This chapter contains (non-graphic) torture. For those who don't want to read backstory, you can skip the first block of italics.


In one dark corner of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix dreamt.

She was back in the old training room at the Department, the other recruits moaning with exhaustion beside her as they battled their way through the obstacle course. Sending jinxes and hexes in every direction, she watched as the test-dummies dropped like flies all around. Rushing forward, she left the others behind. The first one through, once again.

"Black! Get over here!" Moody shouted from his perch in the corner, and she walked toward him wearily, knowing what was coming.

"What?" she demanded, terse. "Sir," she remembered to add, at the last second.

The Auror grinned at her cheek, but his scarred lip made it look more like a sneer. "Nearly five minutes? You're getting sloppy, kid. I think you can do better than that. Go again."

Bellatrix grunted in irritation, mopping sweat from her forehead with an unladylike motion. "Why? I'm still ahead of all these other morons," she whined.

"You said you want a recommendation to the Hit Wizards - well you're gonna have to earn it. Now. Go. Again," he said, tone leaving no room for argument. As she turned around with a dramatic sigh, he added, "You're still too slow. Cut your time in half, then we'll talk."

Clenching her fists, Bellatrix fought to keep silent. It was pointless to argue with Moody. He was relentless, pushing her harder than the rest of them, always denying her praise, picking at her weaknesses ruthlessly…

The bastard was obviously trying to goad her into quitting the program, but she would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction. Even if she was only here because they wanted to use her. Even if they seemed determined to drive her mad though "surprise" inspections and sheer exhaustion. She was a Black, and Blacks finished what they started. Always.

She walked back to starting position in a haze of furious determination. The course rearranged itself the moment she stepped up, the wooden figures aligning before her in dueling stance.

"Hey," a quiet voice called her, and Bellatrix stopped short as a hand tugged on her elbow. Turning, she saw that it was the Fawley girl, standing before her with that typical mocking smile. "Water?" she offered, gesturing to her flask.

Bellatrix looked between the girl and the flask in confusion, as though the offer was the strangest she'd ever heard. But before she could answer, Fawley brought the metal to her lips and took a long swig. "It's not poison," she smirked.

Yes it is, a voice in Bella's head screamed desperately, even as she took the outstretched flask and bought it to her mouth, replacing those smirking lips with her own. Hating the thought. And yet -

And yet…

As though her mind wouldn't let itself enter those dangerous waters, Bellatrix woke with a start.

Every joint protested as she gingerly picked herself up from the floor, reminding her that she wasn't in her thirties - or, gods forbid, her twenties - anymore. For a dazed minute, she squirted at her surroundings, trying to figure out where the hell she was, and then -

"Miss Bellatrix is awake!" came a squeal, one that could no longer be contained. "Kreacher is so happy!"

Her head snapped towards the sound, and to her immense surprise, Bellatrix saw her old house elf practically kneeling at her feet. "K-kreacher?" she stuttered, completely nonplussed.

The little elf clasped his hands together, looking at her with teary eyes. "Oh, Kreacher never thought he would see Miss Bellatrix again!"

"I ...um…" she faltered for words. "Does Narcissa know you're here?

"Oh yes, Miss Narcissa has sent Kreacher to ask Miss Bellatrix to lunch!" he nodded enthusiastically, and she knew he'd probably been standing there for a long time, hours perhaps, unwilling to wake her.

"Very well," she said, hiding her unease behind a mask of indifference. But the truth was that seeing the elf again brought a sharp pang to her chest, though she couldn't have described the feeling if she tried, except to say that it was like seeing a ghost from another life. A life where she still had Andromeda, still had her mother, still had her innocence. But it didn't seem quite real anymore; Azkaban had drawn a pall over those years, and the memories came hazy, if they came at all.

They made their way to the dining room in silence, and she allowed Kreacher to hold the door for her, though it caused the aged creature tremendous effort to push the heavy wood.

"Nice of you to join us at last," Narcissa remarked casually, though her eyes were piercing her with their questions, scanning every inch with what Bellatrix mentally referred to as the "mum look". True, it was thanks to Narcissa's efforts over the past few months that she'd regained some measure of her magic and her sanity, but to admit it was far too much to ask.

"I need my beauty sleep, Cissy," she ground out, hating her sister's ever-so-subtle fussing. Kreacher pulled out her chair with a great heave, and she sank into it carelessly, looking upon the lunch spread with distaste, her stomach was threatening revolt every minute.

At the far end of the table, Lucius made his presence known. "Yes well," he muttered nastily from behind his paper, "Passing out by the toilet every night seems to be doing wonders for your complexion."

"Lucius!" Narcissa gasped in shock. "How can you speak to her that way?"

Instead of answering, the blond wizard merely turned a page.

Drawing a shaking breath to reign in her anger, Narcissa raised her wand and fired a hex with vicious precision. It struck the paper dead-center, leaving a gaping hole that quickly burned away at the edges, until the whole thing crumbled to dust in her husband's lap.

A silent stand-off ensued, as the Malfoys tried to out-shout each other with eyes alone, and Bella tried hard not to snort into her tea. The two of them had been having a non-stop tiff since '74, punctuated with frequent bouts of make-up sex, which Bellatrix had most unfortunately once walked in on.

Finally, some unspoken consensus was reached, and Lucius picked up another copy of the Prophet, while Narcissa turned to her with a rather stiff smile.

"Isn't it wonderful to have Kreacher back with us?" she gushed, glancing at the little elf, who seemed to be glowing with pride. "It's impossible to find good help these days - it's really a dying art. I'm hoping he can teach our other elves how to properly carry out their duties."

Bellatrix raised her eyebrow at this overboard flattery. They were all fond of the old elf, certainly, but Narcissa's meaningful gaze seemed to imply that there were other matters at hand.

"Poor Kreacher has been stuck at Grimmauld all these years," Narcissa explained pointedly. "Until Cousin Sirius kicked him out."

"Well, he was always a little idiot," Bellatrix murmured, as the pieces begun to come together in her head. They could use Kreacher to get to Sirius, and they could use Sirius to get to the Order.

All of a sudden, she felt a surge of gratitude for her sister. Narcissa could have taken this to her husband, but she was handing it to Bellatrix instead, knowing that the other witch needed something to rekindle the Dark Lord's confidence in her. And she was doing it right under Lucius' self-important nose.

Sparing a glance for the blond-haired wizard, who was still engrossed in his newspaper and clearly believed himself above discussing such matters as housekeeping, Bellatrix choked back a gasp as she caught sight of a photo on the front page.

"Who is this?" she demanded, snatching the Prophet away and bringing it right to her nose to squint at the little image.

"That is Harry Potter," Lucius huffed in irritation. "Surely even you must know that."

"Not him," she hissed, "Her." Throwing down the paper, she pointed at the figure standing behind the boy, the face in profile, dim in his shadow.

Lucius shrugged. "Some mudblood schoolgirl, I think."

"Granger," Narcissa added. "Or some such thing. She is in Draco's year."

No, Bellatrix thought, it's impossible. It was just a dream, a vision…

But how could her mind recreate an exact image of a girl she'd never met? Her features were blurry in the photo, but it was unmistakably the same face, the same dark curls.

"Speaking of filth," Lucius went on, blind to his sister-in-law's bewilderment, "The Dark Lord has asked me to pass on a request. We have in our custody a certain Emmeline Vance. I think you'll remember her from the war?"

Forcing her attention from the girl in the picture, Bellatrix sneered at Lucius, knowing that it galled him to play messenger-boy to his rival. "And what is this request?" she asked, all false sweetness.

"The Dark Lord wants you to find out the nature of her business at the Muggle Ministry," Lucius grudgingly admitted.

Her smirk widened. "Let me guess...you already tried, couldn't get anything out of her, hmmm?" she goaded. "Realized you needed the big guns?"

He opened his mouth to retaliate, glanced at his wife, whose expression was dark with warning, and thought better of it. "She's in the dungeons," he said instead.

"Well," she stretched leisurely and stood, addressing her sister, "I suppose duty calls."

It was all she could do to resist the temptation to stick her tongue out at Malfoy, though she did give him a subtle pat on the head as she walked by, careful to hide the gesture from Cissy. She knew he would seethe over it until dinner, at least, and the thought filled her with glee. You had to take your pleasure however you could in this life, after all.

Kreacher watched her go, adoration writ large on his grubby features, and she spared him a nod. But the second the door closed behind her, the second she was alone in the hall, something like dread seized her gut and refused to let go.

The walk to the basement seemed endless.

Yellow-haired Malfoy ancestors stared down upon her from all directions, judging silently. Why did she feel like she was going to her own interrogation, her own execution? Why did the lush carpets beneath her feet suddenly resemble the cold, wet flagstones of Azkaban?

I am Bellatrix bloody Lestrange, she told herself sternly.

But her ears were ringing with the distant echo of wailing. There was death in the air, and it tasted like the sea.

Feared by thousands, a voice in her head insisted.

She had the distinct sensation of being dragged forward, as though against her will.

Feared by millions! the voice screamed.

Merlin, she hadn't had to give herself a pre-torture pep-talk since she was a girl.

And suddenly, the door to the dungeons was before her, ominous and uncompromising, demanding that she enter. She'd made that walk a dozen times at least - waited for the anticipation to build, listened for their fearful breathing beyond - so why should it bother her now?

But before she could consider the question, the choice was made, and the door opened. It was one of Lucius's lackeys, gesturing her inside, where, in the center of the dingy little cell, a witch knelt.

Emmeline Vance was a dreadful picture, with her tattered hair and bloody mouth, made even more disconcerting when she smiled grimly. "Bellatrix." Her voice was hardly more than a rasp, and it grated on the dark witch's nerves like nails on a chalk board. "It's been a long time."

"Emmeline." She nodded, tone almost courteous, noticing that the woman sported a black eye and a bruised jaw - the marks of a true amateur. Lucius' doing, no doubt.

Legilimency was always her first line of attack, but after a cursory look through the woman's mind, Bellatrix knew it was useless. Dumbledore enchanted all of his minions with secrecy spells that couldn't be broken, and Vance, as she vaguely remembered, was a competent Occlumens.

Pacing the cell in circles to build her captive's anxiety, Bellatrix tested the waters: "Why don't you tell me what you're doing poking around the Muggle government."

"You know I can't do that," Vance replied, her gaze unfaltering. Bellatrix studied her - the way she held herself, not stiff at all, as though preparing her body to take a beating - and knew she had a true believer on her hands.

It was a pity, really. Bellatrix infinitely preferred a coward; they understood the language of punishment and reward, of pain and respite.

"Is there any Veritaserum?" she tossed out casually, eyeing the hulking wizard in the corner.

"Snape's all out," the man responded, trying and failing to keep the fear from his voice. It seemed her reputation preceded her. "He's trying to make some, though."

"Fine," she snapped, cursing Snape and his uncanny ability to conveniently ruin everything. She turned back to her prisoner. "Well I suppose you're out of luck, then. Crucio."

The spell flowed glumly from her wand, hitting Vance in the chest and sending her sprawling backward. She counted down from ten in her head, dispassionately watching the spasms conquer the woman's body. The first salvo really set the entire tone: too much, and the victim would give in and plead for death immediately; too little, and they'd be emboldened to hold out longer.

"Tell me what you're doing with the Muggles," Bellatrix demanded. "Spying for Dumbledore? Spying on their Minister? Tell me!"

Vance flinched at the sound of her voice, but struggled to sit up. "No," she said, her voice like gravel.

The woman was strong, Bellatrix would certainly give her that, having herself been on the other end of the wand many a time. But she doubted if Vance realized that this little dance was just a charade: Bellatrix already knew she'd get no confessions from the witch, but she would learn all she needed from her body language, those involuntary responses that only the trained eye could catch. That was the real point here - to overwhelm the conscious mind with pain so that the victim would forget to lie convincingly.

"Crucio," she cast again, stronger this time. But even as she held the spell, her concentration wavered, and she had to fight to maintain the intensity. Shadowed faces swam before her eyes, mouths agape with silent screams, trying to suck her in.

"Why don't you just tell me how long you've been working there, hmm?" she said softly, trying hard to keep control, to hide her rising panic. "Just tell me that one little thing and I'll make the pain stop."

"N-no…" Vance groaned, curling upon herself.

No...Bella…no, a long-forgotten voice rattled around her head, and in an instant she was transported back there, the memory so vivid she could taste the ashes in her throat. Rearing back in confusion, Bellatrix involuntarily lowered her wand, watching frozen as Vance shakily wiped the blood from her lips.

Get it together, Bellatrix thought with a twinge of desperation. The Dark Lord could never see her wand hesitate to rain evil down upon the enemy. That was a certain death sentence.

But as though the words had summoned the devil himself, she suddenly sensed the unmistakable trace of His magic. His aura enveloped her, clouding her thoughts with supreme, breathless joy.

"My Lord…" she whispered, feeling his approach in every fiber of her body, as though he was calling her home, waiting to complete her.

"Bella…" she heard his sibilant reply in her mind, "Make me proud…"

"Yes, My Lord!" she cried, turning upon the kneeling woman. Her Lord always demanded perfection; he knew how to bring out her best.

"CRUCIO!" she shouted, sending forth a beam of pure energy that threw her prisoner into the wall across. And for the first time that day, Emmeline Vance screamed - screamed with everything she had - just as a manic cackle rose up in the Death Eater's throat. And Bellatrix laughed and laughed and laughed, more and more with each scream torn from the woman's throat.

"Enough," came the soft command, and Bellatrix turned, eyes growing large as they fell upon her Saviour, who made even the dirty cell they stood in magnificent by his mere presence.

She bowed, as low as her back would permit.

"My dear Bellatrix," he sighed, genuine regret in his voice as he gazed upon her, "It seems that things are worse than I thought. I fear that I allowed you to languish too long in Azkaban."

"I - I can do better, My Lord," she stuttered, devastated at the thought of having displeased him, having failed to get information from the Vance woman. His disappointment was such a physical pain - akin to losing a limb, she imagined. "I will do better!"

"Well it's a moot point, I suppose," he brushed her pleading aside with a careless hand, "Since nobody seems capable of bringing me the Prophecy. Or Potter, for that matter."

"Please, My Lord," she begged, latching onto her chance for redemption, "Narcissa and I have discovered that our old house-elf has been living with Sirius. Surely, he knows where the boy is! Let me question him for you!"

She trembled violently under his gaze as he considered this proposal, and breathed a sigh of relief when he finally nodded.

"Alright. And I very much hope you're right about this, Bella," he said.

For your sake, was the unspoken threat, but she heard it all too well.