A/N: Harry Potter and its characters are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. I am making no money from this, and this is just a work of fanfiction.

That out of the way, a few important things to note before you read this:

This isn't time travel. The Harry here isn't a time traveller; he is the first born of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, and at the beginning of this fic he is in his sixth year.

This fic is set in the early 70s. The exact date isn't important, but it's an AU (entirely AU, tbh, except for the characters and the magical system; and I can promise that the latter will have no mention of a magical core or any other abomination that seeks to emulate a chakra system, as in Naruto) that aims to chronicle Voldemort's rise the first time around.

I've tried to envision a young Bellatrix who isn't anything like the usual ones you stumble across in Harry x Bellatrix fanfictions; in fact, I would argue that I've at least tried to keep her character mostly true to canon, minus, of course, the random bouts of madness that fortunately or unfortunately seemed to plague her canon counterpart. To this end, she hasn't been shown as the pure hearted victim of some obscure marriage contract that for some reason warps her mind, or as a muggle and muggle born loving 'rebellious' pureblood in the mould of Sirius. She isn't an 'ice-queen' either (a term I am well aware is usually used with fanon Daphne Greengrass; the canon version, obviously, was once accidentally mentioned in a sentence and never given the dignity of having a dialogue to deliver), so keep that in mind. Despite all this, it is hard to not reduce Bellatrix to a caricature (if only taken too far the other way), but I shall try my best.

The ages of a few characters have been varied (I know, for instance, that Bellatrix canonically graduated from Hogwarts in the early sixties). I request you to overlook this, as this isn't a treatment that has been indiscriminately applied. You would, in fact, be better off treating this as a self sufficient fic that borrows a few details (magical system included) from canon.

I might make a few additions to this A/N if, around halfway through this work, certain things are still unclear, but for now I think that will be all.

With that out of the way, let us begin.

The Journey

The preparatory hoot of a whistle—five minutes to go. A discordant chorus on the platform, whispers hundred and a dozen bellows. The silken rustle of robes. The frazzled rasp of faded cloth worn by mudbloods in the throng. Moist eyes everywhere; moist eyes, and heavy bodies blindly, clunkily bumbling forward with outstretched arms, into outstretched arms. Embraces exchanged.

There is an air of triteness to all this, Bellatrix thought, peering through the metal bars of her coach, one hand under her chin. Wish the damn thing would move. Here I sit, a witness to sloppy hugs and infuriating, sobbingly bade farewells. Look at that pimply little pig over there with mottled pink cheeks. She's slobbering all over her pedestrian mother. Her calves are the size of an oak tree's bark, and her slender fingers wriggle like little worms— I can see them peeking out of her mother's rumpled coat; the little bint won't let go. Someday she will become a harlot who attaches herself to the arm of and spreads her legs for some knobby kneed fool preaching harmony in Wizengamot. Scum on earth.

She inched away from the window and fiddled with her hair; her mind rooted through the crowded locker of her emotions and morosely fished out a drape of boredom for her countenance; her body for a few moments made a languid acquaintance with indolence; then she uncoiled as though slowly waking from a dream, uncrossed her legs, stretched, yawned, reached into her school robes, and let her fingers close around the well-worn handle of her wand. It aroused in her a sudden burst of giddy pleasure, and for one short second she felt the slightest sliver of adoration for her surroundings: the stuffy compartment with its sliding doors; the glassy eyed clowns outside, flapping their arms and miming good-bye; the stupid students noisily striding up and down the train as they tried to locate friends or find for themselves seats; and for Hogwarts! Beautiful Hogwarts, with its hallowed hallways and its labyrinth of dungeons and dark places; Hogwarts, where, if one were clever (as she was), one could reach out and grasp power, and twist it to set one on the course to greatness and glory.

The adoration, like a tremulous wave, tried suffusing her soul with colour. Like a tittering high society host straining to converse over the cacophony of a crowded room, it tried engaging her mind in innocent, incessant chatter (thoughts) about things trivial—breakfast, boys, the braids in Dumbledore's beard, their father's antiquated bow that Cissy had this summer broken; but, in the face of the tedium of that monotonous Monday morn, it failed.

The train trilled out one last warning. Her thoughts turned to other things.

Summer was dull. When was it ever otherwise? She had to tolerate the company of her stupid sisters. Cissy, the airhead with little ambition for whom she at least had some affection, and that filthy blood traitor Andromeda (oh, but how Andy denied it; how, while red in the face, she claimed she had nothing, nothing at all to do with some of the lousy mudblood filth who, perhaps for the privilege of someday stroking her wet cunt, bestowed her with their simpering affections and with mundane offers of friendship) whom she could not yet put out of her misery. Family! What in them could one admire? The adults deprived her the privilege of their society, treating her as though she were a touch me not; and her cousin, now in his second year, with whom she as a consequence was forced to fraternize, was a witless mediocrity. Sirius would meet a sticky end—preferably at the tip of her wand. Gryffindor, and proud of it! Poor aunt Walburga, forever wringing her hands at the obscene actions of her child. Why, if she, Bellatrix, were to ever bring to life such a barbarous beast, then perhaps she would, while giving it suck, pluck from its smiling mouth her nipple and dash against the sharpest of rocks its thankless head.

The train shuddered spasmodically and began to pull away with a languid chug chug, lazily exhaling little puffs of smoke; then, with a roar, it gathered pace, and the waving wizards and weeping witches were soon specks in the distance, a smattering of insects that crawled on the shrinking platform. Like a serpent slithering out of its hole, Bellatrix thought, watching as they wound their way around a bend; Salzar Slytherin would be proud.

The compartment doors slid open, and in tumbled a dishevelled Dolohov, trunk in hand. Behind him was Lucius Malfoy, who no doubt already had another seat in some other portion of the train, but nonetheless had decided to make rounds. Flanking Malfoy were his brainless cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

"Nowhere else to sit," said Dolohov, plopping down next to her and dropping his trunk at her feet. "Hope you don't mind." He was a seventh year she'd acquainted last year. His grey eyes favoured her with a quick wink as he scratched at the faint red marks on the underside of his face. Scars. They hadn't been on his face when she had last seen him, which was two months ago.

Malfoy slid opposite her, and a goon took up a position on the left and the other on the right. He was four feet across, and this close she could see the smattering of acne that had awkwardly sprung up on his pale face. He was in her year and a family friend; the Malfoys were filthy rich, and it was in her best interests to sprinkle their silly scion's feet with gentle kisses, and to liberally slather his juvenile mind with sugary praise and honeyed worship.

Which, of course, is why she began by insulting him.

"Is ickle Lucy lost?" she cooed. "I saw him on the platform, sad eyed, delivering to his mother's broad back three perfunctory blows because she wouldn't let go," and now she grinned in delight, heavy lids stretched upward, violet eyes glinting more in mischief than malice, voice rising in a falsetto, "oh, how he finally wriggled free, and raised his pointy widdle chin, and thrust out a solemn hand for his father to shake! Royalty with poise and dignity, I say. Thank you for showing us mudblood lovers the way."

A bead of sweat, which had accumulated on the underside of his right eye, navigated, like a muddy stream, the streaky bristles and ugly erosions on his face before trickling down his jaw and disappearing into his robes through the slight slit at the neckline. Then he raised a ringed hand, well-manicured, and swatted his right cheek. His lips let loose a sibilant sigh and, like a seam splitting, pulled apart to reveal a rueful smile. It reminded her of a ghastly grin she'd once spied in a magazine, on the ruined face of an inferi.

"Lost, indeed," he said with a laugh. "This is the thanks I get for trying to find you." He inclined his head to the right. "We'd saved you a seat, Bella— the usual lot, I mean. Rodolphus, Rosier, Amycus, Alecto…" He raised an eyebrow. "You did not show. Someone else took the seat. A minute ago, Narcissa came by with a few friends of hers, and she said you were here. Besides," he pointed to the shiny badge on his chest, "it's my duty to do the rounds."

"And of those mountain trolls to follow you, no doubt," she said, eyeing Crabbe and Goyle. "Your concern for my wellbeing is touching. Did you contract dragon pox over the summer? Hide those spots, they look ugly."

Yet again he consciously reached up and patted his cheek, and yet again he decided not to rise to her bait. He did not, in fact, like her. Never had: not when he first met her, aged seven, at a party at the Black manor; nor later, in their first year together, when they'd both been sorted into Slytherin and suffered the fate of sharing both a common room and a common table for potions; and nor after that, despite her keeping well out of his way for the most part. The blunt bitch thought too highly of her ability, as though she were the second coming of Merlin...why, not even Potter had a similar level of arrogance! He did not appreciate being talked to in this manner— but the others had insisted that he go, look, and double back to let them know what sorry excuse she had this year for sitting separately; and he could hardly refuse, could he? What would he say? He was a Malfoy, and it was his duty to embrace the diplomacy that he hoped would someday feel more a part of him and less like an attached limb. Eccentric bitch. The games they all played were juvenile, and he had decided a while ago that he hated them all. But it never hurt to cultivate these relationships— if you could even call them that—; for, as his father had informed him, this is what they thrived on; these relationships would someday, in some way, benefit him. So he smiled and bore what two years ago he would've raged at. His eyes flitted over to Dolohov, and he too noticed the scars; and also the partially open mouth, which revealed uneven teeth— the incisors protruding ever so slightly, one chipped and the other yellow. And Lucius was sure that he too was judging him, and expecting from him some sort of rebuttal that would restore to his name the dignity owed to a Malfoy. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

"Shall I tell them that you have no intention of joining them?" he asked in clipped tones. He suspected that Rodolphus had begun to take a romantic interest in Black. Poor dull Lestrange.

"I will visit them if there is nothing better to do. Now shoo." And with a flick of her wrist, she indicated that he—he, Lucius Malfoy! — was dismissed. To Dolohov she turned, while Malfoy for a second sat as though she had stunned him, or worse, struck him across the face. Then he rose to his feet, pried open the compartment door, indicated to his goons that they were to follow, and, with an ironic bow, took leave.

"Good kid," Dolohov said, as the door slid shut. "Thicker than he thinks he is, but good. The right sort. Rich, yes. Very rich. But his heart's in the right place." Here he paused, and cast out of the window his gaze; some friendly foliage in jerky motions slipped out of sight. He pulled from his pocket a wand and conjured a paper cup. From a dusty bag by his feet emerged a battered bottle, inside which a bright brown liquid swirled.

"Profound," Bellatrix said, rolling her eyes. "Pass me the firewhiskey. How was your summer?"

"Great," he said, and then again, more slowly, "best I've had," and, seeing the interest that flickered on her face, elaborated. "Met a few people. Did a few things. The world is changing, Ms. Black, and I've found—I've found that I wish to be a part of something greater. This change, it's for me; this change makes me happy."

Perhaps it was the cup of firewhiskey she clutched in her hand and hesitantly sipped that made her more alert. The train rattled. The whiskey sloshed. She studied with care his manner. Cool. Carefree. Calculated. This had been rehearsed a hundred times. He wasn't naive, and neither was she. A seventh year she wasn't close friends with wouldn't, with such freedom, say something so open ended, nor would he so carelessly drum up such intrigue. This was no confession that his skittish soul had urged him to spit out in a warbled whisper; nor was it something that he, in a burst of ecstasy, had felt the urge to confide— no, not a seventh year; not a Slytherin.

An invitation to probe further, then. A token of tentative trust, by someone whose ideals mirrored hers. This conversation, or some variation of it, she was sure, would be repeated in corridors, in classrooms, in other coaches on this very train, always in secrecy— secrecy was key. The papers, that to this day printed with impunity their muggle propaganda, had mentioned instances that to the filth and their putrid brains would without doubt seem merely coincidental; however, to those that in every scribbled word searched for the scourge that to all things mundane would bring an end; to those that night and day pored over every piece of paper in the hope that they would in some way glean something—some vital chain of events, perhaps, that promised a purge, a reclamation of society; there were obvious tells: the odd disappearance; the innocuous declaration that lord Rosier due to ill health had stepped down and turned over his vast wealth and his seat in Wizengamot to his son, who, if the things whispered about him were true, was tired of their cowering ways and wished to restore to the wizarding world its glory days; an advert on page nine that in four crisp sentences said something about the Knights of Walpurgis...hundreds of little things that she had over the previous year and a half spotted, and that when added up meant…

The door was wrenched open. Red hair, rumpled robes, fidgeting feet, freckled face; there, in the doorway, like a quidditch keeper trying make himself big and fill the frame of a hoop, stood the Gryffindor keeper, Fabian Prewett.

Bellatrix exhaled and leant back. The moment was gone.

Fabian found himself the object of twin stares, both hostile. Perhaps, perhaps it wasn't all that good an idea—

"What do you want?"

Those violet eyes were regarding him with inquisitiveness and irritation. He screwed up his courage. He was, after all, a Gryffindor, and he had vowed—

"Well?"

"I was wonder—" he began; but the sound was all wrong; it was not manly rumble he'd intended it to be, but an undignified squeak that on 'wonder'— to his detached wonderment— cannibalized itself; and there he stood for a moment with a flaming face and an open mouth, in silence.

"Have you taken a bludger too many to the head, Prewett?" Bellatrix asked, and as she sipped from her cup he could see her luscious lips curl into an O—

"Would ya—would ya go to Hogsmeade with me?" he blurted out.

The only indication she gave that she'd heard him was a raised eyebrow. Her companion sniggered. Smug faced bastard. Fabian suddenly felt light headed; his face was flushed and his heart a drum—

She methodically, ever so methodically, set down her cup, cleared her throat, brought together her palms, turned to him, and with a dimpled smile that to him seemed oh so charming, said:

"No. Now bugger off."

He stepped out and, with a shaking hand, shut the door. An apology had been at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't quite trust himself to deliver it. Then, with vague laughter ringing in his ears, he scurried through the corridor, barely avoiding barrelling into a food trolley. Then he roused, from the agony of rejection, his numb heart. This, admittedly, was easy to do; no disappointment, till date, had kept him down for over five minutes. He cast about for the compartment where he'd left his luggage, found it, slid open the door. It'd been empty when he'd ambled away to confess his passions; it was no longer so.

"Harry!" he cried. "You all right? Been two months, mate."

Harry Potter, who with a hunched back had been poring over a textbook, started, straightened, and set down the text on the seat next to him. Harry's eyes met Fabian's, observed the scarlet ears and the vermeil brow—they complemented his carmine hair well. He sighed.

"What've you got yourself into this time?" he asked.

Fabian seated himself and grimaced.

"I asked out Bellatrix Black."

Harry removed his spectacles and wiped them against the sleeve of his shirt.

"Asked out Black," he said placidly. "That known blood supremacist, who by all accounts hates blood traitors?"

Fabian stared at his battered trunk in sullen silence.

"Black only goes out with posh bigots. Even I know this, Fabian—your sister told me."

"You say something about not having two knuts to rub together, and I swear—"

"You asked her out on the Hogwarts express. What's wrong with you?"

"Not gonna ask how it went?"

"Oh," Harry slipped his spectacles back on, "went swimmingly, I'm sure." He could feel a laugh bubble up inside him over Fabian's downcast face. "Why the express, again?"

"I—it's the only place a slytherin isn't slytherin," and, seeing Harry's confused face, he quickly clarified, "she's around others at school. Couldn't approach then. Malfoy left her compartment, and I thought— Frank tried it with that slytherin half-blood last year, and it worked." he shrugged helplessly, and his shoulders slumped. "Merlin, I'm dumb at times. But she's so pretty, and I—" he groaned.

"At times?" But Harry was smiling. To him, Fabian was more than an acquaintance. He'd spoken to him for the first time a year and a half ago. Harry was then in his fourth year. He'd been dating Molly Prewett, then in her sixth year and now out of Hogwarts. That relationship had lasted three months and ended without acrimony. But before it ended, Fabian had approached Harry. I'll duel you to the death to defend my sister's honour, he'd said, gnawing at his lower lip and refusing to maintain eye contact. Then, as if suddenly possessed by a malevolent spirit, he'd pulled out his wand, flailed his arms, gnashed his teeth, and cried: I'll kill you— I'll kill you if you hurt her. And when Harry, struggling to keep a straight face—Fabian had failed Defence against the Dark Arts, and needed remedial classes over the summer to make it to year four—, had favoured him with a solemn nod, he'd stowed his wand into his robes and scampered off.

The next day, in Slughorn's class, Fabian had occupied the seat next to him.

"Please don't tell Molly," he'd mumbled. "She'll kill me."

And thus had begun an unlikely relationship. Harry hadn't yet found a term for it; it was not friendship, and yet it was more than mere acquaintance.

"Say," said Fabian, drawing him out of his thoughts and back to their bland compartment, "didn't you floo to school last year? Dumbledore's fireplace? Why by train this time?"

"He's, uh, gone to Germany for some summit," Harry said. "Told me to take the train."

"Probably teaches you all sortsa things, eh? You're lucky, man. So lucky." But behind the awe in his eyes, there swirled— perhaps even unknown to Fabian himself, thought Harry— a baser sentiment, envy. It was a pity that, even spectacled, he, Harry, could see through most people with such ease. There was no blame to be attributed here; these were sensations, he was sure, he too would feel if their roles were reversed. However, he couldn't help but resent Fabian for the timely reminder as to why he had a few people he hung out with, but no friends.

"A few things," Harry said with a shrug. "Listen, I've got to go to the prefects' compartment. I guess I'll see you at school?"

He stood, picking up his book as he did so. Fabian's nod and his weak attempt at a playful jibe were duly ignored. Within the hour, the train would grind to a halt, and then, as they soared through the sky in thestral pulled carriages, the silhouette of the castle—their school—would loom large. Professor Dumbledore. He wished at times that the headmaster hadn't so callously thrust upon him— but no; no, the headmaster was a kind man, and this was not the time for such ingratitude. No, he was many things, but never ungrateful.

His nagging conscience, however, conjured up echoes of the disagreement that he'd had that morning with his parents, over breakfast, in front of James. His raised voice, their wearied ones—it was always over the same thing, the same damn thing. He'd noticed the worried glances James had tentatively thrown his way, and now he felt bad for the contempt that he felt for his little brother at that moment; it wasn't James's fault that he was a second year that knew so little about magic, about freedom, and it was unfair to expect him to understand—

And his resentment, Harry's resentment, that over the whole summer had been steadily building, had made him say some truly horrible things….

But they had consented. Merlin, he'd finally made them, and for that he was happy.

The door to the prefects' compartment had, engraved on it, a snitch, and as he stretched out a hand to slide it open, its fluttering wings seemed to tell him that he too was about to take flight.

A/N: I'm re-uploading this, as I have an urge to continue it.

Reviews are much appreciated, and I have no issues with criticism either, so please feel free to offer whatever feedback you wish to. See ya at the next update, if you're still around. Regards.