"Come out, come out, little Harry!" she called in her mock baby voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. "What did you come after me for then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!"
"I am!" shouted Harry.
"Aaaaah … did you love him, little baby Potter?"
Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before; he flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed, "Crucio!" (OotP, page 714-715)
Harry tossed and turned in his sleep as his familiar replaying of Sirius's death floated around in his mind. Over the months the events had become skewed, although not as much as the night before.
As Harry had seen Bellatrix, lying, breathing heavily on the floor of the Atrium he'd seen the girl she used to be. The scene played through his head, time and time again. In his dreams, in his daydreams, at random times where nothing else would settle in his head.
What would have happened if he'd seen that photograph of the pretty young girl at Hogwarts? No, nothing would have been different, it couldn't have been. Why would it? It was stupid to assume so, Harry told himself over and over again. He only saw the picture because he was looking through the box in the library. And he was only looking through that because that bitch had killed Sirius, 'Stupefying' him, and sending him falling through that fucking rag in the fucking Department of fucking Mysteries.
Bellatrix Lestrange was a horrible woman, there was no mincing of words, no nice way of putting it. She was evil, her mind eaten by evil, there was nothing Harry could do about that. Azkaban had wrecked her body, she was thin, gaunt, and too skinny by far, but even when Harry pictured her he still could see flickers of the girl she used to be, the girl for some stupid, unfathomable reason he empathised with. Why? Why? Why?
As Bellatrix climbed to her feet, breathless and glaring at Harry for all both of them were worth, Harry couldn't take his eyes off her. She straightened her robe, which was tattered and torn. She knew he wouldn't run, wouldn't try to curse her again. She knew the lure of the Dark Arts and how it felt the first time, she had to, Harry thought.
His wand was still outstretched, and his eyes and body were frozen. He didn't notice that she had stood behind him. The only thing he felt was her breath on his neck, and the closeness of her body, and all he could think was oh god, this is so wrong.
"Ickle baby Potter," she whispered in his ear. Harry shivered, and for a second his eyes slid shut before he snapped them open. No, no, no, no.
She was standing in front of him now, and he could smell her breath on his cheek, and oh fuck, he hoped that wasn't what he thought it was curling in the pit of his stomach. No, no, no. He wanted to stop this, he really, really did. He also knew he was lying to himself, knowing he wanted to see how it panned out, knowing that he couldn't. It was an insult to Sirius' memory, this whole situation was.
Sirius had hated his family more than anything, and Sirius had just cause to hate a lot of things in the world. Pettigrew, for betraying him. Dumbledore, for not believing him. Azkaban, for keeping him locked up. The Ministry, for locking him up. But he hated his family, something Harry understood. It's easier to hate something close to you.
He never let his dreams go further than that he had that much self-control, although sometimes he doubted it. But the promise, the underlying desire was always there, along with the darkness of his soul. He knew he wasn't ever going to be able to forget, and wasn't altogether sure he wanted to. He pondered his sanity, and the likely hood of him ever coming face to face with Bellatrix again. He wondered whether her husband was still alive, and wondered why he cared.
He squeezed his eyes shut when it struck him was he was doing, when he heard the sound of Neville's snores through his curtains, as he thought of Bella, and the girl that Sirius had once known. He tried to ignore the number of lives she must have ruined, including one of his own friends. For once Harry only thought of himself, and the damage it was doing to him. If he thought of the damage it would cause if people knew, Harry feared for his own sanity.