Thank you GRandElusYon, Detective Silver and Verity for your reviews last chapter (and ChocolateTeapot, when you get to this). The feedback keeps this story going.


The house of Cygnus and Druella Black looked like a typical 15th century English manor, but it had been erected in the nineteenth century. For those who did not know its macabre history, that particular fact raised some important questions. After all, it went without saying that no self-respecting pureblood family, let alone members of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, would lower themselves to living in a recent house. Recent meant magically immature, which was a sensitive way of saying muggle.

By the mid nineteenth century, the number of derelict magical estates had grown alarming. Too many families had squandered resources acquiring grand mansions they lacked the funds, the magic and the people to maintain. Every magical ruin in the Isles, every manor once held by witches and wizards who'd immigrated to the Americas, had been acquired at ridiculous prices as the British great families of competed for status.

The deaths of Cressida and Magnus Gaunt in 1849, and of the tragically young Oberon Weasley in 1850, hastened the passing of a law. Unsafe dwellings could not be inhabited until they were adequately restored. If the owners lacked the finances to do so, the estates would be sold, entirely or in parts.

The Black family, eighteen estates strong, found themselves left with seven. Forced to live together, they commonly agreed without ever needing to discuss it that there wasn't enough space for all of them. Unfortunately, such an agreement lowered the number of inhabitable estates from seven to five, as some Blacks took offense when some of their relatives 'mysteriously' died in most gruesome fashions.

It wasn't the most glorious time for the family. Some would say the wiser among the Blacks left the Isles forever in the 1850s.

Cygnus Black, born in 1814, was unquestionably more driven, politically astute, and magically talented than Cygnus, father of Bellatrix. After foiling an assassination attempt by gargoyle orchestrated by his treacherous sister Isla, he decided to break tradition and build his own house.

The mansion was erected from the transported and reassembled elements of the stately Colne Estate in Colchester, who, to the non-magical world, was destroyed along with its owners and servants in a particularly voracious fire. He found a suitable seven-acre spot a few miles away from London, near the river Lea and warded it to look like another factory-in-construction, one that filled the muggles' minds with whispers of 'nothing to see here'.

Cygnus didn't choose the location by chance. It was a filthy overcrowded place thick with fumes of Victorian industrialization. Factory after factory was being erected and workers slept in slums. Men desperate for work arrived every week, more than enough to replace those who'd died by accident or illness. It was the rise of British industry in all its magnificent, miserable glory.

It was the perfect place for a man like Cygnus, who had no patience for a natural magical awakening. Those took generations of wizards living, feeling and casting spells within the estate's grounds. Cygnus turned to dark rituals to hasten the process. Magic was directly poured in the walls and foundations. Only, without life-energy as a catalyst, such magic would be wasted. The grounds extended over ten acres but the wards extended over ten thousand, spreading out like tentacles through western Essex, hungrily seeking out the life-force that bled from the muggles : the hopes, the desperation, the death. A thousand dead muggles would power a manor in the same way a family of wizards would by virtue of residing there for a whole generation, and many thousand muggles died by the river Lea during those years.

Sybil, born Longbottom, cordially despised her husband Cygnus, whose main redeeming quality was his looks. She nevertheless much preferred to live alone with him and their children than to share a house with a whole swathe of plotting, loathsome in-laws (they'd killed her little brother, the beasts, by accident. They couldn't even manage to curse the right cigar. Sybil bode her time: Azkaban would've been too kind a punishment.) She thus supported Cygnus wholly. Once the mansion pulsed with magic, she pointed out that the pulse was still weak, unworthy of a Noble House. They deserved better. It would require magical blood. Blood of their blood. Black blood.

To celebrate the only worthy Black line in the Isles, husband and wife wove together a tapestry. For now it only held three names : their three children's. After all, the others soon would not matter. Sybil knew the Isles would be a better place for it.

Aware that such sacrifices created wild dark magic, of the kind that could backfire lethally, husband and wife decided after some deliberation that Sybil would become pregnant. The child would most certainly die, but unnamed and unformed, it was better than risking themselves or their living children. Besides, their relatives would be less suspicious in the presence of a heavily pregnant witch, and the upcoming baby made a good excuse for a gathering.

It's not that the other Blacks were magically untalented, or unintelligent, or even all morally corrupt. It's that the sheer magnitude of Cygnus' and Sybil's plot was beyond what even the most paranoid among them could suspect. After the fact, Cygnus deflected the blame on some of the dead and that was the end of it. Some aurors did suspect Cygnus, but none of them wanted to be the one to interrogate a man capable of murdering close to two-score of his own blood relatives. Besides, the deceased Blacks were not particularly beloved, and had been murdering each other for the last three years anyway (not that anybody could prove it).

The power released during the murderous ritual, wild magic born of the unwilling sacrifice of so many witches of wizards, created a burst of magic so violent it echoed through the blood of every man and woman born Black. Those married into other lines, protected by their spouse's magic, still cried in pain, as if a part of them had been forever stolen. The absent, those who had not come despite Cygnus' insistent invites and those who had left the country years before, felt their magic burn and tear. It was weeks, sometimes months, until their wands would respond reliably to their commands, and, in elderly Aries Black's case, his magic was stripped forever. He died a squib.

At the heart of the burst, eight-year-old Sirius, Cygnus and Sybil's eldest, strong in health and magical talent, did not survive despite the heavy protections his parents had woven. His magic was drained to feed the voracious manor awakened in blood. The baby, unexpectedly, was born healthy. Perhaps, in its fickleness, the wild magic had not even seen it. After all, Dark Arts were a magic of emotion and neither Sybil nor Cygnus had developed much of an attachment for the unborn sacrifice. It took weeks for Sybil to be able to so much as look at the child, a quiet wide-eyed girl, as she mourned her son.

Cygnus named the child Isla, after his late sister. A part of him did regret that all this had been necessary. When Isla-the-younger ran off with muggle Bob Hitchens, he cursed himself, convinced he had doomed his youngest by giving her a cursed name. That didn't stop him from blasting her off the family tapestry. Sybil, to aggravate him, felt the need to keep bringing him photographs and news. She stopped, disgusted, when Isla's only child was revealed to be a squib. The girl's magic had never been particularly strong, but a squib.

"It's the muggle blood, not the ritual, it's not our fault," Cygnus told his wife.

He wanted to believe it. After all, everything he'd done, he'd done for the family. No more murderous plots, no more disunity. None of the scattered survivors challenged Cygnus when he claimed the title of Lord Black. The Blacks were few now, yes, but the Black fortune, too long divided between too many spendthrift heirs, was now firmly in his vaults. For the first time in two generations, they had enough money to exist politically. His son Phineas had become Hogwarts Headmaster, and if that was not a success to be proud of, Cygnus didn't know what was. His grandson, Sirius, eldest child of Phineas, lived in Grimmauld Place, the ancestral Black home. And Cygnus himself, of course. He had not only a seat, but a voice, at the Wizengamot. Lord Black was a title spoken with respect.

All was as it should be.


1962-63 - Bellatrix 8 years old

In the last century, factories had been built and later disassembled, slums had given way to crowded streets lined with identical narrow homes glued together wall-to-wall. West Ham borough had gone from being one of the very worst neighborhoods in greater London, to a place where one would expect to not get stabbed during the day. That said, it was still dirty and poverty stricken.

Growing up, it was the only glimpse into the muggle world the Black sisters had.

The wards made them silent, those muggles living on the other side of the streets just outside the grounds. When the muggles' gazes fell on the estate, they still saw a factory. Their minds still whispered 'unremarkable, stay away, not by business' and directed them towards other thoughts.

As little girls, Andromeda, Bellatrix and, toddling behind them, Narcissa, would sometimes go to the edge of the wards. They would climb the trees and fly up their toy brooms to spy on the muggles in their tiny gardens. On one side of the estate, you could see a small abandoned field across the street. Children, in their silly muggle clothes, would fool around during the day. When an old car was abandoned especially, they would come in numbers, to play or to take the parts.

There were a lot of children in those small, narrow houses. There were parents and often grandparents and sometimes even other people. Bellatrix didn't understand why they didn't go into bigger houses. To believe that some even slept in the street. Other muggles passed by those asleep-in-the-street muggles and didn't even look.

"They're muggles. Filthy animals," Mother said, because what more was there to say? Mother found gawking at muggles unseemly, so soon the girls found other games during the day. Narcissa would barely remember ever looking at all.

Bellatrix had a harder time sleeping through the night than her sisters. She would collapse at 8 PM and then wake up at 1 AM, full of energy, unable to sleep again before 2 or 3. Meda teased her because she still took afternoon naps at eight years old, but Bellatrix couldn't help it. At night, she would go out on her broomstick because she couldn't sleep and there was nothing else to do. She'd get shouted at and locked into her room if she made noise or messed up the house.

At night it wasn't children in that litter-filled field, lit by two flickering muggle-lampposts. It was all adults, of a scruffier, more dangerous breed than the ones in houses. When she was seven, Bellatrix saw a man get stabbed. She watched a old drunk wrapped in crusty covers beaten by youths until he stopped moving altogether. When she was eight, she saw a lady, or maybe a girl, be dragged by two men who ended on top of her. She saw a too-skinny woman, dressed half-crazy even for a muggle, walking around alone like she'd been confounded, her mouth opening and closing like she was shouting.

Some of the windows in the houses lit up during the night. Sometimes, when she was really curious, Bellatrix found that she could see, as if she was standing with her nose against the dusty glass. Sometimes, she saw a mother singing to her baby, or children up late playing and laughing with their parents. Mostly, she saw parents with twisted faces, crossed arms and balled fists. They would cry, sometimes because one made the other cry, sometimes they cried together. At first, the seeing had happened and she'd struggled to make it happen again, now she could almost control it. She'd had a lot of practice, and besides, seeing made it all less boring.

Bellatrix watched. She did not speak of what she saw at night. She, Cissy and Meda had secrets, but this was something more. She lacked the words to explain, even if she had wanted to. Her parents gave her no words. Except animals. She had nightmares, sometimes. Of looking for her house but not finding it and having to sleep on the ground. Of filthy muggle men pinning her down. When she'd wake up, she'd scoff.

She had magic. She'd blast them to pieces if they tried.

One night she arrived in her usual place and saw a light. A glowing, orange-red light hovering like thick clouds over the muggle houses, and billowing smoke. A fire!

Two houses were breaking down, swallowed in flames. The flames reached out, running from roof too roof, threatening the whole street. In the ward-made silence, the crowd gathering outside was a pantomime of grimaces, shaking shoulders and jerking movements. Some held others in their arms, others struggled against those holding them, screaming soundlessly at the flames. Many muggles ran about with buckets. So little water for so much fire.

Bellatrix's eyes searched for those people she knew without knowing. She'd counted them a hundred times, spying them behind their windows. The five children and two parents and one grandparent in the house that was almost destroyed now. In the house next to it, blazing second-strongest, lived six boys and a mother and three grand-parents. Barely over half of all those people were outside.

Bellatrix blinked tears out of her stinging eyes. She pushed her sticky dark curls out of her face. It was hot. She gasped for air, tasting ash. The wards blocked the noise from the city, but not the heat. Not the fire.

Heart racing, she jumped back on her Meteorite 30, the fastest toy-broom on the market. Still it took minutes to get back inside.

"Father! Mother! The muggle houses, they're burning! I can even feel the heat!"

Father grunted, but he did get up. Still half-asleep, he summoned his own broom, a brand new Cleansweep he'd bought to show off. It zoomed around the mansion so fast Bellatrix was dying to use it. Cleansweep were used by actual Quidditch professionals.

"Can I climb on with you? We'll be faster."

She almost couldn't believe it when he gave an impatient nod. Her arms around him and her cheek against his warm back, Bellatrix closed her eyes as he flew her to the edge of the wards. She half-expected Father to shake her off and tell her to get on her own broom the minute he was more awake. She tried not to hold on too tight.

She fell on her knees when they landed on the grass and scrambled upright breathlessly. "Look, there's five houses burning now!"

"Look at them." Father's voice was flat. His narrowed eyes pitiless."So pathetic. If they can't fight fire, why build those ugly houses that leave no space for the fire to die?"

One of the muggle machines finally came, a large red carriage with water spouting out of a long tube. It was too slow. Too late to save the houses already burning.

Father cast a few spells, weaving them into the wards. "There, no risk of the fire reaching us. I'm going back to bed."

"We could stop the fire. Easily."

"Why would we do that? There's too many of them anyway. Good riddance."

'Good riddance.' The words echoed in her mind. The fire's angry flames filled the sky, so bright it almost didn't look like night.

Bellatrix didn't know what she felt.

Left alone by her father in the darkness, Bellatrix watched the houses burn until the flames had all died. She counted again. The second family now had only one grandparent, and the first, the one who didn't even have parts of a house left, had lost two of the children. The father was so burned half his face looked melted off. Bellatrix had seen him outside with all of his face, earlier, but then he'd gone back in to get his family out of the flames.


"Do you think Father would melt his face off, for us?" Bellatrix asked Meda one morning. She kept dreaming of fire. She remembered her arms around Father's body as they flew together.

Meda frowned at her as she finished tying her own dark curls in a thick ponytail. "Bella," she then slowly, "don't get yourself in a situation where you need Father to melt his face off for any of us."

Yes. That sounded wise. Yet the answer was like a cold stone in Bellatrix's stomach and she didn't know why.

"The wireless said it would snow late this winter. Can we make snow early?"

That was Narcissa, walking into Andromeda's bedroom with all her outside clothes already on properly. Narcissa was only six but very good at being a good daughter. Her blonde hair fell down to her shoulders, just wavy enough to look styled, and sometimes among grownups Cissy would just stand there, all cute and silent, aware she was been looked at and approved of. She was lucky she was fun and loyal, or Bellatrix would have shoved her just because.

"Bean!" Bellatrix called.

Their house-elf, a female who had already been around to mind Mother when Druella had been a child, and whom the girls had learned not to push around too much or she'd just pop away and not answer for a while, appeared in front of them.

"How about snow?" Bellatrix said eagerly.

"Young mistresses wants Bean to conjure snow? Bean can make snow outside. Bean will find a suitable spot to play without bothering the master."

Bean popped away without another word.

The sisters grinned at each other and rushed after the house elf.

Bellatrix had to hop as she hastily slid on her boots. She didn't bother with outside robes, keeping her sleeveless play ones. Warming charms kept her comfortable and play robes were meant to be torn and reparoed over and over. Besides, she liked the slosh of snow up her legs and the feel of grass against her bare arms. Unlike Cissy and Meda, she didn't mind the scrapes or when dirt got into her mouth. They helped her feel all there. Who wanted to be padded in winter robes and be cut off from everything?

Bean would fix all that before they went back in anyway. She'd be all tidy and prettied up for her late morning lessons.

They made a snowman. Meda wanted to decide what it'd look like, Bella preferred to just do it. Meda huffed and called her bossy and soon pointed out the arms weren't aligned. So Bella took out the arm that was too low and slammed it into Meda.

Andromeda coughed and spluttered as snow exploded in her face. Her eyes had narrowed in a way that said fine, you asked for it before she'd finished catching her breath. She crouched and threw a pile of dirt and snow straight at Bella's eyes.

Bella grinned and jumped on her, forcing her big (but not that much bigger) sister on her back like a flailing turtle. Why bother throwing when you just had to immobilize and bury in snow?

Andromeda groaned, snow all over her face and hair, shoving and grabbing as she struggled to regain the upper hand.

Bella gasped as something cold slid between her dress and the skin. The warming charm peeled off like a sticky layer off her skin, leaving Bella shivering and full of snow. She realized her snowman's head was now multiple small piles of snow all around her, and in her clothes. Andromeda took advantage of the moment to shove her off and get back on her feet.

Cissy stood smugly right behind Bellatrix, her little gloved hands full of snow.

"I didn't like the head," Cissy said calmly, as if she was in her right to give Bella orders. To shove so much snow down Bella's back to break the warming charm. "Make it pretty this time. I want a lady snowman."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes threateningly. Cissy giggled as she backed away. She stumbled backwards and fell on the ground, still laughing. "You've still got snow on your chest, Bella," she teased, pointing.

Brat. Bellatrix went to grab more snow. Her chilled fingers stung, in a good way. She dug deep into her snowman's chest. She'd make the snowball of the ages. Then she stopped, the pile of snow before her distracting her from her revenge. Her snowman. Look at how they'd mutilated it. Headless, armless, and now with a huge hole in its chest.

Wait, that hole actually looked like a twisted mouth. Bella cocked her head, seeing the snowman from another angle. A one-armed monster with a massive maw on its chest. It was soft and lumpy, but imagine it hard, imagine it made of ice, imagine -

The snowman shimmered, hardened and moved. The hole-mouth remade itself into a gaping jaw. It shook itself upright, a bulky, shambling creature with stumpy legs, a single cone-like arm and a massive, toothy chest.

Mouth opening impossibly wide. The snow-monster roared.

Narcissa screamed and scrambled behind Andromeda. Meda threw a snowball at the monster, her free hand covering her ears. The packed snow crashed against it and made a dent in its broad chest. Bellatrix frowned at the dent, almost disappointed. Not ice then, just harder snow.

"Bella, you got it under control or do I need to destroy it?" Meda shouted over the earth-shattering growls.

Heart pounding, Bellatrix laughed and rushed shoulder-first into the snowman with a howl of glee.

Under her weight, the magically hardened snow gave away like a punched biscuit, swallowing her in chilly whiteness. Deafening roars surrounded her.

"Will you keep it down!" That roar was very human.

Bellatrix crashed against the hard ground. Her lips tasted dirt. All the snow had vanished. She gasped as she stood, her legs bruised and wobbly. She clumsily pushed her thick curls out of her face. Her vision was blurry from tears. Something was wrong with her mouth. Something warm, sticky -

She spat out a tooth. Ew. As she wiped her mouth, the back of her hand came away slick with blood. She gasped again, reeling as the pain hit her.

Father stood before her in his black robes. He groaned and pointed his wand at her. "Open that mouth so I can fix your teeth. You look like a wildling."

The tooth fixing spell was like a stick shoved up her jaw. Did the furniture feel that bad when it was reparoed?

Still, the pain faded and her vision cleared, revealing Father glowering at her. "Bellatrix, you will sit over there, quietly. Until your tutor arrives."

Merlin's balls. Still, it was a good day, nobody was shouting.

She spared a mournful look at the empty place where her roaring snowman had stood. It was rare that her magic played along so well. Such a perfect -

"Stop kicking your legs or I'll tie you up," Father snapped.

Bellatrix tried to sit still on the stiff wooden chair Father had conjured. It was hard. It forced her to stare at the house instead of anything interesting. She couldn't help it, she wanted to move! She shivered, still wet from Cissy's treacherous attack. Suddenly, the melting snow was replaced by a feeling of comfortable warmth. The blood and dirt on her arm vanished.

Bean patted her leg with a look that was both sympathetic and exasperated. The elf conjured a shimmering hourglass, wandlessly, as elves did. "It be half an hour until time for your lessons, young mistress. Discipline be important skill to learn."

Bellatrix pictured Bean going up in flames in a disciplined fashion, but no magic happened. Perhaps she just didn't mean it enough. Discipline. Ha-

"Merlin's pants, girl! Incarcero."

Bellatrix's eyes fell to her legs. Her swinging legs. Morgana. Stupid legs!

Thin ropes bound her legs and arm, against the chair. Hard. The ropes dug into her clothes and skin, leaving her unable to do much more than grimace and blink.

Somehow, it was sort of better than being forced to sit quietly. At least she could concentrate on the discomfort, instead of having to stay still with nothing. Truth was, she didn't know what was wrong with her. Why even her little sister was so good at being still and she just... wasn't.

Seconds. Minutes. Bellatrix's eyes stayed glued to the hourglass. It was slow.

Meda's laughter tickled her ears. They had to be making a new snowman. A lady snowman. There would be no time for Bellatrix to join them before the tutor came. She wasn't even in the right direction to watch.

A thud. A playful squeal. They were throwing snowballs again. Without her.

The ropes groaned as Bellatrix tried to kick them off. Not that they budged. Bellatrix could feel bruises blossoming on her legs and upper arms.

But she couldn't do nothing. She desperately stared at the hourglass, willing it faster. Her breathing quickened. She willed herself not to cry as the ropes constricted her chest.

Meda's laughter. More thuds. Running.

Bellatrix balled her hands into fists, her heart pounding in her ears. Why? Why couldn't she just play? Why -

A crack under her hand her grasp. She was projected backwards and landed, butt first, in a pile of snow right next to her wide-eyed sisters.

"Your magic's out of control," Meda warned, stifling a grin. "Nice flying."

Covered in snow and dirt, Bellatrix didn't mask her pride. "Nobody gets to chain me-"

She shrieked as an invisible hand grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her back to Father's feet.

What, he'd been spying at her from inside instead of doing just about anything else?

"Bellatrix, you're not the one who's going to win at this game."

And that was the why of it. It wasn't about the noise. The house and grounds were big enough to find quiet even without spells. It was about winning.

Fine, she thought grumpily, bound once more. She'd win next time.

"Girls, back inside. No more snow!"

Bellatix's heart clenched when Cissy gave her a dirty look. It wasn't her fault! Andromeda winked when father couldn't see. Meda was good at staying calm about unfair things. Bellatrix was so glad Meda didn't blame her.

When the tutor finally arrived and finally, the ropes were released, Bellatrix's arms and legs shook. How Father expected her to stay still for two whole hours and listen to the lessons after been unable to move for half an eternity -

It ended with her being sent to her room by the exasperated tutor, and Meda patiently telling her what she'd missed later.

It often did.

Father wasn't happy. He shouted. He punished.

He often did.

Bellatrix cried when her frustration grew stronger than her pride. Crying got things over with, she told herself. It wasn't weak. It was smart.

Father had won. Again.

She hated it.

One day she'd win.


So here's our first glimpse of Bellatrix. Rowdier and less analytical than her sisters. She probably could have been a perfectly normal child in a non-dysfunctional family. But the seeds have been sown and as we all know, it just gets worse.

About the Manor's location : I tried to stay broadly accurate in my depiction of West Ham (in 1850 it wasn't yet called West Ham, it was just the border of Essex, it became West Ham in 1886, and since 1965 it's part of the London borough of Newham). West Ham was so ravaged by poverty and illness outbreaks that Alfred Dickens (Charles' brother) who was a medical officer at the time, wrote a scathing report on the state of things in 1855. The area is obviously now much better off than it was in the 60s (let alone the 1850s), for all that it remains one of the less affluent boroughs.

And there's probably a similarly reason for the ancestral Black house to be at Grimmauld Place instead of in the middle of nice big grounds in the countryside. From a storytelling point of view, I wanted to make Bellatrix's feelings for muggles visceral rather than 'just' taught prejudice (and also explain why there are so few Blacks).