Our Father
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns everything!
My mother had two children – my older brother and myself. My brother, Julius, was a powerful wizard. When he was born forty years ago, my father was thrilled. He finally had an heir to ensure the continuation of the Dumbledore line. He always had only cared about himself. My mother, Minerva, was desperately in love with him – he could care less. The only reason he chose her to bear his children was because she is the most powerful witch alive. My mother's friends have told me that after Julius's birth, my father indulged her infatuation with him a bit. He gave her a job at Hogwarts as the Transfiguration professor, Head of Gryffindor House, and Deputy Headmistress. Those ten years when my father had just become Headmaster were the happiest times of my mother's life.
Julius's death – the result of a Quidditch accident – changed everything.
Not only was my mother mourning the loss of her only child (at the time, at least), but she was being punished by my father. He did not harm her physically, which would have been easier to bear, but the psychological damage he caused was irreversible. He ignored her, paraded other women around the castle, and more until she collapsed from her traumatisation.
She was transferred to St. Mungo's for observation on her mental state. While she was there, my father visited her.
Nine months later, I was born.
My father, I have been told, was ecstatic about my upcoming birth.
I disappointed him by being a girl.
My father wanted my mother to give me up for adoption, which she did. He didn't want me dead in case I showed strong magical powers later on.
I arrived at Hogwarts knowing nothing about my adoption. I had always assumed that the Blacks were my birth parents.
They weren't.
Although I was a Slytherin, Professor McGonagall had always been my favourite professor. Three months before I graduated from Hogwarts, she told me the truth.
I, Bellatrix Black, was not really a Black.
I was a Dumbledore.
I understood why my mother had given me up – my father had too much influence over her. She was not to blame for being weak – he had manipulated her. She wasn't a Slytherin, after all, but a Gryffindor. It was an easy enough job to do. But it doesn't excuse my father's actions.
I paid him back by killing his favourite student's Godfather – the man I had known as my cousin, Sirius Black.
Sirius's death led to Harry Potter's absolute fury at Dumbledore. My father was despondent.
Now he knew how my mother felt.
I had my revenge.
Now, my mother is pregnant again.
I hope my new sibling will be put up for adoption, too – our father is too dangerous to deal with unarmed – both against his intrusions into the mind and his prowess at magic.
Growing up as a Black gave me a fighting chance at getting revenge.
I hope my new sibling is given that chance as well.