A/N: Bellatrix Lestrange has to be the most interesting villian JK Rowling created. It seems that every single Black family member is this intricate, complex character that just begs to be explored. This story is the result of many thoughts of what Bella might have thought during her last moments. I tried to capture her unique personality, with the deep insanity she has coupled with her love of Voldemort. I can only hope I did her justice.

As for the title, Bellatix means "female warrior" in Latin. It is also the name of a star in the constellation Orion. Sometimes, this same star is called the Amazon Star.

Disclaimer: I own none of these wonderful characters.

The Amazon Star

I am in Hogwarts. I am in the Great Hall, where I spent many days, ate many meals, joked with many pureblood friends.

I am in Hell on earth.

All I can see is Sirius' face dancing before me, taunting me as he did just two years ago. He snarls, his face twisting, the anger and hatred marring his features. He hisses my name—

And the vision is gone, as if it never existed. My grip on my wand tightens; I've no remorse for the murder of my cousin. He was weak; he did not deserve to live. Only a true Black would be able to kill another, and I did just that. Sirius forfeited all family ties when he ran away. He also forfeited any compassion I might have held for him, as a member our family. Which, thankfully, I had none, even before his act of treason, not only to my family, but to the Dark Lord himself.

My eyes snap open, cold and calculating. I know my limits. I know my strengths. I know what I must do.

I am here, fighting, so that my Lord's reign may finally start—and no little baby with mysterious powers will stop it this time. My Lord has made sure of that. And I have made sure my family will no longer ruin my chances of being favored—Andromeda's brat is dead, as is her disgusting werewolf husband. I have been honored to kill in my Master's name, for my Master's good. To empower him, to rise in his ranks; this is what I've always wanted. To become a queen in the Death Eaters. To show my loyalty.

To die for my Lord.

And so I fight.

I am dueling three young witches, all easily defeated: the Granger mudblood, the Weasley blood-traitor, and Xeno Lovegood's daughter—I don't know her name, but it doesn't matter. I can kill all three quickly. My Killing Curse misses the Weasley girl by an inch . . .

. . . and then there is her mother, Molly, cursing at me, and I laugh—this is too easy; she is a mediocre witch, and another Weasley will die today.

I know already of the first Weasley death—they all deserve much worse punishment than death for the treason they have done, by befriending muggles and muggle-borns; by just living in defiance of my Master, by mocking us . . .

Molly is better than I thought, and my grin of triumph soon turns to a snarl; I suddenly know that I am not the only one fighting to kill—she is ready to kill too. I had not known that she was capable of such a Death Eater trait. The very thought that we have made Molly bend, and break, and stoop so low pushes adrenaline through my pureblood veins. I am so close. So very close to that ultimate goal. So close to being done with these horrid creatures. So close to finally proving my devotion to my Master.

I mock Molly as she turns, saying, "What will happen to your children when I've killed you? When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?" I have pushed this woman to her edge. I smell her defeat coming. With the righteous anger that fuels her spells, she will never win. She is too innocent, too sheltered. She has not seen what I have seen, experienced what I have—she never saw the inside of Azkaban, never felt the icy chill of a Dementor's touch. Nonetheless, I see her eyes change—she is enraged at my words, and now her spells are more vicious, no longer simple—she reflects in herself a desire that I also feel—the desire to see the other dead, killed by one's own hand, the spell a product of bitterness and malice.

My eyes see another in front of me, however—I see my once beloved sister, her own eyes flashing. She knows; she has knowledge of my deed against her daughter. She condemns me for it; she dooms me. Andromeda, that wicked girl who dared to leave—she now forces my hand; her fingers brush my arm, and I hear her voice inside my head, whispering of my failure.

It's been a bloody coup d'état. But I'd been nearly certain that the rest of the defenders of Hogwarts would surrender after the death of their leader—obviously, I was wrong. I'd thought that instead of more battles, it would be a mass killing; easier, quicker, better than this slow way of destroying the resistance left in the halls of Hogwarts. My Master had thought, with Snape as Headmaster, that there would be no students on Potter's side . . .

I am jerked back to the present when Molly's spell flies past. I turn and shoot another curse; she will not walk away from this fight. I wonder at her audacity; she stills fights on, like a lioness protecting her cubs.

She tells me I won't touch her children again, and I roar with the ridiculousness of it—she still actually believes she can beat me! Then—then, I see her curse, under my arm, hitting my chest—

My grin freezes—

My eyes feel as if they have left my head—

I know what's she done . . .

And I hear my Master's scream of rage . . .

And then—blackness—

. . . and King's Cross Station . . .