Colere Lestrange's olive skin and hooded eyes were definitely on the exotic side, and the simple, flowing black dress robes that she wore only made her look more ethereal. She was standing in front of a pair of unmarked graves on an island that even the dead would probably hesitate before visiting. She was not inside of that purgatory of a prison itself, but she could still hear the vengeful and bone-chilling shrieks of Azkaban's inmates. She shuddered, wondering in that moment of weakness whether they were coming from the living, or the dead. Human guards had replaced the dementors, but the coldness never quite went away.
"You're free from all your anger, Mum. And you too, Dad. Maybe one of these days you'll learn your mistakes. Happy Christmas, though." Colere took out a single white lily from her inner pocket and placed it in between the two graves. She knew that the harsh winds and storms of the North Sea would leave nothing the bloom as more than a few petals and leaves by the next day, but she also knew that it had to be done. It was for her own sake. She could hear her mother shrieking and cackling in her dreams, sometimes. Her dad's manic eyes showed out of the gloom, too. They seemed to quiet and fade when Colere acknowledged them, if only a little. But the memories didn't fade. No, the memories and the imprints of morals and lessons never faded.
"It wouldn't hurt to say sorry now, would it? It definitely wouldn't kill you to admit that you were wrong." Colere laughed bitterly. Indeed, she had only been a blissfully ignorant and spoiled child when her parents met their end, even if the world made sure that she learned as fast as she could.
Unlike the majority of her mother's family, the House of Black, she had gone to Durmstrang Institute, where her pureblood status didn't elevate her above everyone else like it supposedly did at Hogwarts. Still, being a pureblood gave her enough of a reason to commit minor crimes against those few and unfortunate blood traitors that got into Durmstrang. It wasn't as if she was in the minority, in this sort of cruel recreation. It had become something of a sport, among the descendants of the oldest pureblood lines. And it wasn't as if her parents frowned upon Muggle hunting and similar activities. They had just short of encouraged it of her.
Still, her eyes had widened in surprise and horror when she was told how her mother had died. It was hardly an honorable death, to be finished off by a petty blood traitor of a housewife. But Madame Lestrange was the right-hand girl of the greatest wizard of all time. She had died for what she believed in. In that aspect, something had gone right. The stupid little wizard who came forth to offer his practiced condolences and shamelessly blatant triumphant air said that such a death could be seen as merciful, putting "dear Madame Bellatrix's crimes into perspective." Needless to say, he had been one of the purebloods who had needed a lot of coercion to join the cause. Her parents would have called him a coward.
It was strange how crimes and morals seemed to be separated by such a fine line, when you were a Lestrange. She recalled one particular instance that had taken place when she was but a third year. The summer before school started, Colere had been taught the Cruciatus Curse and achieved quite a level of mastery, to the delight of Madame Lestrange. As with all the other magic she learned, especially in Defense Against the Dark Arts, she couldn't wait to try it out on someone once she got to school…
"Ugh! Maman wanted to send me to Beauxbatons. She zinks I'm way too rough around ze edges, nowadays. And ze Defense Against the Dark Arts we learn 'ere! Hardly appropriate for a lady, she says. Of course, Papa did not agree." Tempest Jessamine Melisande de Sade flipped her honey-colored hair over her shoulder and undid the braid it had been in since lunchtime and letting loose a shower of new, shiny waves. She frowned as they approached the austere Romanesque castle that housed Durmstrang. It had once been a fortress, and never quite lost its forbidding air.
"Vell, Duchess, if you'd rather learn the proper vay to hold a salmon fork than practical vandvork, it's your loss." Catarina Grisel laughed, nudging her friend playfully and then wincing. Colere sympathized. The journey from the port to Durmstrang took half a day if they rowed effectively, and this year's prefects were especially adamant about keeping the pace. Her own muscles were aching as well.
Tem's green eyes danced as she pouted. "For your information, my grandmeré happens to be a Marquise, not a Duchess. And I'm sure you could benefit much with an etiquette lesson. I saw you stuffing down the German chocolate cake at last year's Halloween feast." Catarina mumbled something about hating to let perfectly good food go to waste, and Tem sniffed haughtily.
"Oh, girls, let's not bicker over petty things. Cat needs to eat less, and Tem, you need to eat more. I'm sure there's nothing in your mum's lady lessons that tells you that you need to look like a beanpole."
" 'ow dare you! Moi? A beanpole?" Tem's stormy eyes flashed dangerously.
"Are you calling me plump?" Cat's round face frowned, too.
Colere kept a straight face for all of three seconds, and then laughed heartily. "Look at you two, getting so worked up. You know you're not a beanpole, Tem, and Cat, you know you're perfectly trim. No need to look at me like that. Drama and rows this early in the year are just a waste of time."
"Of course, ma chère, I know. Just making sure, you know." Tem flipped her hair again, catching the weak sunlight in the deep golden strands this time and getting the attention of a few fifth-year boys walking by. She smiled and waved. The clever-faced older boys, entranced, collided into a group of burly seventh-years. Surrounded by bulky frames and surly faces, the boys laughed sheepishly as the older students grunted and gestured at each other stupidly, rather like mountain trolls.
"Ja, ja…sorry about that, Colere." Cat giggled, watching the trouble that Tem had managed to brew up. Colere laughed too. Tempest, true to her name, brewed up a storm wherever she went and enjoyed every minute of it.
"And look on the bright side! There're bound to be some new first year blood traitors to pick on. I know you love sport as much as I do."
"Ah, yes, ze're better when they're fresh."
"Yes, fresh for the picking, shall ve say?"
"Yeah. And I have some fresh spells to try. Things are bound to get interesting, I promise you."
"And you think ve'll get avay vith more than ve've already done?" Cat laughed nervously. She'd always been the most scrupulous of the three friends, even if that wasn't saying much. Durmstrang was notorious for the amount of controversial magic that students were allowed to get away with, after all.
"Of course! They wouldn't suspend us. It's not like we're going to kill anyone. It's all in good fun." Colere wasn't going to reveal her new knowledge, but at least Cat could know one thing for sure.
"Right, Colere. Okay." She smiled hesitantly, then with more assurance when she saw the approval of her friends. They followed the crowd into the dingy main hall. The torches in the walls had already been lit, bringing a familiar, but weak warmth that made the shadowy corridors and distant dripping noises seem only slightly less like the scenery of an old dingy prison.
The dismal interior decorating was enough to bring down anyone's mood. It hadn't been changed since the early medieval days in which it was built. They all sat at long wooden tables and benches. Thank Merlin the school board at least agreed on updating the methods of eating, though. Colere shuddered as she imagined eating with only her hands and then wiping them on the tablecloth.
"So, Tem, are you and that Henri boy still an item?" Colere could hardly suppress memories of when she accidentally opened a closet to find Tem and her latest boy toy displaying their passions for each other. The French were indeed the best lovers.
"Oh, 'e isn't 'ere anymore. 'e decided to go study in America. 'e mentioned something about ze Salem Institute. 'is mother wanted 'im to 'ave nothing to do with the war. C'est understandable, seeing how his father was threatened on ze job." Colere could hardly restrain from rolling her eyes. Well, of course, Mr. Rosier was in danger! He had willingly put his life on the line in service to the Dark Lord, after all.
It was strange how she often felt like she knew everything, and yet all the information seemed to be closing in around her, as if she knew nothing.
A small shadow approached her as she and her friends walked through the corridor. The hearty dinner of the Welcoming Feast was settling in at the moment, leaving a nice feeling that balanced contentment and anticipation. The cat had finished her crème, and was ready to move on to the real bait.