Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Thank you to those who read, as well as those who reviewed. It makes me smile when I get them!

Mortals scare me. They feel things, and it is quite frightening to one who has no soul, who loves naught but the grim recognition he gains from work. And it sends me towards a dark place, when I come across them, for I must take them from love, from homes, from people. And none are all to excited to go. But, no matter how many times they scream, echoing pain across my icy chest, I repeat the simple fact told to me when I myself was created.

This is my job. This is what I must do, and you must do the same. You exist only for me, and I exist only to serve. But from my heart towards another, using the words that I can only create, I say this, and this only. I do not like it. I do not enjoy shepherding you all into the midst of a new world, alone. But it is my job, and the job prevails.

She understood. She let her tears run down my aching body, soul finally setting itself free. Bellatrix Lestrange sat up in her vessel, awaiting me, and as we departed, only spoke of sadness and truth, ignoring what she had done. The woman might have been deemed to be without a drop of pity, her heart full of the sadistic trials of Earth, but she sat forward. She accepted. We spoke of her life, and of the second sections in which our paths crossed.

How ironic that I will see these mortals no more than once, and yet, she was there for a great deal of my life. If I was even capable of love, much like Tom Riddle, then perhaps she could have been mine. I could have ripped her from the plane in which she walked, and placed her directly next to me, so that she could help gather the spirits of her own choosing, placing them deep in the desert of lies. And we could weave among ourselves, and we could love, for nobody would be able to understand her but I, and she for me.

Yet none seem to have the misfortune that she did, watching her love pass on, then observing her own marking as equal. None were required to be forced upon another human, told that they were to be her husband, and that she was to carry on the name of Black in silence. Only she. Only Bella.

But she belonged to herself.

The child had threw herself towards the bed, tossing away every ounce of dignity to break the sobs in silence, pillows forcing breath into a slower motion than necessary. But she was not a child anymore. She was indeed a warrior princess, a teenage girl above her own years. No longer would her mother offer slight words of consolation, if ever possible. No more were her sisters to spend time in her room, speaking sweetly upon theories. No. She was to prepare for the wedding, and although her age was naught but seventeen, it was to happen that summer. She was to wed a Lestrange.

In all honesty, the brothers were not horrid, though they were not her choice. If she had one, her choice would have been Lucius Malfoy. But, according to her parents, all though he was in her year, his heart belonged to Narcissa. Not by any individual choice, of course. But that was being a Pureblood. That was life.

And she hated it.

Yet there was no way of release, no other higher purpose to whisk her from the lifetime of terror. Bellatrix was stuck, forced within a twisting table of glue, her body being repeatedly torn from what she wished, what she felt. The first attempt at death had brought nothing. I could not save her. She could not save herself. The second time, if there was one, would not be enough. It could not work, now that she had to rely upon her family, to carry forward a name synonymous with Pure.

"Bella," was sung across her room, and the waterworks ceased, slits of ebony emptying themselves of emotion, feeling floating away. Slowly, the door opened itself to a man, a strong man that felt nothing as well. Rodolphus pressed his way into the strangely decorated room, his own blackening eyes gazing at the obvious obsession with the Dark Arts. How similarly his own walls were adorned, and yet, how different. Her wood was proclaimed with the Dark Lord, her own collection of books, and a scrubby corner dedicated to the art of Potions. The silver and green of her bedspread was delicate and lovely, showing off the obvious pride and money, silk spreading a luxurious look of water. His own was simply lived in, yet there was no Potions corner, no Dark Lord wall. He had his space, dedicated towards spells.

Quietly, their eyes met, and he practically threw himself towards her lips, rosy cheeks gleaming in the weak light. She gasped, she slipped, and somehow they managed to meet upon the bed, his hands scratching her sooty curls, rubbing her arms. "Bella," he gasped again. "Bella."

She froze, unable to respond, not until his lips were against hers once more, becoming more desperate in the pleas. And she shoved him, forced him away, becoming a viper awaiting attack. The water became beckoning, and he was back, and she darted away. War. It was war. Long fingers found his throat, pushing him away, and his snagged the grey of her uniform, prying it, pushing it. No. No, no. The girl raised her arm, and her walnut wand pressed towards his throat.

"No. Stop. Stop!"

His motions matched her own, and they were disheveled, the grim nothings sticking fast along her ruby lips. Panting, frightened, confused. Simply teenagers, and yet, forced by their parents to think of partaking in love. "I don't belong to you," she whispered. "I belong to myself. I belong to me."

She belonged to herself.

I collected his spirit shortly after the second Wizarding War, my palms scratchy against his cheek. Quietly, he matched her own fingers, and they walked onward, love truly filling cheeks. The rosy faced boy, the grim girl. And she still did not belong to him. She never will. She belonged to herself.

I learned her life from her own words, and I loved it as my own. But there was a time where my own path strayed from her life, connecting with her younger sister's. There was too much death in the Black family. There was too much death to bare.

"I don't understand her, Teddy, I swear! She doesn't make any sense."

The man's fingers were entwined within her own, and although they were within the boundaries of Hogwarts, and therefore subjected to humiliation, Andromeda and Ted were sauntering around the path of Hogsmeade, heads nearly touching.

"Why not? She seems to make enough sense to me. Bella wants to be left alone, love. She wants-"

He was interrupted by a wailing voice, the girl tugging him into the shadows between Zonko's and another disheveled shop. "She wants to be dead! Dead!"

It was barely a few days prior to the eldest Black's attempt to join my ranks, and although she was cleared to return to Hogwarts, both siblings had kept a particularly sharp eye upon her, glaring profusely at any one that dared to venture forth in comfort. Bellatrix did not need comfort. Bellatrix needed her sisters, or she required a great deal of anti-depressants, though in reality, it was neither. She needed me. She needed to die.

"Dro, think, love. She just needs time. She lost her best friend, she lost..."

He trailed off, pressing a swift kiss upon the woman's pale face, gently tilting her head upward to receive the next one. "She lost everything," he finished quickly, and ended the sentence with his breath mixing with her own.

"But she has me! She has me, and she-"

My entrance cut them both off, sirens tainting the air with their glory. And although I enjoyed observing the sweet words, leaning up against their lives, it was an entrance that I must make, for love was to test its barriers again. Our bodies mingled for a moment, and then we parted as one, swiftly moving towards the Three Broomsticks, the place that required my attention the most. How ironic that it is not her own story, but Bellatrix had entered this memory as well, standing out quietly in the background, just as a twisted body left itself upon the ground. The happy male's best friend.

It took a few moments to paint the picture, the orange sky soon basking them in an eerie light, and as every soul took in the peaceful recognition of my handiwork, I had lifted the boy from his body, and we settled of in a placid gliding motion. Nobody screamed. Nobody cried. They simply took one another's hands, walking closer to search for the cause. And the cause, she jumped backwards, tearing herself away. Only her sister recognized the motion. Only her sister understood.

"Well," Andromeda muttered in a bitter tone, sweeping herself away. "She does belong to herself. Apparently he couldn't respect that."

Both Black's melted into the dark orange light, and Ted Tonks slipped to his knees, attempting to keep his heart from ripping, his life from shattering. He had lost a brother, and faith in his love. Could it not simply work? Could nothing work? I had ruined his life, and hers.

But the boy deserved it, for she belonged to herself.

Alrighty, then. This one proved to be much shorter than the last, showing only two stories. I'm sorry if it sucks, if you're confused, or if you hate it. But tell me, please! Review, or at least favorite.

Completely Sirius,

Shadow