the formerly renowned Gaunt family of which his mother, one Merope had always been an outcast for an endless list of reasons. None of that mattered to me though. I was a twenty year old newlywed, seeing no way out of the chains that bound me to some duty I had never volunteered for. He saved me. And he never knew it. Or at least, I don't think he did. He had always had this reserve about him. One in which no one was ever really sure whether he was pleased or not. But you knew when you had disappointed or angered him and as masterful of a duelist he was, it was something you quickly learned never to do more than once.

I had been rather pathetic, wandering into the dark dueling hall in Diagon Alley. It was a shady place, one proper pureblood daughters were taught to avoid like the plague, but it had always sung to me like a siren's song. It was as if I could feel all that power, that knowledge, that lightning force seeping through the brick walls. Morsmordre. The name tickled my tongue whenever I spoke it aloud. Even as I child, shopping for my school things, I had made it my business to pass it once or twice because that feeling, it was intoxicating, addicting. Knowing that what I would eventually need most in the world was just there, waiting for me to seize it. And of course, I could have entered, if I were foolishly Gryffindor enough to do so. But even back then, I think I knew I was not yet ready.

At twenty, I was as headstrong as I am now, just as passionate and tumultuous as I always have been. But I thought I was defeated. I really was not, but the thing about convincing oneself that they are something they aren't, it's like poison. A slow, sneaky poison that you might not have realized you accidentally ingested until your last breath is rattling out of you. He helped me find the antidote that had always been at arms reach. Helped me realize that though I fancied myself bent, I was far from broken.

The day came, some rather uneventful day when I found myself meandering through the streets of Diagon Alley. Perhaps I was looking for an escape but had not admitted that truth to myself as I window shopped and tried to be pleased by both the reverent and unabashedly envious gazes that followed in my wake. I felt in then, that familiar pulse that had quickened within me when I purposely tarried too close to the dueling hall. That forbidden spell that was more compelling than my next breath. This time, I allowed my feet to take me where my very soul had always felt an affinity.

I was equally afraid and captivated, but I did not allow either emotion to show on my usually expressive face. I reached deep down to that well of aristocratic masks that had been at my disposal since I drew my first breath and wailed a battle cry so intense, my name was decided instantaneously. Bellatrix. The third brightest star in the constellation Orion. A name that meant 'warrior'. Fitting, to be sure, and I knew I needed to be just that. So I kept my expression remote, slightly bored, though my eyes, previously dimmed following my theatrically ostentatious wedding some months prior, I could feel them spark to their fervent flame. And I think that was all the confirmation Tom Riddle needed when he metaphorically took me by the hand and led me to what fate had preordained.

It was dark. The smell of stale perspiration permeated the tension charged air. The grunts and groans of exertion, expletives uttered in both defeat and triumph met my ears. The rousing, provocative feeling that I had felt those years ago whenever I walked past the place's exterior increased tenfold and I think I uttered a moan of satisfaction.

It was home.

He trained me himself. I suppose he saw something in me, even as green as I was. As raw as I was. See, I thought brute strength, and a catalog of spells, hexes, and curses stored in my mental vault could easily win me every duel. I was naive in the sense that I thought myself unbeatable, invincible in battle. But he showed me, in a painfully efficient manner that I had loads to learn. Emotions have always been my Achilles heel. As a child, I was prone to violent, tempestuous tantrums which like a storm exposed to the perfect conditions, gradually worsened with age. He showed me how to use my emotions, not to conceal them as my parents and professors tried to futilely drill into me. Use them to my advantage. As much as they were a weakness, they were the powerhouse in which my stamina and prowess resided. Dueling became the outlet I needed to express myself - all of my rage, frustration, pain, even happiness drawn out in a dazzling show of colored beams that could frighten, hurt, maim, or more if I wanted. When I wanted.

For fifteen years, he was my mentor, more of a father than the one who had sired me, the sole person who kept me grounded whenever my own impassioned fervor defied gravity, and when he died, well I think I lost a piece of myself I never knew existed until then. He left me a final parting gift though, Riddle did, when he bequeathed the ownership of Morsmordre to me in his will.

And mine it is. It is funny how fate works, for just as I assumed in my youth, I am queen. Queen of this partial underground world in which people from all corners of the earth come to better themselves in the art of dueling, under my ever watchful eye, by the walnut, dragon heart string cored wand ever present in my skilled hand. My staff, a small group of duelists who have my nearly unattainable trust, are my court. There are four. Three wizards and one witch. Lucius Malfoy. Bartemius Crouch, the second. Antonin Dolohov. Alecto Carrow. I collected them over the years. Trained them, groomed them, molded them to my liking. All of them starting at the bottom of the barrel, mere crabs, crawling their way to the top. They were the best of the best as far as duelists go. After me and me, after him. With them, I rule this isolated kingdom of sweat, blood, and tears, and nothing that is, ever was, or ever shall be can dethrone me.

The fucking idiots.

From where I stand, I can see the two troll brained fools facing each other, the air around them crackling with ego and testosterone and whatever else that makes males such a bloody hazard to themselves, brewing into a dastardly cocktail, a simmering potion left unattended to boil over. I haven't the time or the patience for full grown wizards acting like prepubescent children in any ordinary setting. I have a negative seventy tolerance for it happening anywhere near Morsmordre.

The only one allowed to lose their temper in my establishment is me. It is an unwritten rule and while I have never been the sort to abide by orders, to be told what I can and cannot do, I expect anyone who comes here to train to follow them. That, or pay a price no amount of Galleons could ever cover.

The two are not regulars, but they aren't new either. I have seen the both of them around before which means they should know how things are run here. I operate on a one warning system. If I have to tell you twice, that is two times too many. And both have already, in separate situations, been given their one pass. Therefore it is now time to dispose of the rubbish.

I can feel the gazes of my trusted four on me without even having to look. The looks vary between amusement and poorly concealed excitement. Like sharks, they can detect a drop of fresh blood in an endless ocean. They know me well and I have no plans to disappoint. There is nothing that displaces respect faster than not making good on what you say you will do. I never make promises I don't intend to keep. It simply has never been in my nature.

I stride toward the squabbling pair, my lips curling into a sneer of disdain. They do not notice me at first, much like prey who have unknowingly strayed too close to an apex predator until it is far too late. The poor little lambs, and lamb has always been my favorite meal to wolf down.

"I thought I made it quite clear what is and is not allowed in my hall," my voice is hardly more than a whispered growl, but like smoke, it circles, enveloping the two, slowly but effectively choking them into silence, "Seeing as how I do not like to repeat myself, take whatever it is out. Side. Now."

It is easy to tune out the futile explanations, the blame gaming, the it wasn't me it was hims, and proceed to escort them out of Morsmordre without having to utter another word. Both are taller than me, drastically outweigh me, but none of that matters when pitted against magical skill and I know neither would be stupid enough to challenge me, intentionally or accidentally. My wand is in my hand out of habit, but I know I won't have to use it.

The streets of Diagon Alley are abuzz with midday shoppers who are easily distracted from their mundane tasks by the sight of the two wizards who now resume their pissing contest as the realization of more eyes on them settle in. Fucking egos. It temporarily masks cowardice with an air of bravado that means absolutely nothing where it should count and it does nothing but incense me further. Not only have these two arseholes disrespected my business, they plan to continue the disrespect in the form of putting on a show like a pair of common Muggle circus performers.

I think not.

Not all situations call for a heavy hand. Strategy is just as strong as force in its own right and a change of tactics can easily render an opponent - or in this case two idiots - just as incapacited as a Stunner. It is simple. You target weakness and use it to aid you in victory. And these wizards standing on either side of me, panting like racing Abraxans, and neither one yet to cast a spell though their wands were brandished, their weakness is their egos and I plan to break them into a thousand pieces and scatter those pieces over the crowd the two have managed to attract.

I feel a pair of eyes watching me from not far off. And yes, there are many pairs of eyes locked on the spectacle in front of the hall. But this is different. I turn then, as if compelled and my own dark, uncomprimising gaze lands on a pair of hazels that stand out from the crowd. It isn't the color that does it either, it is the intensity in them, the depth of their regard. Even across the distance, I can identify an untapped well brimming with thirst, curiosity, adoration, and something akin to arousal. The slight flush to the peach colored cheeks and the part between moistened pink lips furthers affirms this. And her eyes never leave mine.

She likes what she sees.

I have an audience of my own I realize and so I reach into my bag of masks and chose the one of pureblood regality. The one of arrogance and ancestral might and I tear into the two cretins, chastising them like two children in such a fashion that would have made old Minerva McGonagall Slytherin green with envy. I knock them down to their knees without having to raise a hand and the bruising shots to their egos brings me so much satisfaction, I want to cackle.

I have impressed my little hazel eyed spectator too. But as the crowd begins to disperse and the two dismissed wizards make a hasty exit from my property, I decide my performance is far from concluded. Oh no, I plan to up the ante just a bit, unable to deny my own curiosity at the witch who has yet to move from the spot she occupies.

I allow my gaze to baldly trail up and down the length of her body before back to her almost glassy eyes. I arch a brow and smirk wickedly before slowly, teasingly turning and indolently stroll back into the hall. I can still feel her, watching me and I throw a little switch to my gait, baiting her further. I want her to follow and I know she will.

Business has resumed as usual after the minor disturbance. Everyone knows better than to stand idle here even without my presence. From my periphery, I see Alecto approach me. The only other female dueling master here, she had been my third recruitment and I taught her everything she knows. A more than decent sparring partner and equally good for more sordid activities, she is my favorite after Barty Jr.

"No trouble, I trust?" she drawls in a would be casual tone had I not known her so well. Her natural voice is pitched higher than mine but not annoyingly so and despite the slightly nasal timbre, there is a subtle gruffness that laces her words that I sometimes find appealing.

I tilt my head, allow my eyes to roll over to her, my expression one of amusement, "None at all. But you may let both Barty and Malfoy know they now have an hour of unoccupied time on Wednesdays."

Her grin bears a dragonish resemblance and she nods, "I'll be sure to."

In rather predictable fashion, I feel her spider like fingers move to the small of my back. With a scoff, I reflexively reach out and grasp her wrist, roughly enough that it draws a grunt of pain from her.

"Ah, ah, ah," I murmur, with a simpering grin, my tone low but edged with a warning, "Hands to yourself, dearie." On one hand, I might be turned on by her boldness, on the other, I do not tolerate insubordination from my duelists and she knows this. Like a toddler, I suppose she wants to test her limits. Understandable but not allowed unless I say so, and my grip tightens to emphasize the point.

The hiss and wince I get in return are all the response I need and I release her. To assure her that no irreperable damage between the two of us has been done, I tuck a lock of her straight dark hair which is somehow slipped from its bun behind her ear in a patronizing display of gentleness.

"Hello?"

Both Alecto and I turn in tandem to see the witch who has entered the hall. Its her, the one from out in alley. Standing in the midst of my establishment, she appears even more stricken than she did outside, but she is still watching me with that same hungry stare.

"Welcome to Morsmordre," Alecto steps forward, all business, discreetly drawing her angrily bruised wrist behind her back, "Do you have an appointment?"

"I-I erm, no I don't actually," the witch stammers, her cheeks reddening as those hazel eyes flit back and forth between the pair of us.

I make my move then, placing a hand on my employees shoulder. "I'll take care of this. Leave us."

With a nod, Alecto steps off and does as bidden. Once we are alone, I turn my attention back in the witch. Her somewhat girlish though symmetrical facial features, bushy brown hair tied back into a tail, the way she seems unsure of whether she should stay or flee. She is rocking on the balls of feet and I don't think she realizes she's doing this. There is a womanly curvature to her frame and the makings of laugh and smile lines upon closer inspection of her face that belies her age, somewhere late twenties. And there is a small gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand.

"And how may help you Mrs...?"

"Granger," the witch responds, licking her lips in a nervous fashion, "Just Granger."

"Mrs Granger, what may I-"

"No Mrs. Just Granger," she says again, with conviction that takes me aback. Clearly the title is a touchy subject to broach. I know the feeling well, and the shudder that passes through is almost a reflex whenever someone addresses me as 'Madam Lestrange'. But her qualms on her marital status are none of my concern.

"Right. Just Granger. What do you want?" I no longer bother with the pleasantries. Again, I do not like to repeat myself.

She stops fidgeting then and her body stills. While the nervousness is still evident in her expression it is now combating what I had read on her face out in the alley. That intensity. It makes my own brows furrow as an unfamiliar sensation attempts to fill me. Unsurety. I do not like to feel unsure about anything. And the vibes this witch are all but throwing my way, silently begging me to catch them, well I am not sure whether I should duck or engage.

"I want to train with you," she says finally, and there is an underlying eagerness in her tone that makes me think of a girl in the front row of every class on her too full school schedule, hand raised in earnest to answer queries her professors have yet to fully articulate, "I want you to train me."

The word 'train' seems to take on a double, unspoken meaning as it falls from her mouth and my eyes narrow as I try to decipher what is concealed in code. I don't usually take the new ones and by Just Granger's stance I can tell she has never properly dueled a day in her life. Has never had to fight for anything. I haven't the patience for that sort. But something else overpowers the 'no' poised at the tip of my tongue. Something else that brings a beaming smile of unadulterated joy to the bushy haired witch's face that I instantly store to memory.

"Yes. I'll train you."