I flick my wand and cinch the corset closed. Tonight is the first of Lord Voldemort's galas that I will attend as Lady Lestrange. Of course, my family name will be more important to him, but being married to Rodolphus should help me garner his attention. At previous events, he has paid me little attention beyond perfunctory greetings. I can only assume that my age - young enough to be beholden directly to my parents - has been stopping him. I summon a ribbon to tie my hair up with, just in case. The people that attend these anger quickly and draw their wands even faster. A duel broke out at the last one - over a dress, if I remember correctly. Idiots.
I look over to the picture of my sisters and I on my desk, mind swirling with… fear. Dark roots of doubt have begun to bury themselves into my mind. What will happen when Andie and Ted are publicly together? Our family will undoubtedly disown her, but to maintain the façade I will have to reject her myself. Will she ever accept an apology? Will I ever be able to make one?
Rodolphus's voice breaks through my thoughts, "Bella, it's time to go, sweet." I'd swear on my wand that he calls me that because he knows I hate it.
"I'll meet you in the atrium." It's the furthest room away from here, and he still hasn't gotten his Apparition license. That will give me a good five minutes or so to actually finish preparing myself. I turn back to the mirror.
Somehow, I feel like I look different. Not in any major way, but it's like I can see the weight of my task resting on my shoulders. Or maybe I'm just nervous. I know my skill, but this is well beyond the scope anything I've undertaken before now.
I stand, take a deep breath, and Disapparate to the atrium. No time to second guess myself.
Not that I could turn back, at this point.
"Lord Lestrange, welcome back. It is always a pleasure." Lord Voldemort is a tall man - tall enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes as he turns to me. "And you, Lady Lestrange." This is the first time he's acknowledged me to any significant degree. If I was here of my own accord, perhaps I would assume he was busy previously, but the timing is just too perfect. He really was waiting for me to graduate.
"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Voldemort." He accepts my hand and lightly brushes a kiss against my knuckles - unnecessary, but flattering regardless. It doesn't escape me that I am only immune thanks to my duties from Dumbledore. If I had been genuinely invited, or if I had attended on a whim, even I could've been swept away in it. "I have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to attend once more - my sincerest apologies for our predisposition during the last month."
His attention is entirely on me, as if Rodolphus doesn't exist at all. "It is only to be expected." Finally, he releases my hand and takes a step back, glancing briefly to keep my husband included in the conversation. "After all, your wedding was quite the sight to behold! I can only imagine the effort spent." He's not wrong, though I find I cannot look back on the event with any happiness.
Rodolphus cuts in, voice slightly strained. "We are pleased you enjoyed it, Lord Voldemort." He steps forward, away from me, and begins to walk further into the building - this event is being hosted by the Carrows - chattering away the entire time. Lord Voldemort follows. "I wanted to thank you personally for attending…"
Whatever gets the two of them away from me. It will give me the opportunity to find ways to work myself into the group. I am quite sure my status as the firstborn of the Black family has given me some degree of import, but I need to be more than just my birth. I need to be an asset.
"Lady Lestrange!" Without much warning, I am surrounded by a group of other women, many of them wives to the men I can see beginning to gather around Lord Voldemort. "I am so pleased to see you here today - it has been so dreadfully dull without you." The woman speaking is Alecto Carrow; she's one of my few peers in age here, and entirely convinced that we are friends.
For now, it is a boon. "Alecto! There's no need to be so formal. I do apologize for my absence, we just had too much to do all at once." Overt displays of affection are frowned upon at events like these, thankfully, so I get to avoid any she may wish to bestow upon me.
I can always blame any coldness I've previously treated her with on stress from wedding planning. For now, she seems content that I am engaging back. "I can only imagine."
It's easy to lose myself in the mindless prattle of gossip and banter, but I still notice when the energy in the room begins to shift. It starts when the gentle murmur of conversation fades under the music. Then the music stops entirely. Everyone's eyes naturally fall upon Lord Voldemort. His presence is imposing. Awe-inspiring, almost. Even in this crowd, even with the distance between us, I can feel a crackle of lightning-sharp magic across my skin as he amplifies his voice with a wave of one thin hand.
"Witches and wizards of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, I thank you all for attending." His voice resonates with power beyond his thin frame. He truly is a skilled wizard, that much is clear from his presence alone in this moment. "We should all thank our generous hosts, the Carrows, as well." A small murmur of agreement begins and dies within moments.
Lord Voldemort allows the silence to settle for a moment before speaking again. "I know that you all hold within you the spark of something beautiful." He holds a hand in front of himself, carefully conjuring a handful of light as he does. When he speaks, his voice is full of wonder, "Magic." Several others conjure lights of their own, but - as if given some invisible sign - all of them end the spell at once when Lord Voldemort clenches his fist suddenly, voice twisting with anger, "Magic that is being stolen from us."
I can't truly disagree with him, despite the obviously rehearsed theatrics. It is a tragedy that so many squibs are being born in recent years, and the only real explanation is the sudden rise of mudbloods. They're absolutely everywhere, and the filthy things act as though they're our equals. As though they have even a sliver of the power we do.
I push the indignation aside, discomfort beginning to creep in as I remember Andie and Ted. Worry about it later. My attention returns to the speech from Lord Voldemort, which will likely rage on for another handful of minutes - at least until someone else is irate enough to take over the angry yelling.
"We need to do something, anything to stop these thieves from overtaking us." Unlike the other meetings, his voice is beginning to calm. He sounds almost… delighted, like a child with a new toy. "As such, tonight I will begin a new project. Something to begin taking back what has been stolen from us." I begin to move closer to him, careful not to bump into anyone as I do.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, excitement almost palpable in the air. "In the coming years, the world is going to change. I am going to forge the tool of that change from among those here, out of the best that the magical world has to offer." His wand suddenly appears in his hand, seemingly from thin air. He waves it through the air, inky smoke rolling off of it in waves. The people nearest to him step back, avoiding the tendrils of darkness. I step forward into the empty space, the pleased zing of success darting through me as Lord Voldemort spares me an extra few seconds' glance. I've caught his attention.
From the movements of his wand, a shape begins to form. First, a skull. The eye sockets glow with green light, and the jaw hangs open. The snake twists and curls around the skull, even delving through one of the empty eyes to circle back on itself. It reaches my knees now, cold and thick like fog. "The chosen will be my hands, to affect change in the world on my behalf." The skull hangs in the air for another moment before he slashes his wand through it, dispelling the conjured smoke. "Bellatrix Lestrange," he says while looking into my eyes, "Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Igor Kakarov… those of you who are willing to risk everything in the name of the wizarding world please, follow me." He turns and walks away, leaving most of the crowd in silence.
Of course, I follow. Where better for a spy than at the right hand of the enemy? Others are behind me, but I don't spare them a glance. An idea is beginning to form in my mind - a persona to wear for Lord Voldemort and those he aligns himself with. Entranced. Fanatical. Dangerous. Not that the last bit isn't true…
Lord Voldemort leads us into another room that looks to have been separately prepared. It's a drawing room, with seating arranged around a small table. Upon the table lies a gleaming knife and a small polished chalice. I can guess what they're for. Blood magic. My arm crawls in discomfort, memories of sucking magic and a screaming tree flooding my mind. I force myself to ignore it. This is necessary. For Andie.
"I have a good feeling about those of you who followed, and trust that I won't be hearing from anyone in the Ministry regarding what is going to happen here." He leads us to the sitting area, absentmindedly levitating the knife up to his hand as he sits. I can't tell if the lack of care is confidence or arrogance. "You will have the opportunity to leave, if you wish, but I do not make offers more than once."
For the first time, I get to see everyone that followed us in. All five of us followed. Antonin and Igor both wear very serious expressions - they look hard, like practiced duelists or even warriors. The youngest of the bunch, but that isn't really so much a surprise. Our parents are too rigid in their thinking, too… unwilling to act.
Nobody leaves. The atmosphere remains tense, each of our attentions focused on Lord Voldemort. He gestures to the seating around the chalice, focused on inspecting the blade for whatever minute imperfections he must be looking for. I sit across from him, wand drawn and laid across my lap. The others follow suit shortly, Rodolphus deciding that it is imperative that we sit next to one another- the size of the seat be damned.
Several minutes of silence pass. The others look between themselves, nervous energy apparent. I keep my eyes fixed on the knife, slowly twisting between Lord Voldemort's fingers. He waves his hand and a cloud of magic encircles us, though I am not sure what it's for. "Let us begin, then."
He releases the knife, and it hovers across the table to me. "This is a ritual of my own design. Those of you who are particularly skilled may recognize elements of the magic I've built into it." I grasp the handle of the knife. It's still warm. "As extensions of my will, I will need to contact you on short notice. This will allow me to do so."
An infinite moment passes as I await his next words. I have no idea if I'm hiding my reservations about the ritual, or if it even matters if I do. It's too late now, after all. One way or another, my fate is sealed. "Your left arm." I don't need to ask what he means.
The knife is cold, ice-sharp pain the moment it touches my skin. I can't help but watch as it draws a vivid crimson line against my skin. Blood wells to the surface, though it somehow does not drip down my arm - instead pooling across the surface of my skin. Magic crackles through it without my permission, causing eddies and swirls to disturb the surface.
Lord Voldemort's wand touches into the very tip of the pool. I look up to see him standing, arm outstretched, beside me. "This might hurt a bit." It doesn't sound like he's sorry. He begins reciting a spell, and his magic entwines with that in my blood.
The sensation isn't painful, but it is unpleasant. Alien. I look back to my arm to see the pool of blood beginning to curdle and darken, spreading from where Lord Voldemort's wand touches. It isn't long before all of it is black and thick like gruel.
The only warning I get for the next step is a crisp, "Another." His spell shifts into something familiar - some kind of variant on a protean charm, if I'm not mistaken. The blood on my skin shifts and begins to draw itself back into my arm. The blood, if it even is blood anymore, is too viscous, and causes a fiery stretching sensation in my very veins. I grimace into the pain, bracing myself for whatever may come next.
Lord Voldemort's incantation shifts again, and the black substance under my skin twists itself into a vague shape. The last of it is drawn back in just as my self-inflicted wound closes. The magic sears my arm with excruciating pain as the incantation grows excited - feverish - and he finishes it with a rapturous, "Morsmordre!"
In an instant, the shapes on my skin shift into stark relief. It is none other than the symbol that he conjured for the crowd. "Bellatrix," he says, voice slightly strained, "congratulations on being the first to take the Dark Mark."
Once all of us have been branded, Lord Voldemort accepts the knife from Antonin, carefully cleans it with a spell, then retrieves the chalice from the table. "I will ask of you but one more thing, today." Again, I am first. The chalice is warm in my hands, almost uncomfortably so, and I can see now that the rim is razor sharp. "Just a little will do. Each of you must contribute."
The edge slices my thumb cleanly, and a thin line of my blood runs down the side of the vessel. Lord Voldemort gestures for me to pass it to Rodolphus. Once I do, I heal my thumb with a silent, wandless Episkey.
It isn't long before the chalice is half-full, and floating back towards Lord Voldemort. He grasps it and slices his palm on the edge, then squeezes the wound until the cup is full to the brim. He casts another spell over it, causing the blood to once again shift into that oily black substance. He stares at it almost reverently, whispering to himself, "And this… is finally it."
My stomach turns as he lifts the chalice to his lips and drains it, seemingly unbothered. After several silent moments, he opens his eyes and looks to us. "Now, we are bound by the same magic." Two long strides bring him over to me. "Present your arm, Bellatrix. I will demonstrate."
One of his hands wraps firmly around my wrist, and he presses the pointer finger of his opposite hand into the Mark. "Morsmordre." Searing pain dances across the Mark as it comes to life, writhing on my skin as though in pain. There's a tugging sensation just beneath my navel, like Apparition, and I somehow know that I could Apparate to Lord Voldemort's side, no matter where. Like an instinct. The sensations end the instant that his wand leaves my skin, and I look around to see Rodolphus and Rabastan grasping their arms in pain - though Igor and Dolohov only seem slightly strained.
I can see a flicker of regret pass across Rabastan's face, though it is quickly covered up. Luckily for him, Lord Voldemort is still facing me, his eyes alight with passion and joy. "And you can do the same, to contact me. Now, we should return to the others." The veil of magic drops, and we stand - some a bit unsteadily. "Remember," he continues as we leave the room, "you are my will, now. We will discuss plans when I call you next." If I focus, I can feel the dormant magic of the Dark Mark everywhere at once, spreading through my very blood.
Walking back out into the crowd is - at once - invigorating and terrifying. There is no denying that this is who I am now. The world will forever know me as Bellatrix Lestrange, ally to Lord Voldemort. I tune out the crowd of murmuring voices, even Lord Voldemort's own speech, and try to calm the racing in my mind.
It's okay. Once this is through, once Dumbledore has his way and I am free of my obligation, I can renounce this. The others around me begin to raise their glasses. I quickly snatch one from a nearby elf and follow suit, then drink the whole thing. I don't even really know what it is - some kind of wine, I think, but I can't even tell through the flurry of emotions. I can apologize to Andie for whatever Lord Voldemort may make me do.
This gala will go on for several hours yet. I need to make myself focus. I bite my tongue - hard - and let the pain chase away all of the screaming doubts and worried thoughts. The crowd is still applauding, though I have no idea how long they've been doing so. They go on for nearly a minute before it begins to die down, and those of us that wear the Mark are free to disperse amongst the others.
I find conversation difficult to maintain, though I cannot tell if it is the others, or if my mind is still fighting distraction. A couple says their goodbyes and walks away from me, likely seeking out one of the others. Another person steps in front of me: a vaguely familiar but not immediately recognizable man. I try my best to remember his name before he speaks, but I cannot. "Bellatrix B- Lestrange…" Is he… drunk? "Here you are again!" His voice is loud and his words slightly slur. I can't tell if that's just how he talks, or if he's actually drunk. "Getting something just for being you." He tries to take a step forward, but stumbles over nothing.
My instincts tell me to ignore this idiot. A fool who can't avoid drinking too much at such an important event really isn't worth my time, after all. However, a thought flickers through my mind. If I want to really sell the illusion that I am a dangerous fanatic, I shouldn't let even the smallest slight go. I stop myself mid-turn, and draw my wand to point at the drunken idiot. He's still rambling, "Talentless, worthless little-"
"Oscausi." The room instantly falls silent, apart from that idiot's muffled yelling as his mouth vanishes. I take a step forward, wand aimed at his chest. "Keep my name out of your filthy mouth, you drunkard." Another step, so that the point of my wand presses into his chest. "Or else you will lose your privilege to it. Permanently, next time."
He scrambles backwards, knocking into one of the Parkinsons as he starts to run away. I look around me to see everyone staring at me, aghast. "What?" I say, a little sharply. "You expect me to let him talk to me like that?"
A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn with speed, expecting to see Rodolphus trying to placate me. Instead, I see a very angry-looking man with a bushy mustache. "You dare turn your wand upon my son?"
"He was acting like a troll. You're both lucky I didn't actually hurt him." I jerk my shoulder from his grip and turn to face him.
"You wouldn't dare! He is just as much a part of this as you are." I can see his hand hovering near his waist, where his wand must be. I keep mine at my side, though I am tensed to respond to whatever he may try.
"Is he?" I only need to raise my arm and gesture at it to get my point across. It's a little silly to be using this for such a purpose, but it does succeed in raising the temper of the fellow across from me.
A wordless growl escapes his lips before he half-shouts, "He was bloody right about you! Coasting on the good name of Cygnus, not half a shard of the talent he has, and-" I don't incant the Oscausi this time, though the man still has enough skill to deflect it into the ground. "You bitch! Confringo!"
I flick the spell downwards, into the floor, on accident - unprepared for him to cast something so dangerous. If anything, I expected him to lead with a Stupefy or a Flipendo - now, I have shards of wood exploding up into my legs painfully. I don't have time to do anything about it, though, because another spell comes flying at me. I'm not sure what it is, so I quickly block it with a silent Protego.
The moment the spell dissipates against my shield, I sidestep the next one and cast a Bombarda at his legs. The spell misses, but it shatters the floor under him and throws off his footing. I take advantage of his misstep by letting loose an Incarcerous that wraps his wrist to his knee and makes him fall over. I walk over to him and erase his mouth with Oscausi. "Same as I told your son. This is your one chance."
I Disapparate, retreating home to flee the commotion that is surely to follow. I will need to apologize to Lord Voldemort, and to the Carrows, but I think I've achieved my goals for the evening. The only person I need to like me is Lord Voldemort, after all, and I know a display of power will improve his overall opinion of me - even if I've made something of an ass of myself.
I look up, into the mirror, and see my face - flushed from the exertion of my short duel. I can't help but grin - overwhelmed, but pleased. The first step of this task is behind me, and now I can report to Dumbledore.