English countryside – Lestrange Manor

A moment later after You-Know-Who's defeat

Unlike what many might think, Rodolphus Lestrange was neither a fool nor a bloodthirsty sadist. Granted, he felt no sympathy for Muggle-borns, but his aversion stemmed less from their ancestry and more from their behavior. They entered the magical world without trying to understand its customs, without respecting its traditions, convinced of their own superiority. They deemed it archaic, outdated, and sometimes even refused to adapt—except for a rare few.

But this hostility alone was not enough to make Rodolphus a Death Eater. He had never considered joining Voldemort, no more than his grandfather before him. The latter had watched with disapproval as the movement gradually transformed: once founded on ideals of preservation, it had become nothing more than an instrument of the Dark Lord's growing madness. That was why their ancestor had turned away from the dark wizard, keeping his title of Lord thanks to one crucial difference—he had never accepted to mark his arm with the Dark Mark.

Back in the days of the Knights of Walpurgis, such obligations did not exist.

Unfortunately, Rodolphus's father was a power-hungry fool. He had eagerly submitted to Voldemort, dragging his sons along with him. Rodolphus and his younger brother, Rabastan, had no choice but to embrace a cause that had never been their own.

''No! No! Noooo!''

An enraged scream echoed through the manor.

That is not my case… Rodolphus thought.

Unlike him, his wife, Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, had joined Voldemort of her own free will, with fanatical fervor. Loyal as a dog, dangerous as a serpent. Deranged, unpredictable.

And barren.

Not in the physical sense, but Bellatrix refused any physical contact with him. Their arranged marriage, bound by contract, should have secured an heir for the Lestrange family. But the madwoman he had married cared neither for her husband nor for her duty, too preoccupied with worshiping her master.

Rodolphus, in truth, should have married Andromeda Black. She had been his intended fiancée. But she had chosen a Muggle-born instead—one of the few Rodolphus found tolerable—and was disowned by her own father. Not entirely, if the rumors about her daughter, a certain Metamorphmagus, were to be believed…

Thus, the contract was altered, and Bellatrix took her sister's place. Rodolphus's father had tried to annul it, but he had included no escape clause, convinced that Andromeda would stay. Rodolphus's fate was sealed.

''Rodolphus! Rabastan!''

Bellatrix's shrill voice rang out once more.

He smirked. On his forearm, the Dark Mark was slowly fading. A clear sign—You-Know-Who had been defeated. Not permanently, otherwise the Mark would have disappeared entirely, but enough for his influence to crumble.

'''Dolphus?''

Rabastan had just entered, his face still marked by disbelief.

The two brothers were nearly identical: the same dark, curly hair, the same deep blue gaze, so characteristic of the Lestrange bloodline. Yet Rabastan was slightly shorter and beardless—a welcome distinction between them despite their three-year age gap.

''I'll take care of everything, little brother,'' Rodolphus declared confidently.

He drew his wand and turned toward the door.

Bellatrix's furious, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor.

The moment she appeared in the doorway, he struck.

''Stupefy!''

The spell hit her squarely. Her eyes widened for an instant before she collapsed, motionless.

''Why… why did you do that?'' Rabastan stammered. ''When she wakes up…''

''We'll be long gone.''

Rodolphus raised his wand once more.

''Deepy! Hoorey!''

Two loud pops resounded, and two house-elves appeared. Deepy and Hoorey, a bonded pair purchased shortly before his marriage to Bellatrix. Unlike other servants of their kind, they did not wear rags but simple black and blue tunics, fastened by a golden brooch bearing the Lestrange crest.

''What can Deepy and Hoorey do for Master?'' Deepy bowed.

''Prepare our things. We are leaving for the manor in France. And you are forbidden to obey Bellatrix.''

''As Master wishes,'' they responded in unison before vanishing.

Rabastan frowned.

''France? I thought the manor had been sold?''

''That was a lie—to keep Bellatrix and the Dark Lord away. Grandfather still resides there. Once we arrive, we'll join him and banish Bellatrix. We'll wait for the storm to pass. Now that Voldemort has fallen, there will inevitably be a hunt for Death Eaters.''

''And after?'' Rabastan murmured, uneasy. ''You know France signed an extradition treaty. Even with Grandfather's influence, it might not be enough…''

''Then we'll tell the truth,'' Rodolphus said firmly. ''That our father forced us to join the Death Eaters. That we had no choice. And if necessary, we'll give up other names. Bellatrix will be the first on the list.''

Rabastan paled.

''We'll be hated…''

''It doesn't matter, as long as we're safe,'' Rodolphus replied with a smile. ''And who knows? Maybe we'll finally find you a wife. As long as I remain bound to that lunatic, there will be no heir.''

Rabastan glanced down at Bellatrix's unconscious body and sighed.

''If only the contract didn't forbid us from killing her…''

Rodolphus did not respond.

But his silence spoke for him.

With a loud crack, they Disapparated, leaving the manor behind forever.

When Bellatrix awoke, enraged beyond measure, she reduced the building to ashes and swore she would find her master.

She began with the Longbottoms.


English countryside – Malfoy Manor

A moment later after You-Know-Who's defeat

The private lounge of Malfoy Manor was bathed in dim light, the flickering fire casting reflections across the grand hearth. The black marble floor gleamed under the shifting glow of the flames, while the tall, arched windows allowed the pale light of the night to filter in.

Seated in a dark leather armchair, Lucius Malfoy sipped a glass of brandy, his gaze lost in the fire's dance. His platinum hair framed a face etched with worry. He had just tucked in Draco, his beloved son, and now, there was no escaping the truth. A few hours earlier, the Dark Mark had begun to fade, leaving behind only the ghost of a scar on his skin.

Lucius Malfoy had never truly wished to become a Death Eater. More coerced than convinced, he had yielded to the demands of a world where pure-blood supremacy reigned. He despised Muggles and Muggle-borns, but not out of a desire for their extermination. As his father, Abraxas, often said:

"There can be no rich without the poor, no pure-bloods without Muggle-borns, no nobility without commoners."

A philosophy of elitism rather than war.

Abraxas Malfoy, loyal to Voldemort since the days of the Knights of Walpurgis, had given his family to the Darkness without hesitation. At seventeen, Lucius had no choice. The Dark Mark had been branded upon him like a cursed inheritance.

With time, bitterness had replaced blindness. Only Narcissa, the love of his life, had brought him a semblance of peace. At her side, he had endured the weight of his choices. But tonight, with Voldemort gone, he knew everything was about to change.

"Lucius?" murmured Narcissa, worried. "What are we going to do?"
"What must be done, my love." His tone was calm, measured. "I will go to the Ministry and plead the Imperius Curse. But I need a convincing argument."
"A donation, perhaps?" she suggested, well aware of the corruption still festering within the government.
"Perhaps. But they might simply seize our assets."
"We could also—"

A sharp pop interrupted her. Tobby, their house-elf, appeared and bowed.

"The rat is at the door, sir. Should Tobby let him in?"

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

"The rat?"

Lucius straightened. Peter Pettigrew. The traitor. The one who had betrayed the Potters. His appearance tonight could not be a coincidence.

"Let him in."

"Lucius?" Narcissa insisted, intrigued.

"Peter Pettigrew betrayed the Order of the Phoenix. He revealed the Potters' hiding place. Strange that he comes here, now that You-Know-Who has vanished…"

The doors opened, revealing a pitiful figure. Peter trembled, dripping with panic.

"Lucius, my friend, I need your help…"

"What brings you here, vermin?" Lucius cut in coldly.

Peter wrung his hands.

"The Dark Lord… He has been defeated… By a child…"

The words tumbled out in a frantic rush. Voldemort's downfall. His wand reduced to ashes. But Lucius did not wait for more.

He rose slowly, drew his wand from his concealed cane, and spoke with crisp precision:

"Stupefy!"

A red flash struck Peter, who collapsed to the floor. Narcissa crossed her arms, her gaze shifting from her husband to the unconscious body.

"My love?"

Lucius gave a cold, thin smile.

"We have found our leverage."

He pointed his wand at Peter.

"Incarcerous!"

Ropes shot out, binding the traitor.

"Do you need me to come with you?" Narcissa asked.

"Stay with Draco. We still haven't heard from your sister."

She nodded, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then left the room.

Lucius cast one last look at the fire before Disapparating, taking with him the key to his salvation.


Scotland – Wigtown

At the same time as the end of chapter 1

Screams tore through the night in Wigtown, a usually peaceful village known for its formidable Quidditch team, the Wigtown Wanderers. But tonight, chaos reigned.

Houses burned, lifeless bodies littered the streets, and four Death Eaters, masked and clad in black robes, cast deadly spells into the darkness. Leading them was Thorfinn Rowle, accompanied by Ellis Gibbon, Evanus Jugson, and Everett Selwyn, spreading terror in their wake. Their target: families who opposed Voldemort, such as the Parkers.

They sought to earn the Dark Lord's favor. But they failed to grasp a simple truth: if they were not part of his inner circle, it was not due to a lack of power but a lack of intelligence. Toupeyville had never been attacked for a very specific reason.

"Incendio!" Rowle hissed, his eyes glinting with the reflection of a collapsing, burning rooftop.

"Bombarda!" Gibbon sneered, blasting a centaur-shaped fountain to pieces. "What an insult to honor these creatures!"

"The Dark Lord will reward us for—" Selwyn began, before collapsing with a scream.

He was not alone. His accomplices were struck by a sudden, searing pain in their arms. Rowle, the first to roll up his sleeve, went pale—his Dark Mark was vanishing, leaving only a ghostly imprint on his skin.

A loud crack echoed through the air.

"Aurors! Freeze!" bellowed John Dawlish, appearing with a sharp Apparition. "Petrificus Totalus!"

Spells erupted in a flurry. The disoriented Death Eaters were immobilized before they could even retaliate. In mere moments, their ruthless ambition dissolved, condemning them to a miserable fate in the freezing cells of Azkaban.


Welsh countryside – Crouch Manor

A the same time

Barty Crouch Jr. stared at his arm, his breath ragged, his teeth clenched against the pain. Tears streamed down his face—but they were not tears of suffering or fear. They were tears of joy.

He was finally free.

Years under the Imperius Curse, imposed by Voldemort himself when he was only fourteen. Bellatrix Lestrange, whom he had once considered a friend, had dragged him before the Dark Lord in a hidden chamber of the Three Broomsticks. He was a strategic asset—the son of Bartemius Crouch Sr., director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) and Chief justice of the Council of Magical Law.

Thus, Barty had spied on his own father. The man had sensed something was wrong, but he had dismissed it as teenage rebellion. As for his mother, too overjoyed to have him near, she had suspected nothing.

Now, his hatred for Bellatrix was absolute.

A knock at the door startled him.

"Son? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I…" His voice faltered. "I…"

The door opened to reveal Helena Crouch, née Prewett. Seeing her son trembling, his eyes brimming with emotion, she rushed to him.

"Barty!" She wrapped him in her arms. "What is it?"

"Mum, I… I have something to tell you."

Under her worried gaze, Barty revealed everything. He showed her his arm, where the Dark Mark was fading away. Helena raised a hand to her mouth, stricken. She had never realized her own son had not been himself.

"Come, we're going to the Ministry." She stood, taking his hand.

"But… he'll never believe me," Barty murmured.

"Then you will swear on your wand." Her tone was firm. "If you speak the truth, it will glow white."

"I… I don't feel well…"

He was pale, trembling, drained. Helena suddenly understood—the Imperius Curse had left scars.

"Then we'll go to St. Mungo's first," she decided.

Without hesitation, they Disapparated.

Moments after their departure, a sinister crack echoed in front of the manor.

Bellatrix Lestrange had arrived.

Furious, she pounded on the door. No answer. Her dark gaze swept over the façade. She understood.

Barty was free.

Clenching her fists, she vanished in a whirl of darkness, ready to find her Master—and to make this betrayal pay.


London – Diagon Alley – The Daily Prophet offices

A moment after the end of chapter 2

Rita Skeeter was still a young journalist who had yet to prove herself. That was why she had been assigned to the Ministry of Magic to cover the Death Eater trials—and, when none were scheduled, to loiter around in search of a scoop. At first, she had resented the assignment. But now, she was overjoyed.

She reread what she had written, the article approved just moments ago by her editor-in-chief, Barnabas Cuffe. Her smile widened with each word, savoring every letter. She knew this was it—this would make her famous. The scoop of the century was in her hands, and in a few hours, the entire wizarding world would know.

Only one thing remained: she needed to get as close as possible to Harry Potter and Sirius Black. She had to become their go-to journalist—by any means necessary.

As she left the office to get some rest, her desk bore the very first edition of the newspaper that would soon circulate across the globe. On the front page, an exceptional headline gleamed in bold letters.


The Daily Prophet

THE TRIUMPH OF THE CENTURY: A BABY DEFEATS THE GREATEST DARK WIZARD OF ALL TIME!
By Rita Skeeter, star reporter for The Daily Prophet

My dear readers, hold onto your pointed hats, for what I am about to reveal surpasses anything we ever thought possible. In a turn of events as spectacular as it is improbable, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated— and brace yourselves—by a baby! Yes, yes, you read that correctly. A child barely taller than a Niffler has accomplished what seasoned witches and wizards failed to do for over a decade.

The night of October 31, 1981, will forever be etched in history as the night when the unthinkable happened. In Godric's Hollow, a village known to all, tragedy struck at the home of the Potters— a family infamous for their eccentric ideals and innovations. James and Lily Potter, heralded as valiant resistors against the forces of darkness, met a tragic end at the hands of the Dark Lord. A deadly curse, a scream in the night… and then… silence.

But that was not the end of the story. Oh no, dear readers, for the unexpected occurred. You-Know-Who, the most feared sorcerer of our time, allegedly attempted to eliminate little Harry Potter— a boy barely a year old— before mysteriously vanishing, leaving behind a living child with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

What exactly happened? A mystery! Some claim that Dumbledore, that old fox, knows more than he lets on. He speaks of a "sacrifice of love," a protection that supposedly rebounded the killing curse onto its own caster. A touching theory, no doubt, but should we really believe that something as abstract as love could have vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

Regardless, the outcome is clear: You-Know-Who has been defeated. And in the meantime, the wizarding world rejoices! Fireworks illuminate the skies, celebrations are erupting on every street corner. It seems that fear has finally given way to hope.

But what of The Boy Who Lived? Well, my precious sources—whose identities I shall, of course, keep confidential—have informed me that young Harry has been placed under the care of his godfather, Sirius Black, heir to the noble and most ancient House of Black. A decision that will surely raise some eyebrows, considering the Black family's well-documented ties to pure-blood supremacy. Will Sirius Black follow in his family's footsteps, or will he remain loyal to his rebellious convictions?

One thing is certain: this story is far from over. What will become of this boy whose name is already echoing like legend? Will he be the chosen one of a new era, or simply a child marked by a fate he has yet to comprehend?

Stay loyal to The Daily Prophet, dear readers, for you can count on me to uncover every last detail of this affair. And believe me—there will be many!

Rita Skeeter
— Investigative journalist and exclusive chronicler of the wizarding world's most scandalous events.