Prologue-

When I look back at her life, I would have had to admit that she must have anticipated the outcome of Voldemort winning the war. We knew that glory and power was promised to those of pure blood. But if the Order won, she was told, it would be the end.

I am sure those of you against Voldemort would have been told something along those same lines, and it was true that Mudbloods had no place in Voldemort's world; on the other hand, blood purists had no place in the Order's world.

You must not scorn her for wanting and believing in this, as her corruption started early on—so early that she never knew it was happening, and it was only as she reached nineteen that it all became clear to her.

It was drummed into her head day and night that she was supreme, that they were the race above all races and they should be treated as such; they were told these things like a normal child was told not to steal and to say 'please' and 'thank you', and they never even knew what they were doing was wrong. I doubt that a lot of them will ever really believe that they were wrong.

Try to understand this. Today we live in a new world, a new era, an era for freedom of speech, and finally, an uncorrupted Ministry, where if a child calls for help, they are helped, where if someone wants to run for Minister of Magic, then Merlin willing, they can. Now, cast your mind back to the First Wizarding War, where things were dark and things were very different. Even when Voldemort was vanquished, there was still no equality. How could someone spend their whole life believing in something that seemed so true, to then be told to change the very way they think and everything about them, or be gone?

The topic of childhood appeals to me, for in childhood you have those magical days when you are free from sin. Happiness generally follows. You all know the typical childhood, I'm sure, but what if I were to tell you about a very different childhood?

I have begun researching a specific family, and with help from bottled memories from the darkest of vaults and diaries written by murderous hands and letters written by Lord Voldemort himself, I have very slowly pieced together the lives of a family ridden with corruption. All these long and arduous years of research and knowledge have led me to beginning to compose my tale.

I am a successful writer and have mainly dappled in Muggle fantasy, which has also been popular among witches and wizards like you, but this is the first book I have written solely for witches and wizards. I do not have much to write about me, for this book is to do with one person, one being quite different from me.

Whichever way I begin to describe this character, I suppose I should start at the beginning, but as that would mean the beginning of the wizarding society as a whole and I cannot record her parentage that far back, I suppose I should start with her parents.

Imagine Hogwarts—or if you can't or have never been there, look at a photo, perhaps from the 60's. Yes, our story begins in the sixties, and where two very likely people meet. This Hogwarts was not much different from the one you would have seen before the war, with its talking portraits and moving staircases, and the ghosts and the students. Yes, the students: the kind but oh so slightly pathetic Hufflepuffs; the brave and foolishly impulsive Gryffindors; the bright but dull Ravenclaws; and finally, the Slytherins.

Two Slytherins in particular, a boy and girl, were not quite right. They never had been, but their insanity increased over time. Think of it like this: imagine all the wires and veins that link emotions and stories and thoughts and feelings together to create a human brain. Now imagine those wires becoming tangled and colliding together, so that one then sees the world not as it ought to be seen. I am not saying that these two students were brain dead, but they did see the alleged impurities of society. The wires that held together actions and told whether they were right or wrong had obviously ceased to exist, for these students were cable of many things, things that would drive any normal person ill with guilt.

They met and married. After all, the girl was a Black, and the boy, a Lestrange. The photo I hold now shows a moving image of the couple on their wedding day. The man seems distracted and rather unfocused; he seemed to hold no interest in what was around him and in the picture, he squints at me sometimes, as though to ask who I am. This is a question I ask myself once too often.

And the woman—she looks at me with profound anger and distaste, a look as though to say that she is disappointed in me. I can only look for so long without feeling sick and I end up shutting the dreaded thing in a drawer. The woman, I remember, had a mass of black curls and heavily lidded eyes; so distinct is her appearance that I would notice her anywhere, and so would many others. The images of the woman bring the name 'Bellatrix' into my head, a name meaning 'a female warrior', and that she is.

Now, my lovely reader, I throw you into the world of the Lestranges. I am the anchor that holds you from insanity. I will not often to be there to rescue you. After all, no one was there to rescue me. I had to swim out of the darkness after it was too late. Remember this, as I document memories: you may cry reading this, but really who comes to you when you cry? You are alone, just like I was, and just like Bellatrix really was all along.

Your truthful writer, Louisa Bradley, your small token of sanity.