Bellatrix felt numb and empty. There was a letter clutched in her left hand, written in Narcissa's flowing script, requesting that the Lestranges attend the ball to celebrate the birth of her son Draco.

A year ago, she would have passionately refused. She would have fought like a banshee, yelling that she knew Narcissa was her sister, but she still didn't want to pretend deafness when the old witches made pointed comments about her age in relation to childbearing, or to haughtily ignore the superior attitudes of young mothers holding their Pureblood heirs. And silently, privately, she most definitely would not have wanted to see the pity in Narcissa's eyes, the only one who knew and shared Bellatrix's struggle with infertility.

And before then, when Bellatrix was younger and less broken, none of the whispers would have bothered her. Ten years ago, when she begrudgingly married Rodolphus, she hadn't wanted a family. Bellatrix might have been raised in a staunch Pureblood household, but she always had an obstinate streak that rebelled against the notion that women were only useful for the production of heirs.

Her sisters had always been more maternal. From a young age, prissy Narcissa had wanted two children—a boy to carry on the family name and a girl to spoil. Andromeda, despite eventually abandoning most of her family's principles, always talked about having a large family…and then she only had one child, a daughter. Initially, Bellatrix had assumed the infertility was punishment for breeding with a Mudblood.

Rodolphus expressed a desire for an heir, but he didn't force himself on her. He would occasionally ask if she was willing to start a family, but when she shut down that conversation, he would let the matter drop for a while. Years passed in this way.

Bellatrix would later blame the constant social pressure, or perhaps some sort of biological reproductive mandate, but on the fifth anniversary of their wedding, she finally agreed to bear Rodolphus a child. She limited him to one heir, though, hoping that would be enough to silence all of those worthless busybodies—including her mother Druella and mother-in-law Lady Lestrange—who were starting to harass her about reproducing.

She had little trouble conceiving, and for three months, life was full of a strange, anticipatory bliss.

And then she miscarried.

It hurt in a way that Bellatrix hadn't known was possible. She hadn't realized how much she wanted that baby until it was gone. And she was forced to relive the loss over and over again; all of Society had heard that she was expecting, but word of her miscarriage hadn't spread. She lost count of how many times she choked down tears while taking tea with gossipy witches who offered empty comfort and pretended to pity, while secretly gloating in her misfortune.

Rodolphus didn't understand her pain. He tried to console her by reminding her that she was only twenty-four, and there was still ample time to produce an heir. And desperate to replace the stinging loss, Bellatrix agreed to try again, but as before, joy turned to sorrow.

Afterwards, Rodolphus suggested they take a break, to let her recover and heal.

It was at this point that the Lestranges joined the Death Eaters. While it did nothing to change her own loss, Bellatrix found twisted pleasure in the helpless screams of Mudbloods and blood-traitors as they powerlessly watched the torture of their offspring. It soothed her anger at the injustice of undeserving filth being able to reproduce while she, a daughter of the ancient and most noble House of Black, could not. Driven by this sense of righteous retribution, she and Rodolphus quickly climbed through the ranks.

Things continued in this way for several years, until the night when she and Rodolphus both drank a little too much at one of the Dark Lord's revels. About two weeks later, she began to feel the nausea that had been symptomatic of her other two pregnancies, and before long, her suspension was confirmed.

This time around, the Lestranges took every precaution. Bellatrix went on a carefully curated diet and limited her strenuous activity, while Rodolphus did his best to intercept anything that might stress his wife. They told only Narcissa that they were expecting, and Bellatrix isolated herself on the estate. Of course, for a woman as lively as Bellatrix, being cooped up was miserable. She soon became vicious and irritable, with violent mood swings.

Near the end of May, she went into premature labor. For a day and a half, her body was gripped by excruciating birthing pangs that no elixir could touch. Looking up at Rodolphus's concern-creased face, all she could do to keep going was focus on the reward. When this was over, she would finally have her baby.

And then she blacked out.

When she awoke, the pain was gone, replaced by a strange, dreadful numbness. Rodolphus was standing at the bedroom window, staring into the grey sky beyond. A motionless white-wrapped bundle was clutched in his arms.

When she croaked out his name, he turned and with heavy steps, he walked over to her bedside. Sorrow etched on his face, he placed the bundle in her trembling arms. Within it was their son, a perfectly formed baby boy with shrunken features and her black hair. His body was already cold and stiff. And in that moment, the last shred of Bellatrix's hope was devoured by the hopeless circumstances.

She hid herself in the bedroom for days, barely eating or moving. Rodolphus said he wasn't going to put her through that again; she didn't seem to hear him, absorbed in glaring at a nest of young ravens outside the window. He tried to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she flinched away.

Then, just before the raven fledglings could take flight, Bellatrix received that letter from Narcissa, and she snapped.

With a vengeance that overcame her numbness, she slammed her elbow into the windowpane, shattering the ancient glass. Mindless of the attacks of the parent birds, she grabbed the fledglings from the nest, wringing each skinny neck. Annoyed by the defensive flurry of feathers in her face, she snatched the parents out of the air, and snapped their necks too, sending the black bodies plummeting to earth. She was laughing when she plucked the last chick from its twiggy refuge, her arms gouged and liberally coated in her own blood, hair a tangled black storm cloud that wreathed her gaunt frame.

She tenderly petted its trembling body, and cooed to it, strangely thrilled at feeling something so small and helpless completely within at her mercy. For a second, she almost felt remorse about destroying the bird's siblings. But then she remembered the satisfaction she felt in snuffing out those other lives, how good it felt to feel again instead of just being numb.

With a resounding snap, the last fledgling joined its kin in death.

/\/\/\/\/\

Since the day that they buried the last hope of a Lestrange heir under a particularly thorny rosebush, Rodolphus left his wife alone, driven away by her self-isolating grief while trying to process his own loss. He had never felt like he understood her, that vivacious Black girl, and he was completely lost when it came to offering comfort. Dealing with pain of this nature was not within the scope of his Pureblood education.

So he stayed away, despite missing her, and despite curiousity about the ruckus of squawking ravens. It was social obligation that finally brought him to her wing of the manor; Draco's ball was that evening and etiquette dictated that they must attend. Rodolphus was apprehensive as he entered those deserted stone halls, unsure of what he would find. He half expected that he would have to haul her out of a filthy blanket-nest, force her to bathe, and then dress her appropriately. He was shocked to see her waiting for him, already made up, wearing a satiny low-cut gown with her black curls piled high.

But a second glance revealed that she wasn't the same impish Bellatrix he married. Mouth twisted into a feral grin, there was a deadness in her dark eyes, the lively spark of her youth had been killed by hopelessness and replaced by a cold hungry gleam, like that found in a snake's slitted pupil. A little fledgling rested close to her heart.

All that remained was an empty skull hanging on by a thread.