little shadows
The sun beat down relentlessly in a cloudless azure sky, producing on my shoulders a thin film of perspiration, almost like a second skin that wouldn't peel away.
It was far too hot to be outside, the sunlight too dazzling, but Mother and Father had guests over, and we were not to interrupt. So we sat out in the garden, trying to exert ourselves as little as possible. I merely watched Andromeda and Narcissa as they played with a shiny black ground beetle.
"Look, Cissy, I think it grew!" exclaimed Andromeda, poking the insect with one finger.
"Yick," said Narcissa. "You touched it."
Andromeda poked it again, and there was no mistaking it this time; the magnified beetle skittered away to get out of the reach of Andromeda's unpracticed magic.
"Why can't I do it?" six-year-old Narcissa complained.
"Maybe you're a Squib, Cissy!" Andromeda squealed.
"I'm not a Squib," whined Narcissa, her pitiful, desperate voice cutting through the heavy air in an intolerable manner. I couldn't take any more of their childish squabbling.
I stood up from the paltry shade of the elm and walked over to them; Andromeda's eager smile faded as my standing figure cast a shadow on her, and Narcissa looked up at me hopefully. "Bella! You can help me! You're ten, so you know everything about magic! Tell Andie she's wrong, I'm not a Squib."
"You had better hope you're not," I told her, and extended one foot to the low garden wall between them, lightly crushing the black beetle under the heel of my shoe. Narcissa shrieked at the prolonged sound of the carapace crunching beneath my foot.
When I lifted my foot, the insect remained alive, threaded with cracks, with fluid leaking out of it, its legs feebly waving in the air. I laughed at the sight of something so pathetic. Narcissa and Andromeda exchanged a glance.
"You hurt it, Bella," said Narcissa. Beside her, Andromeda turned to watch the crippled beetle with wide, sad eyes.
"It's just an insect," I reasoned. "Stop whining."
Andromeda reached out her own foot and snuffed the life out of the beetle, instantly ending its misery, and continued to stare glumly at the new splatter of haemolymph atop the garden wall.
My younger sisters were weak and squeamish. But I did not pity them; I knew better. What good was pity? It was a sign of weakness, and no one could respect a weak person. Even as a child, I could sense it in my very being – that of the three of us, I alone was destined to be strong and powerful when I grew up, like Aunt Walburga.
I was right. Later, as an adult, Narcissa was too weak to back her words with action and join the noble cause she insisted she supported, and wasted away as a prim, pathetic housewife. Andromeda was stronger; she was not afraid to match her actions to her words, but she descended to become no better than the despicable, common Mudblood she ran off to marry, and was appropriately disowned for her shameful alliance with lowly vermin.
But I knew what it was to live. I was admired and respected, followed no-one's conventions but my own, and have never regretted a thing. It was exhilarating. And you were my best decision.
*
light and dark
You were bright, in every way possible. Known during our time at Hogwarts as the most brilliant witch of our year, possibly of the entire school. You wore blood-red shoes so you could stand out even in your uniform robes; on special days you were a vision in bright yellows, pinks, greens. You were tall, like me, with long ebony tresses cascading down your back. Your pureblood ancestry could be traced back centuries. You turned heads without even trying, and seemed to exude confidence and authority.
It's no wonder I was entranced by you. I was a creature of the dark, always had been, and you were my opposite in that regard. But even more than light or dark, what allured me most was power. My strength only grew when you finally noticed me during sixth year.
You were adventure. You were pleasure. You were the source of my power during those days. Our intense passions were realised in the dark, in the forbidden, lustful thrill of secrecy; we relished in our adolescence, and the absence of consequences.
It was your idea to join a clique of elite, respectable purebloods called the Knights of Walpurgis, who were working with someone, a mysterious Dark Lord who was rumoured to bring balance to the wizarding world and put purebloods in their rightful place at the top of the hierarchy.
"I sense great potential in this Dark Lord," you told me, "and imagine how influential we can be if we are at his side as he rises to power."
I scoffed. "I will work for no Dark Lord; I want to be a Dark Lord myself."
"Dark Lady," you corrected in your husky voice. "But how will you get there? We have to start somewhere and work our way up. This is the perfect opportunity."
You were always logical – you saw the details I was prone to overlook. So together we joined him, and little did I know at the time, but the course of my life and aspirations was changed forever.
The Dark Lord, when we finally met him, was as great as we hoped. He was effortlessly powerful, and his presence sent a thrill through my veins. In time, he soon became the most powerful wizard who ever lived, and we were there beside him, poised for mastery.
"Will you ever leave the Dark Lord?" you asked me one night as you lay beside me, your dark hair spread like a fan on the white pillow, your arm against mine like sepia on alabaster. "Do you still cherish the ambition of becoming your own force, my Dark Lady Bellatrix?"
A smile twisted my lips upward. "I have learnt this much: that we are far more powerful together than we would be individually. Abandoning him would be unthinkable and idiotic; he derives much of his strength from us, and vice versa."
A pause. "And the two of us are the same," you said. "Together we are more than just you and me. I can't even imagine how beautiful the world would be with you at my side forever."
Tradition and propriety were the rulers of the Black family, more so than Mother and Father were. And so when word of our relationship reached their ears, they were horrified. They had already arranged with the Lestranges that I should marry their son Rodolphus, a fellow Knight of Walpurgis and follower of the Dark Lord. I did not love Rodolphus. My heart belonged to you - a woman I could never have, at least not according to law and pureblood convention.
But convention did not rule me. As my family wished it, I was married to Rodolphus, but it meant nothing; more often than not I would run to your arms for the night. Rodolphus was boring and whiny. He wanted children, but the thought of raising a weak, snivelling brat was simply repulsive to me, as according to pureblood customs, I, the woman, must be the one to raise it. But I would not spend my days at home taking care of fussing babies.
No, I would be enacting change upon the earth, scorching it in my wake. And you would be at my side forever.
*
ash and embers
Years passed, the Knights of Walpurgis became the Death Eaters, and I rose in the ranks. I defied even the law, becoming accustomed to the invigorating thrill of casting Unforgivable Curses on anyone who foolishly entertained the thought of bringing us down. Power was intoxicating and left me breathless with glee, and I never wanted to leave the Dark Lord, for the powerful shadow he cast enveloped me as well. There was still you, my love, but in comparison to the Dark Lord, you were no longer the striking majesty you had been; now you were only my equal.
So perhaps I never became a Dark Lady with followers of my own. But I came to learn that followers were dim and asinine, like my husband Rodolphus. And they could easily be swayed. In time, I saw several of them turn on the Dark Lord, extending profuse, spineless apologies and excuses to the Ministry morons to pardon their behaviour and avoid Azkaban. But I went to Azkaban proudly for the Dark Lord. The passion I showed for serving my Dark Lord was second to none. I was always his favourite, his next-in-command, steadfast and loyal, and respected above all others. And they all knew it.
There was a time when I would have walked to the ends of the earth for you. But you would not have done it for me, and you were content to pass off all our years of ambitions and dreams as actions under the influence of an Imperius Curse used on you, merely so you could walk free. It was disgusting behaviour; you had become weak.
Or perhaps I had merely grown stronger, too strong for you, and you were no match for me anymore. The only person to challenge me the way you used to was the Dark Lord himself. And so I cast you away, and replaced you with the Dark Lord, who would return to me in time.
And indeed now he has returned. As I sit here in my cell, I feel him call to me, feel the blazing of the dark, sensual curves of the line inked into my wrist. I lean back against the cold stones, warmth flooding through my veins and driving out the perpetual chill of Azkaban, an unstoppable smile spreading across my face as it stretches at muscles long fallen into disuse. But I cannot resist; the smile gives way into a laugh, and then a shriek escapes me; I am suddenly on my feet again. All of Azkaban will know it: The Dark Lord has returned. From all these miles away I can feel him, and perhaps he can hear me, even though I cannot return to him yet.
Shrieks sound all across the corridor from a few other chambers, penetrating, agitated sounds that swirl up into the rafters and explode around us, our laughter only magnifying in the delicious cacophony of echoes. I grip the bars at the front of my cell, pressing myself into the cold metal, and laugh wildly in the face of a passing Dementor. It has no power over me anymore.
Eventually, once the noise has died down, has filled the empty air of Azkaban with whispers, I hear the hushed, fervent whisper of my husband from across the corridor. "Bella." I can almost imagine it is the Dark Lord speaking to me now that he is back after so many years.
"Yes, my love."
"After all this time in Azkaban," says Rodolphus' scratchy voice. "And finally we have a light at the end of a dark tunnel."
It seems absurd of him to associate the Dark Lord with light, but there is no other word for it: with the Dark Lord's return, I feel light as a feather, as dazzling as the sun, a star shining vibrantly in an inky sky. Despite rotting away in this stygian prison, I am renewed and hopeful. Perhaps I, a creature of the darkness, have some light in me after all: the light of hope.
But what are light and dark anyway – was there ever a difference? All that matters in the end is power. And mine is returning.
So I lie in wait until the time comes when I can join him once again. It cannot be long. The Dementors will join our Dark Lord once again, and one way or another, Rodolphus and Rabastan and I will free ourselves from this place and stand in our place by the Dark Lord's side.
I can no longer remember what year it is, or even how old I am. But every now and then I do wonder where you are. When I escape and rejoin the Dark Lord, will you be there too? Or did you blaze your own path? What have you done these past ten or fifteen years? Did you make anything of your life?