Chapter 12

Bellatrix strode through the dimly lit corridor, her steps slow and deliberate. The flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows along the damp stone walls, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint tang of something metallic—perhaps old magic lingering in the dungeons. She had managed to slip away from the ever-watchful eyes of her peers, leaving behind the suffocating expectations of her lineage. No one knew she was here, and that was exactly how she wanted it.

She was here to meet someone—an unsettling housemate, one whose presence had barely registered on her radar before this year. He wasn't the loudest or the most commanding, nor did he possess the effortless charm of a natural leader. But he was, without a doubt, the slyest. A shadow lurking beneath the surface, unnoticed by most, yet pulling the strings in ways even the most ambitious Slytherins hadn't quite grasped.

She had first heard his name from Rookwood, who had smirked knowingly when she'd inquired about sources for… discreet dealings.

"If you need information or smuggled goods, he's your man. And he's working with us—for our Lord."

That thought made her straighten, her heart beating a fraction faster.

Their Lord.

She had seen Him. Stood in His presence.

It had been Rookwood and Lestrange who first brought her into the fold, whispering of something greater than the petty squabbles of Hogwarts, something that stretched far beyond the halls of this school. At first, she had listened with cautious intrigue, reluctant to be swept up in their fervor. But then she had seen Him.

And she had understood.

He was more than a man. He was raw strength—power distilled into something far beyond mortal. When He spoke, it was not persuasion; it was absolute power bled into the air around Him, resonating in her bones, in her magic itself.

And yet, even then, she had not thrown herself at His feet. Not yet.

She had gone to her father that night. Cygnus Black was not a man given to sentiment or rash decisions. But as she spoke of what she had seen—of what she had felt—she saw something flicker in his gaze. Recognition. Approval.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

From that moment on, her path had been set.

And yet… something stirred in her memory, something unfamiliar yet oddly similar.

Thaddeus d'Aubigny.

He was not their Lord, of course—no one could be. But when she had seen him wield magic, something about it had given her pause. There was power in him, undeniable and precise, as though magic itself bowed to his will. She had seen few wizards with such natural command—her Lord was one.

Was this boy another?

Perhaps. Perhaps he was someone worth watching.

The dungeon air turned frigid, seeping through Bellatrix's robes as she strode forward. The torchlight was weak, its flickering glow barely pushing back the encroaching shadows.

And then—there he was.

Hadrian Reeves.

Plain, forgettable, unimposing. A boy who could have easily been mistaken for any other student—average brown hair, a face so indistinct that even the most observant would struggle to recall his features. He had none of the effortless grace of Thaddeus, none of the aristocratic sharpness that old blood carried like armor. Hadrian was...ordinary.

But Bellatrix knew better.

No one had ever dared to bully Hadrian Reeves. No one had even tried. He had survived Slytherin House not by lineage or wealth, but by something far more insidious.

Influence.

A whisper in the right ear. A favor owed. A debt collected at just the right moment. Hadrian wasn't just a smuggler of goods—he was a broker of power, and more importantly, he had protection from somewhere else. Somewhere even she hadn't yet uncovered.

Hadrian stood with his back half-turned, speaking in hushed tones to a jittery-looking fourth-year. The boy clutched a small pouch in his hands like it was a lifeline, his eyes darting nervously between Hadrian and the hall beyond. Whatever deal was happening, it was nearly complete.

Until Bellatrix stepped forward.

The boy caught sight of her, and in an instant, his entire demeanor changed. His knuckles went white against the pouch. His breath hitched. Then, without a word, he bolted—turning on his heel and all but running down the corridor.

Hadrian sighed. Long. Drawn-out. And deeply unimpressed.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned to her. His gaze flicked lazily over her as if he were considering charging her for the lost transaction.

"Brilliant, Bella" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "There goes another one. Are you planning to scare off all my business? Because I'd appreciate some notice before you start ruining my sales."

Her expression darkened. "We are not close enough for you to call me 'Bella.'"

Hadrian cocked his head, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh? And here I thought we were best mates."

She stepped closer, her presence a looming threat, but he held his ground. Most flinched under her scrutiny. Hadrian? He grinned.

"Try it again," she said smoothly. "And you'll be getting your next shipment of illicit imports through a straw."

Hadrian let out a low chuckle, unfazed. "Your highness," he conceded with mock reverence, placing a hand over his heart. "To what do I owe this honor?"

Bellatrix crossed her arms. "Rookwood said it was done."

Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "Done?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

Hadrian sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "I swear, Black, your lack of trust wounds me."

She arched an unimpressed brow.

He chuckled, tilting his head slightly before answering. "Yes, it's done. Everything is in place. When do you need access?"

"Right now."

Hadrian exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in mock dismay. "You ever try using 'please'? Might be a first for you."

Bellatrix merely stared.

Hadrian sighed. "Fine, Suit yourself. Come on."

With an easy gait, he turned and led her deeper into the dungeons. Their footsteps echoed against the cold, damp walls, the silence between them taut with an unspoken battle of wills.

Bellatrix studied him as they walked. He was frustratingly unreadable—casual, almost lazy, but she knew better. There was always something turning in his mind, calculating angles, threading connections.

The passageways twisted and narrowed, the air growing heavier with the scent of damp stone. The torches barely illuminated the darkened halls, their light flickering against walls covered in years of dust and neglect. Finally, they reached an old classroom, long abandoned when Hogwarts no longer needed to push students into the depths of its dungeons.

Hadrian pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, moving with the unbothered ease of someone conducting business, rather than standing on the precipice of something far darker.

With a flick of his hand, the room brightened.

Bellatrix stepped inside—and exhaled, slowly.

The ritual.

It was ready.

Scattered remains of animals—both mundane and magical—lay arranged with surgical precision. Thick, dark strokes of blood formed complex patterns across the stone floor, the markings pulsing faintly with residual magic. The scent of iron clung to the air, mixing with the damp musk of the dungeon.

And in the center, caged Muggles.

Bellatrix stilled, her gaze sweeping over them. Once, the sight might have given her pause. Might have unsettled her. But that was before the summer. Before she had seen the truth.

The truth of her Lord.

There was no hesitation in her conviction now. This was not cruelty. This was necessity. This was justice.

And yet, despite that certainty, something primal stirred when she heard their shrieks, their pleading, their wretched, pathetic begging.

Her grip on her wand tightened. The sound grated against her ears, disrupting the solemnity of what was about to take place.

With a swift flick of her wrist, she silenced them.

The room fell into perfect stillness.

Hadrian, who had been watching her, smirked. "Neat trick. Ever think about going into show business?"

Bellatrix turned her gaze on him, her expression unreadable. "You talk too much."

Hadrian grinned, stepping back toward the shadows, arms crossed lazily over his chest. "And yet, here we are, always having these little chats."

She ignored him, stepping toward the ritual's center. But Hadrian wasn't finished.

"You know," he mused, "I've helped set up a lot of things in my time. Smuggling, contraband, a bit of blackmail here and there." He gestured at the ritual with an almost lazy wave of his hand. "But this? This is a different league."

Bellatrix glanced at him. "Getting squeamish?"

Hadrian laughed softly, shaking his head. "Not in the slightest." He leaned against the cold stone wall. "Just saying, whatever this is… I hope you know what you're getting into."

She held his gaze, unblinking. "I do."

Hadrian's smirk didn't falter, but there was something sharper beneath it now, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he chuckled, giving a slow, exaggerated bow.

"Well then," he said, voice smooth as silk, "I'll leave the honors to you."

Bellatrix arched an eyebrow. "Reeves. You do it."

Hadrian clicked his tongue. "Ah, but you see, our Lord didn't recruit me for my wandwork. My talents lie in... access."

His voice was light, almost amused, as he leaned back into the shadows. His lack of concern was almost infuriating.

Bellatrix exhaled, exasperated. "That's for certain."

She turned back to the ritual, casting a final, scrutinizing glance around the chamber. Everything was in place. A smirk played on her lips. This was only the first step. Hadrian Reeves—whether he admitted it or not—was already bound to their cause.
She raised her wand. The incantation slipped from her lips, and the ritual began.