Thanks Paul for taking the time to review. It's what motivates me to keep the chapters coming.
1970, April - Bellatrix's 5th year
Pleasant harp notes floated in the corridors of the Westham Black Manor. Among them, only Narcissa still practiced music. A good thing she did : it put Mother in a good mood (that came at the price of fawning all over perfect Cissy, but Bellatrix had grown resigned to it).
Bean popped in Bellatrix's bedroom, by the telescope she still used during sleepless nights. The elf held a rolled up parchment.
"Oh, what now?" Bellatrix rolled off the bed, pushing curls off her face and fighting off a yawn. She'd spent the afternoon flying over the manor looking for ward-molds, those magic resistant growths that plagued heavily warded buildings (Slughorn had said the molds could be treated to actually store magic). "And I need theses robes over there fixed, Bean." She'd tripped some old ward, causing her robes to catch fire, when she'd tried to sweep the roofs with detection charms. Her ancestors had loved their privacy.
A familiar neat script darkened the parchment. 'I'm busy on the 7th, my dear. I have made time tomorrow. See you then, at six. Your Aunt Cassy.'
A growl rose unbidden from Bellatrix's chest. Of course. Cassiopeia always came first. How that impossible woman had known that Bellatrix would go the Lestranges'... No. Enough! Bellatrix wasn't going to give up this. She'd already had to bow out of the first meeting Rabastan had invited her to. Jealous Aunt Cassy must have sniffed competition.
But if Bella didn't show up tomorrow...
"She was going to teach me to fly," Bellatrix whispered, hating the frustrated tears welling up in her eyes. She stormed to Meda's room and shoved the letter at her. Cissy would tell her how to appease Aunt Cassy and other clever manipulative tricks. But right now, Bella just wanted to be told she wasn't the one doing anything wrong.
"That bitch," Andromeda said, setting aside her homework. Thanks, Sis. "You've done your best to please her and she's still decided to be difficult, so you might as well give her a reason to be."
Bellatrix had needed to hear that. But it couldn't quite erase the disappointment twisting her insides. Because the last surprise -
At Yule, Aunt Cassy had taken Bellatrix to haunted Scottish moor where half-mad ghosts of battles past treated the living like invaders. Together, they had cast an exorcism. Even in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts, you found no books telling you how to go about an exorcism. The witches' magics had linked and hummed as they had forced time to take back its rights, and dissolve the magic tethering the silvery imprints to our world. The enraged ghosts had become kittens the minute one of theirs vanished. They then began telling boastful account of their deaths, gruesome delightful tales. She and Aunt Cassy had gasped had laughed until tears had run down her faces. Suddenly, Cassiopeia had gone off at something Bellatrix had said, she couldn't even remember what. 'Why must you always ruin things? You are no child anymore, my dear. Why do such simple things seem beyond you?' Cassiopeia had dissaparated, disappointment etched on her features. At Bellatrix's exasperated request, Bean had popped by, carrying one of Cissy's portkeys, and taken her home.
'Why must you always ruin things?' Ever since Yule, it had been snippy letters. Bellatrix had hoped that if she - She ground her teeth. "That bitch," she repeated. "I'm not changing my plans."
She'd ask Rod if he knew someone who could fly. Cassiopeia would have to find someone else to lick her boots.
The eight witches and wizards had gathered in the one-room outbuilding of one of the minor Lestrange manors.
The manor itself, if 'manor' it could be called, was a crooked collection of mismatched towers in various states of disrepair that spiraled outwards like a basket of fireworks. A dozen towers' worth of ruins sprawled around the handful of standing buildings. Rod had told her that it was family tradition to curse buildings when there was no direct-line succession, forcing the inheriting relative to either brave the hostile enchantments or draw on the existing magic to rebuild.
Bellatrix now knew exactly where to go looking for boggarts.
The more recent 'tower' was a translucent oddity, shaped like an inverted exclamation mark. A rotating glass sphere the size of the Hogwarts Great Hall blinded anyone who walked the Manor's ground on a sunny day. Bellatrix had to somewhat admire the amount of magic invested in that ostentatious aberration (a dozen five-person rituals at least). Of course, without solid masonry to tether it, the magic wouldn't outlast its casters' passing. Ladon Lestrange, his cousin Freya, Freya's elderly father, Freya's only daughte,r and the daughter's own two children claimed that house. Them and spouses. So nine. Bellatrix was always struck at how gregarious most of the other great families were. Rod couldn't wrap his head around the fact that the Black Manors rarely housed more than two generation (but why would anyone want to live with more of their relatives?).
The outhouse at the edge of the ruins was more grounded, as in, the actual floor was connected to the ground. It looked like somebody had taken a massive chunk of ice and cast a few hundred blasting curses until there was a hole the size of a large room inside it. There were no windows, only silver double-doors high enough to let a giant through. The white walls sparkled with yellows and blues, reflecting the chandeliers' magical lights.
"I suppose you Ravenclaws were all for it," Rod accused, seated on the crystal banquet table next to the birch wine, his legs swinging. A slow-cooking roast dripped fat in the ice-and-marble enchanted fireplace next to him.
At 16, Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Lucius Malfoy were the youngest of the group. Rabastan's neatly trimmed beard singled him out as the only person out of their teens. Two other Slytherins : Thorfinn Rowle and that half-blood Elric Jugson, and Ravenclaws Augustus Rookwood and Ardra Travers, had also interrupted their Spring holidays to finally meet that mysterious revolutionary wizard Rabastan had been whispering about for months.
Bellatrix slid one of the salmon-pumpkin bites into her mouth and hummed appreciatively as the others heatedly debated the new Diggory law, an initiative to have all books published through a single Ministry-affiliated publisher to 'guarantee quality and avoid the poorly researched or slanderous statements seen all too often in independent text'.
"On principle, I'd agree," Ardra said,"but when you consider the textbooks the Ministry has been selecting the '20s, it's obvious that objective quality isn't their priority. In my second year, Xenophilius Lovegood wrote an article showing how all the authors of our textbooks were connected, by blood or money, to members of the board of governors. He got an owl banning his school paper and telling him he'd not be allowed to sit his NEWTs if he kept it up."
Hoping that exposing facts might change the world. How very Ravenclaw. Bellatrix bit into another of those nice little cheese buns and chewed slowly, savoring the spicy aftertaste. It seemed everybody hated the law already, which was no fun. She liked it when debates got heated : then a well timed barb could get people to start hexing each other.
"It's an excuse to go sniffing in the mansions," Rod said, his elbows digging into his thighs as he glared at the ground. He was funnily passionate about politics. "That's the real law. Getting their hands on the knowledge the old families have stored away. Getting an even greater say in what were allowed to know."
"I don't understand why Slughorn voted that one," his elder brother mused. "At least it exposed the Fawleys as corrupt hypocrites."
"Lady Slughorn will store her own tomes abroad if it comes to that," Malfoy said. "Most of her family's money comes from international trade. Slughorn, the Prewetts, and Cosmo's Greengrasses are gathering favors to place more of their people in the ICW. They require Diggory's support."
You'd never catch Lucius Malfoy sitting on a table and risk creasing his impeccable dress robes. He always had that tilt to his chin, as if he was already Lord. He kept his voice just soft enough to force you to give him your undivided attention. Bellatrix itched to hex his arrogant mug. Malfoy was admittedly powerful, but like so many others he valued appearances and comfort above all else. That baby had refused to duel her ever since she'd gotten a little carried away in third year.
Predictably, silly Rod and the others drank Malfoy's words. They couldn't get enough of Malfoy's knowledge of Ministry affairs. Malfoy, of course, was always all too eager to show off.
"Can you imagine if, instead of worrying about their agendas, their on-going feuds, and the inextricable web of favors owed, wizards and witches voted for the laws that actually benefited them?" Augustus Rookwood said with a cynical smile, from the chair next to Bellatrix's. "Those squawking about skittish light-wizards and blood-traitors taking over the Wizengamot seem unable to comprehend that only unity will save them."
"How very Hufflepuff," Thorfinn Rowle mocked. Rowle knew he acted twelve. He didn't care. He'd doubtless been dragged here by Jugson, who hoped people would somehow forget he was half-blood if he associated enough with Rowle.
"People disparage Hufflepuff out of fear," Rookwood argued. The Ravenclaw was in the habit of raising a finger whenever his thoughts were snared by a digression he deemed interesting. Bellatrix stifled her snort (and felt very grown up for succeeding to). "A united hardworking crowd is unbeatable. Hufflepuffs must remain convinced that power is boring, contemptible, or too complex for them, lest they begin to have greater ambitions than living happy, simple lives."
"I told you they were full of fire and ideas, my Lord."
Bellatrix hastily swallowed the stuffed pepper she'd been chewing. Two men, Ladon Lestrange and a stranger, the stranger they'd come to meet, now stood between them and large silver-doors. Rod had flushed, looking as surprised as any of them. Rabastan on the other hand...
Clever. Spying on them like this.
Ladon Lestrange was lithe effeminate man, sporting dark green robes and the same shoulder-length wavy brown hair as his nephew Rabastan. Bellatrix peered at him curiously. Aunt Cassy always had lots of bad things to say about Ladon, and also mother's youngest uncle, Brannon Rosier, who had all but living with Ladon for the last twenty years. Aunt Cassy rarely spared many words for uninteresting people. Besides, Rod had admitted that his uncle was the only Lestrange younger than a hundred who had any political vision.
They'd been bonding over that lately : disappointing parents (it had been rather odd too, how shocked Rod would look when she'd grumble about her punishments. Turns out, he and his parents shouted at each other without casting any curses).
"Uncle," Rabastan greeted, suddenly all solemn. He bowed his head to the other man. "Lord Voldemort. I'm honored you accepted to meet us all."
Lord Voldemort. The name had been withheld from them until now and Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. She knew of no Voldemort family, let alone any noble one. Could it be French? The man before her was in his forties, tall and pale, his face clean-shaven and his dark-hair short. Not the latest fashion, but not particularly French either. Strikingly handsome. And yet something was off.
She closed her eyes, and found herself unable to recall his image. Only her thoughts of him 'handsome, not French', as if someone else had described him to her. Some kind of charm stopped her mind from retaining his features. Fascinating.
"You've gather quite a crowd, Ladon. Please, keep talking." There was something about his voice and bearing. Something that made Bellatrix sit up straighter and want him to notice her. To be impressed by her. "I'm eager to know, how the upcoming generation expects to fit in the world crafted by their parents."
Cassiopeia. That's who he reminded her of. Except Bellatrix wasn't ten anymore. She made sure not to look overeager. For all she knew, this man's charisma was an empty shell. And, more importantly, that was a very English accent.
"Where's the Voldemort family from? I can't place it." Thank you, Rowle.
Voldemort smiled as if he had expected the question. He stood relaxed, his gaze almost benevolent. Bellatrix slipped her right hand inside her robes, her fingers curling around her wand. It was bad manners, but she could not trust her perception around a man who affected the minds of those who laid eyes on him.
His dark brown eyes flickered to her before turning back to Rowle.
"I've created my own name. One that will be known for feats done this generation and not centuries past. A new family to be joined by the worthy."
"We have a lot of new families, what with all the mudbloods."
Bellatrix stifled a grin. After near a year of Slug Club, she'd learned to shut up. Having Rowle around was brilliant : the questions got asked but it wasn't you who paid the consequences for being a mouthy idiot.
"Ah, you fear you may be too superior to me to listen to what I have to say. A reasonable suspicion, Mr. Rowle." The unoccupied chairs silently flew to the side of the room, leaving an empty space and eight teenagers displaying various levels of alarm: Voldemort's hands were empty. "Take your wand."
A duel? Now Bellatrix was interested. Voldemort's wand flew to his outstretched hand from a fold of his robes. More wandless magic.
Jugson whispered something in Rowle's ear. The blonde's frown was replaced by a considering look as he squared his shoulders and stood up. Rowle was built like a wardrobe, but for all he weighted twice as much as Voldemort and could throw a guy five feet (Slytherin-Gryffindor of January 67 had been one memorable Quidditch game), Voldemort wasn't the one clutching his wand like a nervous child.
Voldemort looked both indulgent and amused as he finally took out his own wand. "Fear not. I'm a guest. It'd be unforgivably rude of me to commit a crime." Behind Voldemort, Ladon Lestrange stood cross armed, looking highly amused. "Show me the greatness of your ancient and noble family, Rowle."
Rowle cleared his throat loudly and bowed, too formally to not be mocking. Voldemort returned the bow, his eyes promising vengeance. Rowle was the first to cast. The wandless orange curse vanished two yards before Voldemort. While the older wizard was busy waving his wand to another incantation.
How- Actual wandless shielding? Protective enchantments on his robes?
Voldemort's wand finished its motion. A golden-brown shape materialized around Rowle's chest and arms, accompanied by strange hisses from Voldemort. A snake! Rowle gasped, immobilized, brought to his knees as the fat conjured python squeezed. His wand flew into Voldemort's outstretched hand. The older man was still hissing.
A parselmouth! Well that narrowed things down!
Parseltongue was a fussy gift, rarely transmitted unless both parents had it. The last known non-Gaunt parselmouth had been murdered, along with his family, by Electra Gaunt in the '30s. That crazy had died in Azkaban, just like the last Gaunt heir, Morfin, in the '50s. Uncle Orion had (unsuccessfully) tried to claim the never used Gaunt seat at the Wizengamot for the Black line, as the Blacks had been among the very last to welcome a Gaunt before the Gaunts had begun exclusively sticking to first cousins. Rumor was all the remaining Gaunts were squibs. If Bellatrix were Salazar Slytherin, she'd make a point of haunting that pathetic lot into an early grave.
Could this man be a Gaunt ? He seemed entirely too pretty for that. Perhaps one of the low-profile parselmouths? Or some indian ancestry? Parseltongue was more commonplace there.
Rowle, still on his knees before Voldemort, unexpectedly began chuckling between gasps.
"Fine," Rowle allowed as the four-foot python loosened its hold just enough to let him breathe, "I deserved that, Lord Voldemort. You lot back there can thank me for asking the questions you're too cowardly to ask." He shot a grin at Jugson who smiled back.
"Thank you, Rowle," Bellatrix said sweetly, walking up to him.
She was too curious to pass up the opportunity to observe the thick python draped over the seventh year's broad shoulders. She knew how tricky conjurations were. Incarcerous remained a favorite of hers. The size of that python, the patterns and perfect scales, dry and warm under her fingers... Bellatrix conjured a blunt needle and poked at where the cloacal vent should be. Her eyes widened as two hemipenes popped out.
Conjured snakes were usually pale imitations that did not hold up to close scrutiny. They rarely had a lifespan longer than an hour. This one looked real.
"He's beautiful, my Lord. May I keep him?" Perhaps it had been a trick, perhaps Lestrange kept snakes on the grounds and this was only a well disguised summons. Yet the lack of imperfections: not one scale damaged or peeling, not a speck of dirt, screamed conjuration.
Voldemort's sudden stare pierced into her. By instinct, she focused on the feel of her clothes against her skin, on the sizzle of meat fat in the fireplace, on the air filling her lungs, and of course, on his features, those features her mind couldn't quite grasp. She could feel her perception slip away, tugged by a force that didn't want her rooted in the present. Legilimency.
Irritation bubbled in Bellatrix's chest. How soft did that man think she was to think he could steal from her mind undetected? Did he think she was the kind to lower her defenses around a stranger who spied on teenagers and conjured perfect snakes?
A soft laugh escaped his lips. His dark eyes were more predatory than warm. "Keep the snake, Miss Black. You should name him."
Bellatrix's smile had an edge. "Come on, Morty," she cooed at the python, deciding the man deserved the dig for trying to slip into her mind. She slid her arms under the beast and took it off a grateful-looking sweaty Rowle. The snake lifted its head and twisted its neck towards the fireplace, as if eager to drag her there. Bellatrix almost dropped it in shock.
If the python ended up having a personality, she wasn't sure what she'd do. You just couldn't conjure proper life, or every kid would have a kneazle and people would have been conjuring babies for centuries. Or house elves.
"You have opinions, ambitions... Tell me, when do you expect you'll have the actual ability to do anything? When will you be finally someone?"
A sense of gloom fell over the assembly. Bellatrix suddenly wished Morty was venomous. She could really use a venomous snake.
"Decades." Voldemort answered for them. "A Lordship before fifty is rare. Orion Black's father must have feared assassination to pass his own mantle so soon."
Bellatrix nodded. She smiled at the alarmed look Travers shot her. Even Rod looked taken aback. She wasn't sure why. If by the time she was seventeen, let alone twenty, Mother and Father kept telling her how to live her life... The only trouble was getting away with things.
"And for those of you who aren't heirs... For centuries lordships were won by magic. Anyone in the family could challenge the Lord or Lady regnant. For three centuries now, houses have been transmitted almost exclusively to the eldest. Increasingly, the male line absorbs the female upon marriage instead of it being decided by magic. It seems to me that we as a society have grown afraid of power. We can't stomach the idea of a weak line dying out so we invent arbitrary rules."
As the second daughter of a minor son, Bellatrix had to admit that kind of talk didn't displease her.
"We have abolished vassalage, in the name of not casting some houses as inferior. That topic is why your father sent you here, is it not, Mr. Malfoy?"
Papa's boy nodded. "Father asks me to send his greetings. The Crabbe and Goyle houses have fallen upon hardship. We would've liked to renew the vassalage that bound our houses in the 16th and 17th centuries and see to their comfort in exchange for loyalty, but the current laws prohibit it. We are trying to see how much support we can gather for a more modern type of vassalage : binding to a Lord instead of a family, with freedom to renew or break the bond when a new Lord is named. We have been preparing the law for the last few months and mustering support."
We. Like he was already part of the Wizengamot. And it worked. Even I'll-soon-be-a-junior-Unspeakable-Rookwood sat straighter and acted more deferential when Malfoy spoke.
"You look like you have a lot to say about vassalage yourself, Mr. Jugson." Oh yes, someone was almost shaking in his chair.
"Nobody who's never lived beyond Knockturn should have the right to vote on vassalage," Jugson all but growled. It was no secret the halfblood had grown up in one of those shoddy barely-magical houses that crowded wizarding London. "Muggles destroy their abandoned houses nowadays, they keep track of everything. They've bred so much they're everywhere. Without muggle-repelling wards there's no way of escaping them. If we try to take a house that's owned by a muggle we get treated like criminals, even if we don't breach the Statute! Getting your house built by wizarding masons, getting it linked to the floo network, installing wards... It's decades of wages. Before, the Lord took care of it. Or we just had muggles do the work and made sure they'd never come looking again, but now if you don't pay a professional obliviator to do it, it's illegal, and it's almost impossible to get a permit. The Masons' Guild has made damn sure every house in the Isles would be built by them. All the Guild's nouveau riche are throwing their lot with the light wizards, pretending they give a damn about muggles, because they want to keep bleeding us dry."
Funny to hear Jugson, of the not-quite-noble and decidedly-not-ancient house of Jugson, say 'nouveau riche'. Bellatrix guessed he was one of the nouveau not-even-riche. How sad.
Jugson, red faced, took a slow shuddering breath. "Why does slaving off working for the Ministry for half your life make you more free than vassalage?"
"But look at how many jobs the ministry has created so you could all slave away," Voldemort replied with a mirthless smile. "All these people working at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, at The Improper Use of Magic Office, at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures... I think we should just give up magic: it'd make life so much easier for everyone. And it's only fair that magical beasts and beings be relegated to cramped reserves for muggles' comfort."
Morty was lounging next to the fire, his eyes riveted on the slow-roasting meat. Bellatrix summoned a slab of piglet from the center of the roast, where the meat was still almost raw. She dangled it a few feet from the python.
"Is it true, that you've been spending times among creatures, my Lord?" Rod asked.
Bellatrix smiled in delight when Morty dived for the meat and gobbled it. Fine, Voldemort was perhaps worth listening to. She bowed her head as she turned back towards him. He eyes met hers, again, and she could swear he almost smiled.
"Absolutely, Mr. Lestrange. They are part of our world. They never were interested in citizenship before the 1800s, when they had freedom and territory. Now mages have decided to regulate them in the name of the Statute of Secrecy, and they realize that if they fail to become as humans, they'll be forced to let Ministry laws dictate their lives and doubtless face extinction."
"But what faction is prepared to act against muggles?"
"We don't have to kill them," Rookwood intervened. Not that anyone except Travers -who probably was just squeamish- and, oddly, Rowle, seemed to care. "We can expand magically the spaces we do have. Additionally, there were nuclear explosions in the '40s that made terrain the size of cities barren : no muggle dares venture there anymore." Bellatrix frowned. She wasn't up to date on this nuclear, but permanent muggle-repelling explosions sounded fascinating. They should have one near home. "We could stage such accidents to carve space out for our people. Of course, such complex magic would require cooperation between multiple families, and dark arts."
"There's no political will for it. Our ministry is absurd." Voldemort's eyes blazed, and he filled the room despite only taking a few steps. His voice rose, as if he was containing a singular outrage. "Muggles need a ministry. Without magic, complex infrastructure and logistics is their only hope for civilization. We have magic. Cleanliness, food, transport, basic shelter... this we can all easily have. For greater magics, the Statute of Secrecy, for the efficient transmission of knowledge, yes, wizards must unite. But what have we done? How many seats are in the Wizengamot?"
Bellatrix caught herself leaning forward, hanging to Voldemort's words. She couldn't help it. He had... presence. But it'd take more than speeches to win her over.
"58," whispered Rod.
"Yes, one seat for each of the ancient and noble houses, and thirty granted to wizards or witches of vassal lines or even of unremarkable heritage, as reward, or simply as those in power thought to increase their number of allies." Voldemort chuckled. "58. It started with 50, just like the muggle House of Lord of the time. Except muggles are in the tens of millions. Give power to all, and nobody has power. We have become slaves to the Statute of Secrecy, and content to watch magic be stripped from us, generation after generation."
Jugson was the first to clap. Malfoy looked more circumspect, and of course he did, the heir to the most prosperous house of Malfoy, but even he clapped. Bellatrix clapped too, but more because of Morty now toying with the flames, trying to figure out if he could risk stealing some meat without being burnt. Words could be smoke, but you couldn't fake Morty.
"There are eight of you here tonight." Voldemort's smile bode nothing good. "How many are picturing yourselves as the new Lords rather than vassals or advisers?"
The cheer died. Rowle, barely-competent wizard coasting on the status of the Ancient and Noble house of Rowle that he was, looked personally insulted.
"I'd personally be thrilled to be adviser to someone I admire," Rod said. "Advisers get things done. Better a valued adviser to a Lord with power than one Lord among fifty."
Voldemort turned to Ladon. "A wise nephew you have."
"He's my favorite," their host said cheerfully, propping himself on the table and slapping the wood with his hand to tell Rod to sit next to him. Rabastan pointedly huffed at the snub, his eyes smiling.
It was growing late, and for all their airs, they were a bunch of teenagers : soon everyone was eating heartily and talking about themselves. It was near ten PM when Voldemort took Bellatrix aside. She lazily leaned against the smooth ice wall by the now dying fireplace. He stood half-a-head taller than her and from up close his dark brown eyes glowed with a hint of red.
"The Lestrange brothers want a new British Empire. What do you want, Miss Black?"
How terribly forward of him. A giggle escaped Bellatrix's lips. Ah well, perhaps Morty's creator deserved the truth. "To not be the most powerful person in the room."
Lord Voldemort blinked. "Why wouldn't you want that? The most powerful person can do anything."
"I mean the most magically powerful. I'm tired of people treating any magic beyond their year level like a game." 'Quidditch for angry people.' And now she even caught herself missing that bastard Selwyn, because Rod was good sport, and learning fast, but he was not teaching her much except patience. "I'm tired of being told I'm powerful. The Hogwarts founders were powerful. I want to be in a room with people like them. I want to duel and be defeated. Then I'll grow truly powerful."
He was standing close. A little too close for it to be proper. Bellatrix couldn't resist. She closed her eyes and reached out for his face. Voldemort froze as she blindly ran her fingers over his features. But finally, the details stuck to her memory. His skin was smooth, oddly so for a man his age, and not baby-smooth but dry and stiff. His nose was rather flat, so perhaps there was foreign blood.
A strong hand grabbed her wrist. She gasped at the darkness pulsing from his rough palm. Only in fury did Aunt Cassiopeia's magic grow loud like this.
Her own magic roared awake, as much at the alarming foreign darkness as at being grabbed. By a man taller and stronger than her. While her back was trapped against a hard wall.
He wasn't projected like she'd come to expect, but he was magically shoved a full three feet back, and not all that gracefully. Still, he looked more startled than furious. Bellatrix sucked in a breath. They all were staring now. Well, she'd managed to keep attention mostly off her for a solid five hours. That had to count for something.
"I don't appreciate being grabbed," Bellatrix said, her tight smile a challenge. "And it's not fair that you get to see our faces and refuse to share yours."
She spared a look for the others then. Only Rookwood and Rabastan displayed no confusion (but Rabastan had been forewarned, the cheat). Travers' and Malfoy's eyes soon lit up in understanding, but Rodolphus, Rowle, and Jugson didn't lose their dumb frowns. Come on, Rod! Finally his uncle leaned in to whisper, and Rod was left blinking furiously. There, now you get it!
"Can you conjure animals other than snakes, my Lord?" It was a possible explanation to how uncannily real Morty was: that the man was a snake animagus. Then he'd viscerally know snakes.
Voldemort's intrigued gaze felt, again, inappropriate for a man his age. Bellatrix tilted her neck invitingly, a teasing smile on her lips. His nose wasn't foreign at all, she noted: a honest, almost large, British conk. Could it just be that the nose she'd felt under her fingers was too ugly for Voldemort to display publicly? Wouldn't that be both so dumb and hilarious? Still, a glamour and that forgetting thing the man did. Those spells needed energy to be maintained. Combined with such a high quality conjuration -
Bellatrix's jaw fell open when a unicorn materialized between her and Voldemort. It was... it looked... it panicked.
Because that's what happens when you trap a unicorn in a cramped room full of dark arts practitioners.
Chairs clattered to the ground as the others hastily cast shields in case of a charge. Funny they all went defensive instead of just throwing a net at the thing (oh fine, the dazzlingly beautiful unicorn).
Bellatrix's cutting hex struck before Ladon Lestrange could charm the large silver door open and let the snorting, bolting creature out. She whispered an accio and triumphantly clutched dozens of long unicorn tail hair in her fist.
"Don't worry, Ladon, it won't last more than a couple of hours."
A couple of hours. The blasted unicorn would not last more than two. full. hours. Say you've got a fifteen-inch penis while you're at it.
Ardra Travers badly stifled nervous laughter. She wasn't the only one.
Her head still spinning at the sheer display of power, Bellatrix sat down on one of the few still-upright chairs and sliced her thigh with one of the glistening meat knives. Her teeth ground against each other as a cry of pain fought to escape her mouth. Blood oozed out of the finger-length cut. She bound the wound with a few strands.
The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Wow. The wound stared back at her, angry and red, but not bleeding! Four real unicorn tail-hair would have made the wound vanish entirely, but for the conjured ones to have even a quarter of the magic of the real thing -
They were all staring at her. Again. Bellatrix glared, still wincing at the throbbing pain in her leg. She'd expected that at least the Ravenclaws would appreciate her being thorough.
Wait – where was Morty? "Accio, Morty!"
The python zoomed out from under the table. Morty had fled upon seeing the unicorn. Her conjured python had a survival instinct.
She tried, but this time she couldn't disguise her hunger as her eyes met Voldemort's.
Because, tonight, she most definitely was not the most powerful person in the room.
She wrapped the rest of the strands against her leg and greedily watched every trace of the cut disappear.
"Miss Black, it's getting late, how about I apparate you home?"
"Gladly," Bellatrix breathed, jumping back to her feet.
Rod brushed against her, under the pretext of handing her a coat and a bag she could just as well have summoned. "Hey, want me to accompany you? He's... intense."
Rod looked... concerned. Bellatrix didn't understand why. She couldn't stop grinning. "I'll have to tell Aunt Cassy I found better."
Rod despised Cassiopeia despite never having met her. Just because she treated Bellatrix like her toy. It was kind of sweet. Even Meda didn't get so outraged on her behalf. Besides, if Voldemort harmed her tonight, she'd at least have made him reveal his true colors early, before she could get her hopes up.
She conjured a backpack to hold Morty, making a point to focus, to make it a lasting backpack. It shouldn't break apart for days. If Morty outlasted the backpack... Well, she'd have to dust up her bowing skills.
The place they apparated was decidedly not her house. A thousand stars glittered above her and wet grass tickled her ankles. The air tasted like Scotland moor, and she could distinguish very little of her surroundings in the darkness.
"Where are we?"
"The place in which you're about to lose a duel."
Bellatrix's eyes lit up. She really didn't regret coming tonight.
1970 April – A week later
"There it is." Meda kept her voice to a whisper as if they were doing something forbidden.
It was dinner time and Bellatrix's stomach growled impatiently but Meda had insisted to drag her all the way to the trophy room.
"Who's this Riddle?" Bellatrix demanded as they stood before one of the more recent trophy cabinets. "Why's he important?"
Order of Merlin 3rd class, services to the school. Riddle was a suspiciously muggle-sounding name.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, Slytherin and Head Boy. Graduated in 1944 with eleven NEWTS. There's no written record on why he got the award; it must have been something embarrassing for Hogwarts."
"So he's an overachiever who had way too much to prove." Eleven NEWTs was insane. Even Rookwood would only be sitting nine. Eleven NEWTs and Head Boy was just ridiculous. "But why should I care?"
"He's a parselmouth."
Ah. Andromeda really should have led with that. "Who told you?"
"The Bloody Baron. I asked him about recent parselmouths. He wasn't all that loquacious but he did mention Riddle and this Gaunt character called Marvolo that could be Riddle's father or grandfather." Bellatrix hummed. Meda was starting to make a strong case. "I then checked the class pictures from the forties..." Meda headed off to the pile of boxes stacked behind the trophies. "There, this guy." Bellatrix frowned. Black hair, dark brown eyes, a non-flat nose, handsome... it could be him.
"I've seen him before..." Bellatrix muttered. Her eyes lit up. The old Slug Club pictures! Slughorn hanged those on every free surface he owned.
"- find Riddle in the old library ledgers," Meda was saying. "His interest in the darker tomes of the restricted section is... commendable."
Yes. A very strong case.
"Slughorn must know," Bellatrix decided, her heart racing. "I'm going to ask him"
"Have you told Slughorn to block Cassiopeia's letters?"
'How dare you', the Howler had gone. 'If you don't have an excellent excuse, I won't see you this summer.' And of course Father had thrown a fit about the noise. If Bellatrix didn't write back and apologize profusely soon, no doubt the next letter would be another Howler, of the 'let's give your classmates stuff to talk about' kind. It had happened only one, in second year, and Bellatrix wanted no repeat of it.
"I should be safe for another week. I still don't know who that Voldemort is."
Except a ridiculously powerful wizard and a gorgeous dueler. He'd indulged her, letting her show off and dragging things out. She'd held back the worst of her dark arts, she'd been in too good a mood for her stronger spells anyway. It had been thrilling, but almost scholarly. He'd only cast a single spell not on the OWL syllabus, the tease, some twisting conjured tentacles that had lunged for her like a disembodied giant squid. Black tentacles in the Scotland night : she'd cut two into pieces before realizing there were six. The entrapment had not been painful, only absolute. He'd then shown her this Ferox Appendicibus to her until she could repeat it. She hadn't told him conjurations were her thing when he'd looked surprised to see her master it so quickly. She'd liked the glint in his dark eyes (those eyes she couldn't remember).
When she'd shown Cissy and Meda the black tentacles, they'd been dead impressed.
Morty had started looking ill a few days after she'd smuggled him back home. Cissy had been the first to spot that the food Morty had eaten was rotting in his stomach. The python's digestive system wasn't working. Bellatrix had been almost disappointed. Sure, an almost perfect snake that had lasted four whole days was extraordinary, but she'd been eager to have her notion of impossible challenged. When she'd buried Morty, he'd begun showing signs of magical disintegration. Poor Morty.
"Hey, if he can recognize your worth and respect you for it, don't let silly things stop you," Meda said with an unexpected squeeze of Bellatrix's shoulders. "And even if he doesn't and you decide you want nothing to do with him... You've put up with enough. You deserve the right to stand up for yourself. Cut Cassiopeia out of your life."
Warmth blossomed in Bellatrix's chest. "Thanks," she muttered, a little at a loss.
Meda hadn't looked all that thrilled by Voldemort's politics. She'd said those who wanted to do a whole lot of destroying before rebuilding were usually just good at destroying (like Meda had a clue), but she hadn't tried to tell Bella what to do, and that was something Bellatrix really appreciated.
First, though, she had questions for her Head of House.
Slughorn's office was a comfortable sprawl of greens, blues and silvers. Pickled food jars decorated the wood-and-gold cabinets, and a circle of cushy armchairs surrounded a table with a self-serving tea set always filled to the brim with hot tea. Success articles about former students decorated the left wall. The right wall was covered with pictures of a smug-looking Slughorn surrounded by a celebrity or another.
"Ah, Miss Black. Did you have a nice holiday? Tea?"
"Sure. Holidays were great. I've got a question about one of the Club's former students."
Slughorn nodded, his eyes crinkling indulgently because she hadn't asked him about his holidays like it was proper, but who had time for that? He patted her arm invitingly as he urged her to sit down. He had this weird mentor attitude that fell somewhere between endearing and creepy. She owed him for the Slug Club, but he made her feel like a pet project of sorts. The unmanageable Black daughter, turned into a respectable socialite. Blah.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle." She'd never enjoyed subtlety. "What became of him?"
Slughorn lips thinned. He eyed her oddly, anger- no, weariness perhaps- tightening his features. "I.. I'm not sure I remember actually. So many kids, I'm ashamed to say they tend to blur..."
Right, the handsome young man in the pictures looked utterly forgettable. "Blur? The parselmouth Head Boy with eleven NEWTs?"
"Who told you Tom was a parselmouth?"
Bellatrix sighed, increasingly impatient. "I just want to know if he's Lord Voldemort."
Slughorn opened his mouth, his eyes too bright as he leaned back in his armchair. "What? Um – who? I mean- I know who. What gave you that idea?"
People dismissed bluntness as uncouth, especially in Slytherin, but Slughorn was proof that, well-wielded, bluntness made it harder for people to lie effectively. Bellatrix's hand twitched impatiently. She had to know.
She drew her wand and jabbed it at her unsuspecting teacher, her eyes boring into his.
"Legilimens," she hissed. "Is Voldemort Riddle?"
Yes, Riddle was Voldemort. And Slughorn was definitely wary. Not terrified, but wholly uneasy. Blurred images, a black-haired silhouette, a meeting in this very office, filled her eyes. Something suddenly shoved her out, but it was too late. Bellatrix let go a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"This is grounds for expulsion Miss Black!" Slughorn spluttered, backing away from her in shock. "Now -"
Her obliviate struck before the portly man could finish his sentence or muster a shield spell of his own (the old softy hadn't even reached for his wand). Just the last twenty seconds forgotten. Light magic, because for once, it was easier to imagine the current in Slughorn's brain cells fizzing out, erasing his short term memory, than to will him to forget without messing something up. She hastily stuck her wand back into her pocket as he blinked dumbly at her.
"Sorry, old age must be creeping up on me," he said after a few seconds, the spark back in his eyes. Clearly, he hadn't been obliviated in a while. Bellatrix could tell the difference between normal brain freeze and a memory charm. Her parents had used it enough times when she'd stumbled upon something she shouldn't have (or maybe for other reasons. She'd forgotten, obviously). "You wanted to ask me of my former students, Miss Black?"
"Yes, this picture," she said, walking to one with Riddle and his friends. "I recognize Brannon Rosier and Ladon Lestrange, but what did the rest become?" She didn't mention Riddle this time. "I mean, I'm trying to get an idea of what a successful life looks like. Your favorites from the '40s should be established by now."
She learned of Tiberius Nott (enchanted fabrics export), Nero Mulciber (kneazle breeding and wagers on manticore battles) and Silas Avery (a 'socialite who'd made himself indispensable', in other words a rich bloke good at monetizing and weaponizing gossip). She tried to reign in her impatience and not look too eager when he finally got to Riddle.
Slughorn sighed ruefully. "Ah, Tom... Brilliant lad, full of curiosity. I wanted to help him get a job at the Ministry after his graduation, but... he was convinced he'd get there alone."
"So he didn't work for the Ministry?"
"No positions worth his time, he said." Bitterness twisted Slughorn's thin lips. Ooh, someone had a grudge. "Admittedly, with his background, I couldn't get him the offers a pureblood would have gotten, you understand. I wish he'd had the patience - But nevermind that. He applied at Hogwarts, but Albus didn't think Tom would be fit for teaching. I do wish I had been there during that last interview... Mind you, Tom was brilliant. Perhaps teaching is not the best use of his potential. As far as I know, he has been travelling."
"Riddle's a muggle name." 'His background' was already a damning thing to say, but Bellatrix had to know.
"Yes... Well, you know, talent sometimes crops up in the oddest places. Now, Zelenia Ogden, she also was in Riddle's year and her I must tell you about -"
Bellatrix let him prattle a little. She even tried to listen, but she soon excused herself. Slughorn had been jovial as ever, but even when he'd thought she knew nothing of Riddle, he'd been eager to change the subject.
"So?" Cissy asked eagerly as Bellatrix joined her and Meda in their dorm.
"Voldemort's half-blood, and he's Tom Marvolo Riddle. I have... questions. I'll write him to say Morty's dead. I'll get him to meet me next Hogsmeade weekend."
"Meet in a public place," Narcissa warned. "Or if you must meet him in private, take Lestrange with you. We'll make sure not to be too far."
Meda was laughing softly. "A half-blood, out-magicking everybody. Eh, he's probably alright, just paranoid because people are dumb. Dark like he is, and a parselmouth? He'll get no support from the progressive light families."
"So it doesn't matter?" Bellatrix exclaimed, incredulous. She looked at Cissy for support and was relieved to see her little sister also staring at Meda.
"You had fun learning from him. His blood doesn't make Morty or that conjured unicorn any less real. Anyway, he's from Slytherin's line. Better muggle blood than two Gaunt parents. That family has sunk so low it's better forgotten."
True, Bellatrix allowed grudgingly. But this Lord Voldemort still had better answer her questions.
Author's notes.
You bet Meda will kick herself when she realizes just how badly she misjudged Voldemort. To her defense, she was just glad to see Bella enthusiastic about something, and she has a vested interest in making her sisters more tolerant of anything not-pureblood (as of now, she's in sixth year and has just begun secretly speaking to Ted Tonks).
Voldemort openly admits that his father was a muggle (in the graveyard scene, book four), so I figure it's common knowledge by the end of the first war for his inner circle. They just don't care (or don't dare to say they do). Rationalizing hypocrisy is a very widespread talent.
There's at least one more pre-war chapter, possibly two. I'm excited to explore the dynamic between Bellatrix and Voldemort but I'm not sure how much of the first and second wars I want to cover. I'd love to hear what you'd like to read about, or just anything that comes to your mind after reading this chapter^^.
