Once upon a time, a child was born. It came screaming into the world, arms flailing and legs kicking. Just like every other baby. There was nothing special about it, nothing to separate it from the norm. Yet even as it was fed by its mother's milk, it was cooed at, told it was better. More worthy. Different. Pure. Of course, the infant could not understand those words, not yet.
As the child began to grow, it began to learn. From mother, it learned that it was okay to yell, to order people about, so one could get what one desired. From father, it learned that manipulating people could get one what one wanted much faster than being honest. From the world, it learned hatred. And all the while it was fed words. Words of power, of corruption, of rebellion. Of purity.
The child learned the rules of survival. No associating with 'mudbloods, half-bloods, or muggles.' Talk only when talked to. Be seen and not heard. Lie only when one will not get caught. As the child aged, it learned many more of these rules.
The child lived in a harsh world. One where cousins shoved it down and made it cry. One where family stole from one another when they thought no one was looking. One where bursts of colored lights flew through the air like lightening.
So the child adapted. It learned to shove back. It learned how to make people cry, rather than be the one crying. It learned how to stake out its territory, how to steal before it was stolen from. It learned to dodge the bright lights, knew where the best corners to cower in were. But above all, it learned that anger got you power. That when the child got angry, bad things happened to other people.
When the child grew to be eleven, an owl came with mail. The child would go to a far away school, where it would learn to control this power, this power that could be used to hurt others. The child learned what the only acceptable house would be, Slytherin, the House of the Snake.
Soon, the child's first year at school flew by. Everyone knew the child as a prodigy. The next six years flew by. The child was strong now. It adapted more. It was now the one flinging colored light at people, it could now cause pain.
Fresh out of school, the child learned more. It could now ensnare people's minds, force them to do it's will. It could cause someone to writhe in the most horrible of agonies. It could kill with the flick of the wrist. The child quickly adapted again. It joined the Dark Lord, became a Death Eater. At first it was only for protection. But soon the child began to become loyal. Would do anything for the Dark Lord. Would kill for him.
This loyalty turned into obsession. The child became dangerous, temper honed to a sharp edge. Soon the child became reckless in its confidence. It was caught. The damp cell in Azkaban awaited it. And there it awaited, year after trudging year. It waited for its Lord, its love, to come release it. And soon release came. Standing on the edge of Azkaban, laughing into the wind, the child knew that its time was coming. The Dark Lord was rising once more, and the child with him.
Soon it was the right hand servant of the Dark Lord. His most trusted servant. His most useful servant. The child fell into an insane love for its Dark Lord.
The child hunted a boy. Hunted him down for the Dark Lord. But the child was out for its own revenge as well. Soon, in the Ministry of Magic, it was done. The child had killed its most hated rival. With the flick of its wand and the swish of a curtain, it had killed its biggest enemy.
The child continued on dark paths, planning and carrying out plans, until the final battle could be fought. And when it came, that stormy day, she was ready. They stormed that castle, the school it had first learned to fight in. They broke it, killed it, murdered its students. Then, in a spacious clearing, the child laughed in satisfaction as the dead body of a green eyed boy hit the ground. It laughed all the way back to the castle, where it shattered the hope of thousands.
But things took a wrong turn and soon the child found itself battling for its life. It was going to win, it would not leave its master behind. The child laughed, exhilarated in its confidence. But the child was wrong. It would not win, for at that moment, that fateful moment, the child was hit. Square in the chest, by a mother out for revenge. It stumbled backwards, blank surprise on its face, drawing in its last breath, just as its master let out his scream of fury. The child, the great one, the most hated of the Death Eaters, the most trusted by the Dark Lord, was dead. And just like that, the child, who was no longer a child, passed into darkness.
That child was me. Bellatrix Lestrange.
And I will have the last laugh.