They say I am mad
They say Azkaban drove me insane. They are right. And who are they you ask. They are my enemies. Ordinary witches and wizards – they do not understand what it is to be constantly tormented by past follies.
They say I am mad, and I agree.
I had a family once. Two sisters, both beautiful. One married for money, the other for love. I did neither. I married because my parents told me too. And why was that particular husband chosen? Power. What else?
I had a cousin. A cousin the same age as me. I loved my cousin. I loved him more than anything else in the world and he knew it. But I killed him.
Yes I hear you say. Yes she is mad. Do not worry, I agree.
My cousin; he was my lover long ago. A very long time ago. He was everything I knew I was not. He was brave, brave as a lion – or at least, brave enough to stand up to our family and the Dark Lord.
They thought he too was mad. But he was not. Just me.
My cousin. My cousin. He looked like me; black hair, dark blue eyes. The gracefulness of our family – catlike even.
He could stand up to our family. I could not. I married the man they wanted me too and I followed the path they wanted me too. The path where the end is hell. Hell and eternal madness.
I reached that end.
I have led a dark life. A life in which I have killed dozens of people and tortured many, many more on the orders of an insane, sick man. Lord Voldemort.
I was mad to do it. But then I am mad, aren't I?
My body is little more than a shell now. I sold my soul to the Dark Lord. Then, my soul was destroyed by the heart-wrenching loss of him.
I am mad. No one, no one can dispute that.
Yes, I killed my cousin, causing my death warrant to be signed by young Harry Potter in the exact same pocket of time. I killed Sirius. I deserve to die. Long ago he enjoyed life to the full. And I envied him. But now he cannot; because I killed him.
I wonder what Andromeda will say when she finds out what I have done. She was always his favourite cousin. But he loved me.
Yes. I am Bellatrix Lestrange and I am mad.
