I recognized her immediately, that very first day. She was among the troop of frightened First Years whom I had to put on the Sorting Hat. And though I hadn't seen her since she'd been barely one week old, I saw her and I knew it. That slender, rather pale girl with her long, black hair neatly pulled back in a long ponytail, with those big, dark green eyes, was my daughter.
It shouldn't have shocked me, after all- I knew that if she would attend Hogwarts, then she had to be in that year. And yet. A part of me had, though I heartily loathed myself for it, hoped, I believe, that she had died. That he had killed her, even. After all, it was possible, wasn't it? Wasn't it? His anger, always quickly to rise, could very well have turned itself towards the only thing I had left behind.
My daughter, that is.
It is cruel, I know, and it is selfish, but perhaps it had been the best for her as well.
Because I loved her. I loved her and I still love her with the irrational love only a mother can feel, even though she knows her child is a devil. I know my daughter is a devil.
I am the mother of a devil.
Yet there was a faint sparkle of hope in my heart, you know, as I saw her stand there. She did so resemble me, with her serious little face, with her back straightened, with her hands quietly folded. I hoped- I hoped- perhaps it was possible. Perhaps my blood was strong enough to destroy… or at least, mitigate… the track of evil that flew- flows- through his veins…
My hopes were all destroyed during her first week.
She, my child, was sorted into Slytherin.
Well, of course she was- how could I ever have hoped to get her into Gryffindor? She was raised by- by… Yet I had hoped, and only with the greatest difficulty I controlled myself- smiled, took the Sorting Hat and put it on the head of the next pupil waiting.
As soon as I reached my rooms, I succumbed, though.
My child was a Slytherin.
It was perhaps childish, but I saw that as a sort of sign- a bad sign, in fact.
And it was.
I taught her, my daughter, and though she was good at my subject- she had some of my genes, after all…- it didn't interest her. But that wasn't the worst part, actually. I could live with that.
I couldn't live with the fact that she didn't even like me.
I could have guessed it, I suppose- me being Head of Gryffindor- but I could not live with it.
Yet, I did.
And so, when she quit Transfigurations class in 6th year, I wasn't even disappointed anymore. Hurt, sad, lonely, everything, but not disappointed. In those five years, she had managed to convince me that she was more like her father than I had ever dared to think possible.
Yet I couldn't hate her like she hated me- I loved her and I still love her.
As I have once loved her father…
And so, before I even realized it, in fact, her seven years were over and she graduated. I had barely shared a word with her. With her, my flesh, my blood, the girl who resembled me even though I did not want to admit it, even to myself.
I was grateful when she graduated, and yet I couldn't be happy- of course I couldn't.
I felt guilty, as I have felt guilty all my life.
Belle, my Belle- Bellatrix, as he has renamed you…
Belle, I am sorry.
It shouldn't have shocked me, after all- I knew that if she would attend Hogwarts, then she had to be in that year. And yet. A part of me had, though I heartily loathed myself for it, hoped, I believe, that she had died. That he had killed her, even. After all, it was possible, wasn't it? Wasn't it? His anger, always quickly to rise, could very well have turned itself towards the only thing I had left behind.
My daughter, that is.
It is cruel, I know, and it is selfish, but perhaps it had been the best for her as well.
Because I loved her. I loved her and I still love her with the irrational love only a mother can feel, even though she knows her child is a devil. I know my daughter is a devil.
I am the mother of a devil.
Yet there was a faint sparkle of hope in my heart, you know, as I saw her stand there. She did so resemble me, with her serious little face, with her back straightened, with her hands quietly folded. I hoped- I hoped- perhaps it was possible. Perhaps my blood was strong enough to destroy… or at least, mitigate… the track of evil that flew- flows- through his veins…
My hopes were all destroyed during her first week.
She, my child, was sorted into Slytherin.
Well, of course she was- how could I ever have hoped to get her into Gryffindor? She was raised by- by… Yet I had hoped, and only with the greatest difficulty I controlled myself- smiled, took the Sorting Hat and put it on the head of the next pupil waiting.
As soon as I reached my rooms, I succumbed, though.
My child was a Slytherin.
It was perhaps childish, but I saw that as a sort of sign- a bad sign, in fact.
And it was.
I taught her, my daughter, and though she was good at my subject- she had some of my genes, after all…- it didn't interest her. But that wasn't the worst part, actually. I could live with that.
I couldn't live with the fact that she didn't even like me.
I could have guessed it, I suppose- me being Head of Gryffindor- but I could not live with it.
Yet, I did.
And so, when she quit Transfigurations class in 6th year, I wasn't even disappointed anymore. Hurt, sad, lonely, everything, but not disappointed. In those five years, she had managed to convince me that she was more like her father than I had ever dared to think possible.
Yet I couldn't hate her like she hated me- I loved her and I still love her.
As I have once loved her father…
And so, before I even realized it, in fact, her seven years were over and she graduated. I had barely shared a word with her. With her, my flesh, my blood, the girl who resembled me even though I did not want to admit it, even to myself.
I was grateful when she graduated, and yet I couldn't be happy- of course I couldn't.
I felt guilty, as I have felt guilty all my life.
Belle, my Belle- Bellatrix, as he has renamed you…
Belle, I am sorry.