Fathers and teachers, I ponder, 'what is hell?' I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.

-Dostoevski

You are the stars above my head

You are everything, I've no safety net

And I accept, I'm addicted

To this kiss

- Alisha's Attic, Resistor.

I watch her watch me through the window of the mirror. Our reflected eyes meet. I know this is an illusion, and that she can't see our faces together from the place in which she lies, yet I still imagine I convey some sort of message to her and make her finally understand.

Letting my vision blur, I focus on my own reflection. I have seen it inflated on the backs of spoons, seen it ripple in plate glass puddles before my foot comes down to smash it, seen it laughing at me from the depths of my mind. But I have not seen it flat and real. I could not stand to. But the weakness in me is growing every day, human, mortal desires tightening their bonds in new and excruciating places. I succumb to the most human of cravings, to marvel my faults. I look into the mirror.

A stranger stares back at me. He used to be more than a man, but now he is less. His face was indescribable, above common classification. Now it is humanly ugly, humanly sad. The ludicrous red eyes sit uncomfortably next to sagging pale skin. This is a clown who cannot remove his paint, a shrunken prisoner buried alive.

I turn away from the stranger, cannot bear to look any more. I look at Bellatrix instead. A surge of unquenchable wrath floods through me - how dare she be so beautiful when I must wear this costume forever? I collapse at the end of the bed, trying to clench my fists in rage. It is too painful. I am winded from the sudden movement, and double over to catch my breath. Rasping, pathetic. What happened to my dreams? I thought that if only I had her I could rebuild my power. But while she's here, power seems to be ebbing further and further from me. She's taken it all. If this is love then I wish to die.

"What's wrong with you?" she snaps. Snaps angrily, but there's something else in her expression. Pity.

"Nothing of your concern" I hiss, as hatefully as I can muster.

She pauses and shifts the sleeping child in her arms. Her eyes never leave me, though I refuse to stare back.

"There's so much going on underneath your surface. You've changed so dramatically. I want you to tell me about it. I have to understand. If we're ever going to escape from this situation, we have to let the whole truth out. Now say whatever you have to say, or rot like this forever."

"I never saw you as a therapist, dear Bella". Sarcasm. A flash from the old me, before he went wrong.

"I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing it for me. When I leave it's going to be forever. But I can't leave until we've finished this. So finish it. Tell me what is going on."

I look at her face, luminescent, open, lined with beauty and wreathed in black. Nothing seems to matter any more. I have lost all dignity, so what does it mean to let this final part of myself go? The wires twist tighter round my organs and when I speak it is almost a squeak.

"You are my lifework, Bellatrix Black. The first time I saw you, you were fourteen years old and committing your first act of terrible, beautiful corruption. To seduce the enemy, to trap his mind into following to your own conclusions, to take his purity in unpure motives - I recognised myself in you and I was more excited than I had ever been. Here was a girl who could become my greatest follower, with the right guidance. Years before you saw me, I had shaped and moulded your existence to such a degree that you would have no choice but to become a Death Eater. The real truth, Bella, is that you should have been more than that. You are more than that. I knew it on that first day by the stream, that you were to be my greatest rival, the person with the power to overthrow me. I thought that I could smother it by making you join me, by washing your mind blank of any original thought or search for your own power. But I failed. You can't fight the truth. It always outs in the end."

"I don't understand any of this; how you could have known me all that time; how you can think I am more powerful than you. Don't you remember I couldn't kill you? The prophesy was false-"

"The prophesy was not false. Narcissa explained the story and it is clear to me that your family did not understand its wording - A child of great importance with be born unto Elladora Black, one who will gain immense power at the womb. This power alone is what will bring about the death of Lord Voldemort and the freedom of all, magical and muggle alike. Yet gaining this power will come at a terrible price to the bearer, who will suffer the greatest tragedy in the wake of the Dark Lord's death. Both paths of destiny are open to the child of Elladora Black; she must chose between personal sacrifice and the sacrifice of countless souls. The power you gained 'at the womb' was not the spirit of the Heliopath after the attack, it was Mirach."

I cannot keep my eyes from her now. She is perfectly still, looking into me intently, questioning and wary. Yet, still she twitches at my referral to the child by name. It is as much of a surprise to me as it is to her.

"What do you mean? The Heliopath gave me my power."

"The Heliopath gave you a power. Not the power. Remember, spirits are outside the stream of destiny. They cannot be controlled or harnessed. The attack was an unfortunate anomaly in destiny's design. You were not kept alive because of the power you gained then, you were kept alive because of the power you were to gain. Destiny, as I have learned, cannot be sidestepped. Those with a purpose must fulfil that purpose. Yours was to give birth to my child. The child who is going to bring about my death."

"This makes no sense…I don't understand…"

"Think about it. You couldn't have killed the Potter boy without my child inside you. If you hadn't killed him, the other prophesy wouldn't have been fulfilled. If the other prophesy hadn't been fulfilled, then none of this would have happened, I would still be locked in combat with Potter and you would still be a Death Eater. The root of all this is me. I was the one who gave you the child-"

"Raped me."

"Raped you. I was the one who set events in motion. The all powerful one who created his own destruction."

"And what destruction is this? All I can see is a tiny baby."

"Destruction from the inside. After the rape, you realised the falsity of my Order, long before I did. You left. I have never been away from you. I've been right there behind you since you were fourteen years old. Your absence is like another person in the house, a tormentor. I did not realise what you meant to me until you left. I knew what I felt for you as soon as I couldn't possess you, but I pushed it to the back of my mind, I kept it hidden and denied. Instead I put my efforts into seeking you out. Saying, almost believing, that I would kill you. In the end, you almost killed yourself. And I had to save you. You said yourself that we all have the potential to love, and I replied that love was a weakness. It turns out we were both right. What I feel for you is killing me. My body and my mind cannot sustain it, not when it opposes everything I've ever thought and felt and understood. I created this body with only power in mind. Now it is coming apart."

She stares at me for some time, white hot with shock.

"So if you hadn't raped me, I would never have realised that your philosophy was wrong and I wouldn't have left you and murdered Potter. My leaving made you realise that you possessed love, a love that would inevitably kill you. The prophesy was right. Mirach is my power, your downfall."

A slow, delighted smile spreads across her face. I look towards the mirror and there she is, still grinning into my eyes. I do not doubt she can see me now.

"I hope you understand what this means. You will suffer the greatest tragedy in the wake of the Dark Lord's death. So enjoy your time with the child, it looks like she has served her own purpose now."

With my last shred of flimsy strength, I pound across to the mirror and put my fist through our diabolical portrait. Just before the pieces hit the floor, I see it has changed. Those eyes are no longer bright with malice, but with tears.

*

I had made sure I forgot, all those years ago. I'd closed my eyes as we left the stream, let the journey wash away to simply leave the ending, the memory of clear light and being loved and freedom. I had returned many times to this place, perhaps to breathe frozen air or follow the loop of motions that played over and over, to sleep under a shelter of my own creation. But I had never wanted to return in the flesh.

He insists on walking the long way, though it tires him greatly. Every so often we pause and wait. It feels like we're waiting for his particles to re-align and settle, stall their inevitable collapse. There's shame in his eyes, overwhelming humiliation and despair. He cannot easily speak to me or look at me, refuses to hold my arm. I am glad of this. Seeing his own reflection in my eyes would finish him off.

Only when we reach the perimeters of the Black country manor do I realise the significance of our journey, why he despondently asked for this walk and my pity agreed.

"This is where I first saw you, heading towards Hangleton Forest with the boy. I followed you for sport. I wanted something to kill." His laughter is thin, but not forced. It continues for as long as his strength allows.

When we reach the outskirts of the forest, I turn back to take a last look at my family home. It's empty now. I can't think of anyone left to occupy it.

"This way" Voldemort mutters, tracing the invisible path my fourteen year old self must have left. Regarding him, I notice how increasingly wasted and indefinable he becomes. Perhaps he is better described as the creature who was once Voldemort. Perhaps I should call him Tom, for these short hours we have together, call him by his human name. A name which he hates, and does not entirely fit. It seems that already he is nothing - unhuman, ungodly, unnatural. A shell.

Mirach gurgles from the depths of her blanket. Her crossed blue eyes peer up at me in uncomplicated curiosity and I look back in sorrow. I try, and fail, to imagine a happy ending for her - if he (he who really cannot be named, now) is right, then she's living on borrowed time. If he's not, then she's going to grow up with a dead father and a murderess for a mother. I never believed in happy endings. I believed in conclusions. Now I wish for an alternative - continuance of life, everlasting, with no conclusions or endings, just the experience of living.

"We're nearly there, little Bellatrix" Voldemort croons. He looks dreamy, unfocused. Like a photograph left in the rain.

I do not want to reach our destination. I want to walk forever through this tangled green cave, child in my arms and person who loves me by my side. I want it all. At first, I delighted the promise of Voldemort's death. The dread that it could mean death for Mirach too stuck me like a low, hollow drum and knocked the tears out of me, but each feeling remained clasped to the hand of the other. I have not been able to escape from being myself. I suppose I should take comfort in that.

"I never wanted to come back. It's a violation of my past. Though I suppose the memory's spoiled already, now that I know you were watching the whole time. I shouldn't really feel anything. It was stupid to think that at least one part of me had not been imprinted by you."

He turns to look at me, pale mask-like face somewhat more bearable to behold in the dinge of the forest. It is first time he's made eye contact since the smashed mirror a fortnight ago.

"It was not stupid. Perhaps naïve. I think that, even now, you do not realise the extent of how our lives intertwine. There is more of me in you than you've discovered, and vice versa. We are united, Bellatrix."

I open my mouth to reply without understanding what I'm going to say. A faint burble of noise stops the words in my throat and I turn sharply towards it. I know that sound. It sings through my dreams.

In silent, solemn recognition, we walk as one through the last of the thick damp trees. The earthy ground gives way to smooth stones, the murky air is replaced with a clear white slap to the skin. When I look into the water I cannot define the reflection - it is as if my life has gone full circle, I've returned to my original self.

Voldemort stands still for several moments, eyes closed, head thrown back, slitted nostrils flared. He takes several deep breaths then sits carefully on the bank, letting his feet trail in the stream. I think, after all we've been through, this is the most vulnerable I've ever seen him. He seems truly human, the tenderness of those naked pale feet, the simple pleasure of his expression at feeling cold silken water against them. I have been thinking of him in the past tense without realising he's still alive, he's still somebody. In penitent silence, I sit down and place Mirach's blanket-bundled form into a hollow of stones between us.

"How do you feel?"

He takes a while to consider his answer. This, combined with the distraction of the clean air and the polished sky and his painful breathing, means I have to wait a spell before I get it.

"I love you."

And that answers everything. Not just what he feels, but everything. What Voldemort did in those unconscious minutes I lay dying to keep me alive. Those three little words are all the trigger I needed to remember.

I remember the ferocity of his embrace and the scald of his tears on my cheek, I remember the sting of the connection formed between his body soul mind and mine, I remember exactly what he told me without words that managed to revive me. There is more magic in this world than charms and jinxes. Magic is all around us, it binds us together, it influences us in all we do. The most powerful emotion can do more than a wand ever could. It was Voldemort's emotion, the depth of the feeling he poured into me, that replaced what I had lost.

I do not find him hard to look at now. Not in this organic world, in this place where all is stripped bare and true.

"You…" I say, looking to where our feet bob together, outlines distorted by the water. Light is everywhere, like scattered, broken mirrors.

"Yes." he replies, knowing what I know. He shuts his eyes for a moment and swallows. It was either him or me and he chose suicide.

"And Mirach…what will happen to her after…"

"She will grow. She will live. She will die. Just like the rest of us."

A deep silence pours between us and I begin to think.

"You never meant she was going to die immediately, did you? You knew she was outside of all this, that she had her own life and destiny. So why did you say she was the tragedy?"

"Oh, I'm sure she will be a tragedy in some way. There are a lot of things a person can do to break their parents' hearts. I killed mine."

We laugh together a little.

"My point is, Mirach is separate from you or I. She's pure. She has the opportunity to create her own purposes. In the end, you choose your own path."

He reaches out and strokes a long, pale finger across Mirach's cheek. Her eyes open, bright sky blue, and her hand curls around her father's finger. The expression on Voldemort's face is indescribable, but it makes me smile.

"I said she was going to die" Voldemort tells me, without looking up "because I wanted to see you cry. I wanted to make you feel something because of me, other than hate or apathy. It is hard, to know how little you understand love. I was giving you a taster of my own."

I see him, all of him, and I see water and light and leaves and freedom, and my hand reaches out because I understand now, because I can touch him without false intentions, this is the real thing, a newly born truth.

We remain clasped together in silence for a long time. He gradually weakens beneath me until I have to hold on to keep him from collapsing. I feel his body start to crumble inside his robes, like this flesh, once so strong and powerful, is reducing into sand. But that doesn't seem to matter any more. There's a kind of magic in the air. The purest form of magic, that existed long before wands or speech or even the evil that thrives in us. Something sharp and beautifully intense rips through us as one and I want to scream and laugh at the same time. I kiss him instead, which is just as satisfying. Probably because it's the same thing. But - this can't be happening now. Not after all I know about him. And then it occurs to me that all I know of him is all I know about myself, that we are just mirrors finally aligned. So I let all doubts fall away and accept this moment, this neverending kiss, plunge into it like a diver into darkness. My breath is in time with his. My body is in tune with his. I can feel through his clothes, through his skin, right down into the deep red centre of it all.

i always hoped we would find each other here, Bellatrix. hoped, because you can never totally be sure. not even of yourself, or of what you are able to feel. don't forget that. don't forget your hopes can be for anything. if we meet again, we'll know just how much we hoped for each other.

Something flutters. Swells. Breaks apart. All I can feel is air. I open my eyes and the grateful sting of hot, shocking tears begins. I clutch at his black robe, left on the rocks where he sat. I breathe into it, wishing it was still occupied but finding it thoroughly dead, like the shed skin of a snake. The magic still tingles around me. It taps gently at my ear and kisses my fingers one by one. They let go and drop the robe into the water. Shaking, white, dazzled by brightness through my tears, I watch it flow away.

Mirach and I wait for nightfall. We watch the stars appear, like the arrival of old friends. I kiss her and tell her look, there's a new star forming between ours. We can't see it yet but it's there, millions of miles away, just being born from dust and nothing. The greatest tragedy was to lose it, once. But the lost still exist. Sometimes in places you can't reach yet, but existing none the less. It's only a matter of searching until they're found.

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Author's note

thank you to every single person that has reviewed this story. You do not know how much you encouraged me. If it weren't for you, this story would probably never have been completed. So, big *mwahs* to you.

I must say a special thank you to Malu. It is a complement beyond belief that writer such as herself could ever praise one of my stories, let alone encourage me to continue right from chapter one (when this fic was not even a page long and I had no idea what the plot would be). So, I would like to officially dedicate Flames to you, Malu, my fantastical blackcestiest of the blackcesters.