Interlude X

"I just can't believe it," Ron said hoarsely, wiping at his red-rimmed eyes. "It just doesn't feel real."

Harry nodded, silently handing Ron the tea he'd made in lieu of actually saying something.

Honestly, he couldn't think of anything to say.

The last twenty-four hours had been insane, far too chaotic and insane for him to even begin to process.

There'd been Kingsley's Patronus, announcing Scrimgeour's death and that he and Tonks would be making their way to the safehouse immediately.

Not too long after that, Hestia Jones had arrived at the safehouse as well, having just managed to escape a group of Death Eaters.

Right at that time, the DA coins began to heat up, message after message appearing on them. It seemed that the Death Eaters were going after Harry's friends, questioning them one by one as to his whereabouts.

Thankfully, none of them had been killed, or even hurt particularly badly. They'd all been roughed up and threatened, of course, but no-one was left with lasting injuries.

After that, the Order members who were there had started discussing a plan of action, how they would go and check up on the other members and their allies.

It was then that George arrived, just as they were planning to go and check on the situation at the Burrow.

He hadn't even needed to say anything for them to know that something terrible had happened; just his expression and the almost-dead paleness of his freckled skin was enough.

And, try as Harry might, he knew that even if he somehow managed to outlive Nicholas Flamel he'd never forget what he saw when they went to the Burrow.

Seeing Arthur and Bill's corpses would have been bad enough in a vacuum. Seeing Molly lying on the floor between them howling out her agony and rage...well, that was a whole new level of torment.

They hadn't been able to stay there for fear of the Death Eaters returning, but they had stayed long enough to bury Bill and Arthur, another experience Harry knew he'd spend a long time trying to forget.

Fleur had arrived at some point during the burial. She'd broken down almost as badly as Molly had, her beauty transforming into a terrible vision of grief.

Fred and George had escorted Molly to the cottage where Bill and Fleur had been planning to live, with Moody following to put the place under the Fidelius, leaving the rest of them to return to the safehouse.

"It just-"

Ron cut himself off with an odd coughing noise and a shake of the head.

"I still find it doesn't feel real sometimes," Hermione said softly. "And sometimes it does. I'm not sure which is worse."

"It just feels like-like it's worse that she killed dad than-than Bill and Charlie and Percy."

He buried his face in his hands again, his shoulders shaking.

Throwing an arm over Ron's shoulders, Harry pulled his best friend close to him, wishing that he could think of something better than what he was about to say.

"We're here for you, Ron," he said, "we're with you, mate."

Ron looked back up, his face unreadable.

"If you really are, you'll help us get her. You'll help us do whatever we must to put her down."

Slowly, Harry nodded.

He held his wand before his eyes, letting the sight of his faithful companion fill his thoughts.

It had served him well for many years. With it, he had proven his superiority, time and time again.

But now, perhaps, was the time for him to attain another, one that would serve him better in his fight with his prophesied foe.

The prophecy itself was too vague, unclear almost to the point of meaninglessness. Two facts, however, were clear from it.

Potter would have to fall at his hands, his and no other's.

Well, perhaps that part of the prophecy was not entirely literal. It certainly could mean that the events he set into motion could lead to Potter's death.

Or vice versa.

Nevertheless, he would not rely on that interpretation. As long as Potter lived, as long as the rebellion he figure headed continued, Lord Voldemort would not be entirely safe.

He would have to kill Potter himself, to ensure that none dared stand against him.

The other fact was far more worrisome, enough to arouse that strange, trembling sensation in his heart once more.

Potter had power, some power that he had not mastered.

Of course, he was intelligent enough to have an idea as to what that power was. It was only fitting that Dumbledore's successor should be graced with the power Dumbledore had so long championed.

It fit perfectly with all the anomalies surrounding the boy, even his survival the previous year.

Love, at least, in this case, was nothing more than the use of sacrificial magic, the willingness for a person to go so against their natural instinct that they would give up their lives for the sake of another.

This, Lord Voldemort knew, had been his mistake the previous year. When his servants had sent Potter that letter, when they had told Potter to give himself up in place of his friends, he had allowed the boy to follow in his mother's footsteps.

He would not make such a mistake again.

Unfortunately, love was a notoriously difficult branch of magic to dissect and analyse. Much of its workings were based on abstract, vague principles, many of which changed depending on the situation.

There were next to no clear underlying foundations of it, very few strands he could seize and tug until, as with other areas of sorcery, his will and power overwhelmed the enemy.

But, it seemed, there might be another way for him to grab an advantage, another method of destroying Potter for once and all.

Out the corner of his eye, he could see his servant following his gaze, staring fearfully at the thirteen inches of yew he held.

He was not surprised that his followers were so in awe of his wand. All too often they forgot that it was he who performed such wondrous magic and that his wand was merely a tool, albeit his best and most consistent one.

Idly, he wondered how they would react when he was in possession of the Deathstick.

For Ollivander had spoken of it, after the endless torture Lord Voldemort had put the old wandmaker through before mercifully ending his pitiful life. First, he had tried to suggest that he, the greatest dark wizard to walk the earth, should use the wand of another, should simply borrow a wand that a normal witch or wizard had already bespoiled with their mediocrity.

Eventually, however, he had spoken of the greatest wand to ever exist, one which, truly, only Lord Voldemort was worthy of wielding.

Though it pained him to leave Britain just after finally taking it, he had no choice. If, and so Lord Voldemort believed, Potter was capable of wielding this power of love, Lord Voldemort needed something of equal or greater power.

Frankly, he had no interest in trying to unravel the mysteries of that weakest emotion. He had seen, all too many times, what it could do to even his most loyal and dedicated servants.

Finally, he lowered his wand, turning his burning gaze onto Yaxley.

"When Weasley is woken up," he said, "you will convey my message to her."

"I will, my lord."

"Repeat it to me."

"You do not care what quarrel she and Bellatrix have with one another, but you will not allow the two of them to go to war. She and Bellatrix may continue to loathe each other or return to their previous relationship, but they will fight no longer. If they do so, they will face your wrath."

"Correct. And you will inform Bellatrix of this as well when she is located."

"I will. And I will-"

"Continue to operate according to my orders. If Potter's location is confirmed, you will summon me at once. Any other problems that arise, I expect you to deal with them, or prove yourself unworthy of the position I have granted you."

Yaxley nodded, his face taking on a slightly greenish tinge.

"For how long will my lord be away?"

"As for that, Yaxley, I do not know. But I do expect all will run smoothly in my absence, regardless of how long it will take."

"Of course, my lord."

She kept her eyes trained on the house, fury warring with that strange, burning emotion she still felt. Her stomach twisted around itself, an odd, uncomfortable warmth filling her.

For the first time in decades, Bellatrix Lestrange was ashamed of herself.

Disgustingly embarrassing though it was, her baby was right.

She had been weak.

She began to laugh, her eyes twitching.

She, weak? She was the most powerful of them all, she'd served the Dark Lord faithfully since the day she'd graduated Hogwarts! She had been of the few to search for him, and she hadn't lost faith in Azkaban. She'd spent every day awaiting him, knowing that he would come and rescue her and she would be free to serve him once more.

"How dare she call me weak?! Stupid little bitch, I own her!"

But she had been weak.

More than just weak, in fact. She'd fallen into the same trap she'd sneered at so many others for, and she'd been too foolish to even recognize her hypocrisy for what it was.

For years, she'd avoided going after Andromeda.

She had been foolish to do so.

Hope and nearly-forgotten love had sung their siren song to her, forcing her to think that maybe, just maybe, Andromeda would repent.

It was a foolish hope, but it had existed nonetheless.

How was it that she, the Dark Lord's favourite, would fall into such a ridiculous way of thinking?

"She was always the best of us," she whispered, a childhood image of Andromeda dancing before her eyes.

Andromeda had been perfect, in ways that she and Narcissa could never quite manage to achieve.

She'd never been prone to the furious fits that had gripped Bellatrix, had never thought too highly of herself as Narcissa had.

She'd been fun and amusing, and the perfect daughter their parents had deserved.

Well, she had, until that Mudblood had ruined everything.

And like a coward, Bellatrix had left her be.

Oh, she'd had excuses, dozens of them over the years. Andromeda would surely come to her senses, she'd told herself, or she was too busy with other, more important tasks.

She'd lied to herself for decades, and it had taken her lover to see the truth.

Slowly, she reached into her pocket, pulling out the newspaper clipping she'd saved for months.

Her breath hitching, she ran her fingers over the picture, smiling at the visage of the daughter she'd never had.

Ginny was everything she wanted. Vivacious and tough, dedicated and hardworking, talented and smart.

She was beautiful, delighted in violence almost as much as Bellatrix herself did, and was one of the very few people Bellatrix truly enjoyed spending time with.

She was a stupid little girl, easily malleable into whatever form Bellatrix wanted her to take.

Staring at the picture, Bellatrix felt that weakest and most despicable of emotions rearing up in her.

For the first time, she could almost understand why her sister had abandoned her family for an animal.

But still, Ginny had hurt her worse than Bellatrix could even begin to describe.

Even so, Bellatrix wanted to return to her. Every inch of her cried out for her baby, for the sweet intoxicating calm she felt just from being with her.

There were so few people who, when she was with them, Bellatrix felt she could just be.

In fact, Ginny was the only one.

And, Bellatrix knew, Ginny had once been possessed by a piece of the Dark Lord's soul. Being with Ginny, therefore, was as close as she could get to being with the Dark Lord.

But could she do it? Could she bite down on her pride and go crawling back?

Could she admit to Ginny that she had been right?

"Never," she giggled, "never, never, never! She should apologize to me! She's mine, she had no right! Disgusting, incredible little cunt, she had no right!"

Did she even have another option?

The last few days felt like a blur to her. She had vague memories of running from place to place after her fight with Ginny, of frantically Apparating and fleeing with no destination in mind, barely pausing long enough to heal herself.

She'd had to run. The Dark Lord, she knew, would not be pleased with her and Ginny's fight.

She'd fallen into one of her rages at some point, blacking out and only swimming back into consciousness hours later. It had been almost surprising to find herself in a Muggle home with the mutilated corpses of the residents scattered around her.

She'd stayed in that house for almost a week, she thought. Time had seemed to stretch and dilate, the lonely hours crushing in on her and reminding her, with every tick of that stupid Muggle clock, of her time in Azkaban.

She'd stayed there as long as she could, hiding out and raging, breaking everything the dead family had owned and screaming for her baby.

And then, of course, she'd ended up here, just outside her traitorous sister's house, set, finally, on cleansing the taint that had infected her family.

She would kill Andromeda and would then return, triumphant, to her baby, baring her sister's head as proof that she wasn't weak.

Ginny would then realize how wrong she had been and everything would go back to normal, and all these ridiculous self-recriminations would vanish. She'd prove, once again, that she did not suffer the same foibles as others. She would show herself to all as the most dedicated to blood purity.

But she'd come too late. Andromeda, for all her faults, was not stupid.

She and her animal had fled, abandoning their house. By all signs, it had been empty for a few days at least.

Now, Bellatrix was left with the option of staying alone forevermore, of reneging on her promises to her lord and staying far removed from the rest of them, or of returning to her baby with her tail between her legs.

She refused to even contemplate the possibility that Ginny hadn't survived. She had meant to kill the girl, but sharp regret had struck only moments later.

It was a terrible wound that she'd inflicted, but as Ginny had banished her, she'd seen Dolohov walking into the room. Healing that injury would not be beyond his skills.

No, Ginny must have survived. She must have. Bellatrix would not allow it to be any other way.

"It will hurt to go back," she told herself. "But I can't stay away. I made a promise to the Dark Lord."

She glanced down at her arm, at the comforting sigil branded there.

As always, it raised her spirits.

Staying away was not an option. But she was afraid, deathly afraid that something had been irrevocably changed in their relationship.

If, somehow, it could go back to how it had been, then there was not even a question as to what she should do.

But with her having fled, she was worried that her baby might have an inflated sense of sense. It was possible that her baby might even have forgotten her place.

If Ginny thought she had the upper hand, if Ginny tried to be in control…

Love her as Bellatrix did, she knew she could never let that happen.

"I'd kill her," she cackled. "And she'd deserve it. She made me love her, and she isn't allowed to just change things now. She isn't."

But what could Bellatrix do?

"Perhaps," she whispered, "I could tell her that she was right. I could apologize. And then, before anything has a chance to change, make things how they were. I could do it."

She could, she realized. It would be hard, it would be painful, but it would not be as painful as losing Ginny.

It would not be as painful as loving her.

"But not yet."

She rose, drawing her wand and pointing it toward the house.

"Not yet. Soon. Not yet. Let me see how I feel without her a little longer. And if the Dark Lord has need of me, he can summon me. Yes, I'll take some time."

Cackling, she waved her wand through the air, a powerful burst of flame spurting from the end.

In minutes, the small house before her was engulfed in fire, lighting up the night with its merry blaze.

Laughing, Bellatrix clapped her hands, the joy of destruction blotting out that terrible shame she felt.

"I'll take some time for myself. And if I still want her so badly in a little bit, I'll do what I must. But only if I'll still be in control. That wonderful little bitch won't have me. I'll have her."

Still laughing, Bellatrix spun on her heels, a crack sounding as she Disapparated, leaving her sister's home to burn to the ground behind her.