Title: Not A Chance
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warning: Contains very slight DH spoilers, so don't read if you haven't read it.
Summary: I knew he loved me, and yes, maybe I loved him. But spend eternity as a ghost to be with him? Not a chance.
Companion fic to The Woman in Black, at my Funeral.
Life's hardly been buttercups and rainbows for me. I was wrong since birth. Does that count as going over my life to see where I went wrong? This place, Purgatory, apparently will appear as a significant place from your life, bloody typical I get Hogwarts. Just because I died here ... really.
At the end of this – when I've suffered enough, when I've realised all my existence has done to affect others, I'm not sure on exactly what I must do – I'll be called to make a decision – ghost or afterlife. What a stupid question. I don't want to go and live in the clouds with all the people I eradicated, trying to make nice, nor do I fancy hanging around Hogwarts all transparent. I mean, how ridiculous is that?
I did know a ghost once, actually. Know him well I mean, not vaguely or as a teacher. He believed in the cause, had a bit of a sob story to his death, but it was what happened after he died that interested me. He told me all these stories of Hogwarts, of previous believers. And the idea of watching your own funeral, well that holds some appeal.
The Baron, that's what he was called. Those outside of Slytherin called him the Bloody Baron, but that seems rude doesn't it? My Black training seems to have done something, hasn't it?
When I was sorted, that's when I first met him.
The hat called out Slytherin and the little girl with the grown-up face and wild black hair made her way down to an empty seat, not far from the silvery blood spattered ghost.
The Baron had been watching her since she entered, comparing the face too old for such a young body, to a face he once knew, if only for a passing moment.
"Bellatrix Black," she introduced herself to the curious Baron.
"The Baron, Ghost of Slytherin," he replied with a grin gracing his normally grim face.
"A pleasure," she had said, seemingly genuine, a trait that would soon be replaced by cruelty.
OK, so maybe that was the turning point for me, but it hardly made me cruel. Yes, I know I'm cruel, I'd have to be pretty stupid to have missed that really.
Walking alone in the empty corridor of the fake Hogwarts dead Bellatrix laughed, a cold cruel laugh, as was the only way she knew to laugh, at some internal joke.
It just developed. Who I am, that is. Death fascinates me, but not in a how can I avoid it for as long as possible or forever sort of way, more ... how many different ways can I cause it.
A young Bellatrix, only six or seven, stood smirking over her younger cousin Sirius, who was crying. Loud heart wrenching sobs racked his body as he cradled his dead owl. His first friend.
My first kill might not have been human, but it was significant. From then on Sirius hated me; I'd never cared for him much anyway. Fucking muggle loving blood traitor. I distinctly remember how I did that kill though, because I used a knife. One of those blunt-ish kitchen knives, and that owl screeched so loud. One of my few kills sans-magic, but oddly appropriate for my first, don't you think?
I told the Baron about this sometime in my second year. We got on well by then. He showed me around Hogwarts, so I was never late or lost. It was unseemly to be either.
The dead Bellatrix entered the fake Great Hall. She made her way to the Slytherin table, long black robes swishing about her. She sat and the fabric pooled around her feet, like spilt ink, on the stone floor. Her hair was just as messy as it had been upon her sorting, her eyes the same deep blackness, Her face had not changed. Her body had and so had her opinions. What had remained of her innocence back then was finally gone. She was just ... dead.
In fourth year he told me about his murder of his love, his subsequent suicide and watching his own funeral. That still appeals to me, I must admit, but I doubt I'm having a proper funeral.
The next year, I had the stress of OWLs, and he helped me through it, tutoring, explaining, calming me down easier and quicker than anyone else could even dream of.
He gave me the nickname Trixie when I finished my OWLs, just before I was about to leave for the summer. He just said, "Goodbye Trixie." and the name stuck for the next two years. Rodolphus, who was my betrothed at that point, overheard the next year, and called me it. He was in the Hospital Wing for a month.
Dead Bellatrix stood, and exited the hall, turning towards the dungeons to visit her old dorm and common room, where the Baron had often come and visited her.
It wasn't until me seventh year it kind of hit me – that I wouldn't see the Baron again. So I spent as much time with him as possible, when not studying for the NEWTs or with Rodolphus.
I started up a relationship with Rodolphus because it was my duty. I was engaged to him after all. He convinced me to use my fascination with death to help the cause. He convinced me to actively join the Dark Lord, though I had been considering it before of course. And over Easter break I got the dark mark and killed my first muggle.
"Let the new one. Let the Black girl have her first kill," Voldemort hissed. And the crowd of Death Eaters parted and a masked Bellatrix Black strode confidently forwards.
"My Lord," she bowed her head lightly, removing the mask that hid her face.
"Avada Kedavra," she spoke the words without emotion, her wand trained on the muggle woman cowering against a wall. A green light sped out of her wand, and the life left the muggle's eyes. A nod from Voldemort showed his approval. The group apparated from the scene, but not before Bellatrix raised her wand and cast the Dark Mark, "Morsmordre!"
Soon after graduation I married Rodolphus and entered the Dark Lord's inner circle. I hadn't spared a thought for the Baron until the battle in which I lost my life.
He was there when I died, floating above the battle with the other ghosts, but he was staring right at me.
Dead Bellatrix entered the fake Slytherin Common Room and sat in the chair the Baron always used to float over, looking like he was sitting. No one else had ever sat there, he didn't permit it. A lone tear ran down her gaunt cheek.
I knew he loved me, and yes, maybe I loved him. Not as a lover, but certainly more than my husband, more than anyone else. I loved him as, and I am loathe to admit even this, a friend.
But spend eternity as a ghost to be with him?
Not a chance.
A/N: There you go. Please review