The Diary of Bellatrix Black - January 1968

***1 January 1968, Letchworth***

Intermittent snow.

Yesterday I went for tea with Mother at Grandfather Rosier’s, but his guests have already gone to their next social engagement. Apparently, Alfred Mulciber received a warm invitation for all his friends to visit his cousin Abraxas Malfoy.

At first, I hoped that a message had been left for me, or even a book. I suppose Markleton’s feathers are still ruffled by our Christmas waltz. He’ll remember my value as a correspondent soon.

***2 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Heavy fog.

Danielle Bagman is cracking at the seams.

I was sitting in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with Valeria and all the other fifth year Slytherin girls. After the lunch trolley had come and gone, Danielle politely knocked on the compartment door and, after I nodded, Millicent let her in. I asked her what she wants.

“I’d like a word, Bellatrix,” she said calmly. There was none of her usual false cheeriness. “If you can spare a moment.”

My curiosity was piqued. “Very well.” I stepped out into the corridor with her. There was no empty compartment for a private conversation, but we were far enough away from the trolley or the toilets for there to be anybody walking about.

“Happy New Year,” she began. I looked at her but didn’t respond. She took my lack of answer for the insult it was meant to be, and hung her head. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately,” she said. “I keep having horrible luck. To the point where it seems as if the whole world wants to punish me or something.” She chuckled a humorless laugh. “Maybe that sounds mad. I just mean. I’ve been thinking.” She dared to meet my gaze again. “I haven’t been as courteous to you as I could have been. I’m sorry.”

I felt my satisfied smile grow slowly.

Danielle smiled back, as if we were sharing some sort of newfound friendship.

“The ‘whole world’ hasn’t been punishing you, Danielle,” I told her in a reassuring tone. I even placed a hand gently on her shoulder, as I sometimes do with Andie. “I have.”

Her smile vanished, but mine remained. Color drained out of her face. “What?”

“You haven’t been courteous to me,” I said, allowing my grip on her shoulder to tighten. “You’ve been cruel. You’ve spread malicious rumors. You’ve harassed and annoyed me at every turn. You’ve turned my stomach by carrying on with your foul mudblood boyfriend. You’ve insulted me just by pointing your hideous face in my direction.” Large tears started rolling down her cheeks. I continued: “You keep having horrible luck, Danielle, because you keep bringing it on yourself. You want to stop the unpredictable jinxes, the dementor nightmares, the unexpected bleeding wounds? Learn from your mistakes.”

“How?” she sputtered. “It’s n...not possible…”

I cast the Paranoia Charm on her. It was the first time I’d actually said the incantation aloud, and the flash of olive-colored light burst from my wand brighter than ever before. Danielle gasped audibly and her back slammed against the train wall. Then her knees buckled and she slid down the wall, curling into a fetal position. I cast the Exhaustion Charm on her and she closed her eyes, hyperventilating and rocking herself.

I stepped back into the compartment. The girls gave me an expectant look. “Danielle never made it all the way down here,” I said. “I’ve been with you lot, this whole time. Right?”

“Of course,” Ganymede said archly.

“I didn’t see you go anywhere,” Valeria said in a bored voice.

I sat down and looked at the others.

Adrienne, Sylvia, and Millicent excitedly rushed to the door, peeked out at the shivering, sleeping form of Danielle, and came back in. Adrienne and Millicent giggled and applauded.

Sylvia looked queasy. “What happened to her?”

“I’ve no idea,” I told her coolly. “I’ve been with you this whole time.”

“Pressure of OWL year, I expect,” Ganymede said reasonably.

Valeria shrugged. “Madam Pomfrey will sort her out.”

Sylvia returned to her seat with a mollified expression. “Danielle Bagman is pretty high-strung in general. I suppose it was only a matter of time before she, erm…”

“Started behaving erratically,” I supplied.

“Yes,” Sylvia said.

At first, I thought Sylvia seemed nervous. But when we’d all got back to Hogwarts, she sat beside me at dinner, and chatted very politely with Leonard and me about our Christmas breaks.

***3 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Sunny, with a bitter wind.

Classes have resumed, but Danielle was in the Hospital Wing again all day. Wikowski told me that Slughorn said Madam Pomfrey had run out of chamomile for the Calming Draught.

More importantly, Wikowski also mentioned that Madam Shafiq had been trying to lend one of her lurid romance novels to Bridgett McNair. It was about a Durmstrang professor and one of his underage pupils! This is perfect. I couldn’t get that old hag to give me access to the Restricted Section by playing to her weakness for young love. But now that I have dirt on her, she’ll have to let me read what I please. If she doesn’t, I’ll get her sacked for giving students inappropriate materials about illegal activities.

***4 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Windy and a bit cloudy.

Sylvia has been asking for more of my time and attention than usual, lately. She clearly misses being my best friend. Now that I’m not making her spend time with William Cole, she wants to go back to having all our meals together. She isn’t as cool as Valeria, but at least she’s smarter than Millicent and less annoying than Adrienne or Ganymede.

Danielle has returned to classes. She’s very jumpy. Dumbledore paired us up for Prefect duties again tonight. I’d been planning on trying out the Weeping Sores Jinx on her, but for now, I’m just going to let her stew. She doesn’t know if our conversation on the Hogwarts Express was real or a nightmare. So, she’s both afraid of me, and worried that being afraid of me is an insult to me. She doesn’t know what to say or where to look.

Thankfully, I seem to have cured her of that sickly sweet false cheer. I never see her ugly grin anymore. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t “offer assistance” in that way that is supposed to seem nice, but is actually insulting.

Really, she should be grateful for the service I’m rendering her. She’ll be a better person for it.

***6 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Cloudy. Not too cold.

This morning, right as the library opened, I made my move on Helena Shafiq.

At first, the librarian was delighted to see me. She asked where my “dear beau” was, and reminded me of her collection of romance novels.

“About that,” I said. I raised my wand and cast, “Accio Private Tutelage.” The book slid out from a shelf behind Madam Shafiq’s desk and flew gracefully through the air into my outstretched hand.

She smiled indulgently. “That one is a real favorite,” she said with a sigh. “A self-possessed, strong young woman sets her cap on a seemingly unattainable, sensitive man…”

I tapped the book with my wand. It opened to a page with a particularly graphic inappropriate scene. I started reading it aloud.

“Hush, hush, my dear!” the librarian chided gently. She looked around. “We don’t want little first and second year students hearing language like that! Books like this require discretion. It’s just a secret between us women, you understand?”

I smiled. “I understand perfectly.” I clapped the book shut. “You’re offering inappropriate materials to underage witches.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, my dear,” she told me. Her warmth made it clear that she didn’t yet grasp what was happening. “Girls always grow up faster than boys do. You’re old enough for these novels, even if the more, erm, delicate professors don’t think so.”

“Professor Ambitio would have a conniption if she knew you kept these books within student reach,” I said.

“Exactly,” she said.

“Ambitio would tell parents and the school governors. They would complain to the Headmaster. You could lose your post.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And if the Daily Prophet were informed, too, then the general public would know. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement may even have to investigate the extent of the damage your inappropriate behaviors caused.”

The librarian shook her head and gave me a reassuring pat on the arm. “No, no, my dear Miss Black. That’s taking hypothetical catastrophes much further than is reasonable.”

I took her hand and smiled as if the reassurance was working. “It isn’t hypothetical at all, Helena,” I told her. “It is exactly what will happen if I am not granted immediate, permanent, unfettered access to the Restricted Section of this library.”

The librarian blinked as the truth settled in. After a moment, still clinging to my hand, she said, “My dear Miss Black, blackmail is illegal.”

I let go of her, opened the book again, and read aloud: “‘Professor Harker gazed upon his nubile young pupil and his wand lifted towards her.’” I looked at her archly over the book and raised an eyebrow.

Helena took a deep breath and held it for a moment. She let it out slowly. With tears in her eyes, she extended her wand. I shut the book held up my wand as well. She crossed their handles and slid her wand up mine until only their tips touched, casting, “Licentia volumina.” A pale yellow glow surrounded our wands for a moment.

Helena put her wand away and held out her hand. “If you find my book so objectionable, you may as well give it back.”

I laughed, stowing it in my bag. “You’d think it would take more brains to be a librarian.” I strolled into the Restricted Section and Helena followed after me with a sour expression on her wrinkled face.

“If you you flaunt your access to these books, we’ll both be in trouble,” she warned me.

I cracked up all over again. “Thanks for the lesson in discretion, Madam Private Tutelage!” The first book in the Restricted Section to catch my eye was History of the Inferious by Bathilda Bagshot. I picked up, conjured a dust jacket for Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, and disguised the forbidden book as an innocuous one.

“You’ll see me again soon, I expect,” I said, brushing past her and sauntering back to the door.

“Accio—”

I spun around and disarmed her before she could even finish her summoning spell. Her wand flew through the air and landed at my feet.

“Oops,” I said mockingly. I picked up Helena’s wand by hand and walked it back to her. “You seem to have dropped your wand, Helena. Here. You really ought to be more careful.”

The fear on her face sent pleasant shivers down my spine. She accepted her wand without a word, and didn’t move or speak again as I left.

I skipped breakfast. I went straight back to the Slytherin common room. Lucius Malfoy ceded the best armchair by the fire to me, with all the practiced grace of a little gentleman. I curled up with my book all morning. Eventually I noticed that Leonard and Sylvia had both chosen armchairs nearby and engaged in the same pastime. All things told, it was quite a comfortable Saturday morning.

***7 January 1968, Malfoy Manor***

Bella,

Very well: you’ve won me back over. I can’t resent your impertinence when it springs from such natural and well-founded pride.

Someday, you should ask Lestrange about the detention Madam Shafiq made him serve for dog-earing a book. She’s a pureblood witch who has been on the Hogwarts staff for decades, and you made her look as helpless as a muggle in Knockturn Alley.

Shafiq’s tenuous hold on her long-standing position is exactly the sort of Hogwarts news my friends and I all cherish. Naturally, I enjoy it all the more for your direct role in the situation. Congratulations on removing the barriers between yourself and the Restricted Section. I’ve only ever heard of one other wizard pulling off such a feat: the Dark Lord himself.

While I’ve touched on the topic: the Dark Lord has business near Hogsmeade at the end of the month. My companions and I are planning to patronize the Hog’s Head. I understand that your next Hogsmeade weekend is the 27th. If it is convenient to you to drop by alone at about one o’clock in the afternoon, I’d be pleased to have a cup of tea with you and catch up.

Mind you don’t discuss my companions’ whereabouts freely. Your Hogsmeade plans are to meet with your cousin, and that’s all there is to the story.

We’ve been at Malfoy Manor for a week now. It’s to a similar scale as your father’s estate in Letchworth, but the décor is rather more ostentatious. Your home exudes dignity. This one drips galleons. I can’t say one style is objectively better than the other, but Cygnus and Druella’s taste is more like my own.

Best regards, Markleton

***7 January 1968, Hogwarts***

What if, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if…?!

***11 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Sunny. Snow is melting.

I finished The History of the Inferious and exchanged it for Morganna’s Grimoire. This book is a bit taller and fatter than the last, but the Nature’s Nobility dust jacket was easy to reshape. Sylvia eyed it curiously when she saw me with it in the common room.

“I haven’t seen any mention of the Reids,” I told her.

She blushed. “That’s no surprise!” she said quickly. “I don’t think my family even started at Hogwarts until the eighteenth century. Before that, we were generally, you know, stewards and such.”

“No shame in that,” Leonard told her heartily.

They continued the conversation, asserting that the old class distinctions between Pureblood families were less important than blood status itself.

Morganna’s Grimoire called my attention with the description of the Beltane Rite of Power, which could ensure a king’s victory in battle and produce an heir worthy of his crown. It resonated with something Wikowski had said while drunk. Raw, primal forces, like conception and death, could be tapped to cast extremely powerful old spells.

Ancient cultures all over the world had some sort of blood sacrifice to their rituals. Aztecs, Egyptians, Spartans, that tale of Abr

That’s it, isn’t it?

That’s what Lord Voldemort has been doing. He hasn’t just been learning ancient and obscure arts. He hasn’t just been getting powerful. He has been invoking the darkest, most raw, most extreme magic that humans have ever touched on. Perhaps the transfigurations which grant his face its otherworldly beauty were part of an ancient spell. He may have called upon, and even used, the power of death itself.

Lord Voldemort is the perfect wizard… because he is transforming into something beyond wizard. Beyond human. Beyond… I can’t even imagine.

Editor’s note: I believe Bellatrix had been writing the name “Abraham,” before leaving her sentence unfinished. However, she made no other references I know of to the traditions of Judaism, Christianity, or Islam. I have no doubt that scholars will propose any number of tales that pertain to blood sacrifice and a person or place with a name beginning “Abr.” —MSL

***12 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Sunny.

I had another wonderful dream.

Lord Voldemort had taken control of Great Britain, and was launching a campaign against all of Europe. He was a conquering hero, a modern Alexander the Great, and I was his High Priestess. We performed Morganna’s Beltane Rite of Power. Our bodies had been painted blue with woad, like a pair of savage Celts, except he didn’t wear the antler headdress.

I awoke feeling warm and relaxed. Nothing bothered me all day. I didn’t mind finding Andie in the library with her pointless Hufflepuff companions. I didn’t mind Lucius Malfoy bragging about his father’s esteemed guests. I didn’t even mind the ugly glares Cole shot at me across the common room and the Slytherin table at the Great Hall.

I have such a sense of purpose. I feel positively unflappable. I don’t suppose I’ll even mind Prefect duty with Danielle Bagman tonight.

***16 January 1968, Hogwarts ***

Snowing.

Another Slug Club dinner party tonight. I’m getting really tired of Andie’s attitude about these. She didn’t even have a Quidditch practice scheduled, and she still wanted to skip it.

Andie didn’t come to my parlor with Cissy when I expected her to. She knew I intended us to get ready together, as usual. Cissy offered to go get her, but I told her to stay put, since Valeria was still working on her angelic crown braid.

At least Andie had the sense to be in the third and fourth year girls’ parlor. I may have jinxed her if she had had the gall to ditch me entirely for her Hufflepuff friends. She wasn’t dressed for the party, though. She tried to skive off, claiming she had a painful ache in her lower abdomen. I taught her how to use the muscle-relaxing charm Mother had taught me for such occasions, and made her get dressed.

Just after I zipped up Andie’s blue dress, I realized that we could still arrive at the party on time, but wouldn’t get there during that perfect window between “party already started” and “missing out on the good conversation.” Valeria twisted Andie’s hair into a quick but elegant chignon and I let Andie whimper as I pinned it in place myself.

Leonard was waiting for me in the common room. He explained that Edwina had gone with his little brother, Malfoy, and Goyle.

I didn’t bother masking my grimace. “Great, now Malfoy has the honor of escorting a Rosier,” I snapped at Andie.

“It’s not my fault,” she whined. “You made me get ready to go. You could have left without me.”

“Your manners should make you get ready,” I said, pulling her by the elbow and leading the way to Slughorn’s office. Leonard offered his arm to Cissy. She took it, walking swiftly and gracefully beside him like a miniature lady.

Halfway to Slughorn’s office, I summoned a House Elf.

“Good evening, Miss Bellatrix Black! Miss Andromeda Black! Miss Narcissa Black! And Mr Leonard Crabbe!” it squeaked, running on its tiny legs to keep up with us.

“Get the box of crystallized pineapple on my bedside table,” I ordered.

It bowed, still running, and disappeared with a crack. Seconds later, it reappeared with the box in one hand, twisting a bat-like ear painfully with the other hand.

“Why are you doing that?” Andie asked.

“Sorry, Miss!” the elf chirruped. “Professor Dumbledore is ordering the Hogwarts House Elves not to take orders from students, Miss!”

This stopped me in my tracks. Andie stumbled by everyone else stopped easily. “What?” I asked.

“Professor Dumbledore is saying that students must make requests politely, Miss! Tupper is disobeying Professor Dumbledore’s order to follow Miss Bellatrix Black’s order,” it said, grimacing as it twisted its ear.

“Please stop twisting your ear,” Andie told it.

It obeyed. “Thank you, Miss Andromeda Black.”

I held out my hand for the box of crystallized pineapple. The House Elf hesitated.

“Please hand over the box,” Andie requested.

“It is my pleasure, Miss!” the elf said, grinning. It gave me the box and bowed low.

“You defied the order to not follow orders?” I asked it.

“Yes, Miss Bellatrix Black,” it said. “Tupper is most satisfied by serving the witches and wizards of Hogwarts School, Miss!” It bowed again.

“Well done. That will be all.”

“Thank you, Miss!” It bowed to me, Andie, Cissy, and Leonard, then disappeared.

“Pathetic,” I said.

“Poor Tupper,” Andie pouted. “Did you see how he punished himself?”

“I can’t believe Dumbledore would issue such an order,” I said. “It’s pathetic.”

“Why?” Cissy asked.

Leonard answered, “Tupper said it himself. House Elves like following orders. Can you imagine if Dumbledore told Dromeda never to play Quidditch, or ordered Bellatrix to stop reading?”

Cissy simply shook her head with a surprised expression.

I started walking again. The others fell in.

“It’s pathetic.” I didn’t care that I was repeating myself. “If you ask a House Elf for its fingernails, it will rip them off, present them on a silver platter, and thank you for your thoughtful request. I can’t believe Dumbledore would force them to insist on ‘please’ and ‘thank-you.’”

I was still angry when we got to Slughorn’s office. Andie and Leonard both hung back a little. Cissy tugged on my sleeve.

“Yes, dear?” I asked her.

“I just wanted to say, before we go in,” she told me sweetly: “You look lovely tonight.”

I smiled and caressed her cheek. “You do too, Cissy.”

We were the last to arrive. Still, the slug fawned over the crystallized pineapple and made a point of introducing me to the evening’s honored guest. He was cut from the same cloth as Slughorn—ingratiating and fat. Eldred Worple. Apparently he wrote a biography that sold quite well, about some descendant of Helga Hufflepuff who hoarded antiquities and was accidentally poisoned by a senile old House Elf. I think the lesson there is to mount your House Elf’s head on the wall before its brain succumbs to age.

Dinner was extremely heavy. The pork chops were swimming in gravy, the potatoes in cheese sauce, and the green beans in butter. Pudding was a toffee-and-chocolate trifle.

As usual, the younger students left after dinner. Andie couldn’t skip out fast enough. Cissy made up for Andie’s poor manners with her gracious adieus. She left on the arm of Rodolphus Lestrange, side by side with Edwina, who was on Lucius Malfoy’s arm again.

The evening conversation was trifling. Worple tried to convince Slughorn to introduce him to Eugenia Jenkins. Leonard and Wikowski seemed determined to outdo each other with gallantries towards me. I’m not exactly thrilled to be an object of contention between a man who needs to be with me even though he doesn’t love me, and a man who can’t be with me despite his love.

Of the other remaining students, the only one with anything interesting to say was Bridgett McNair. Apparently, her uncle Langston Rowle had recently struck up a correspondence with both her and her older brother, Walden.

“Did you say Walden?” a rosy-cheeked Slughorn asked, tuning in to our conversation. “How is the dear boy?”

Bridgett shook her head sweetly. “I’m afraid he’s been disappointed lately. The Chudley Cannons have told him this is his last season as alternate Beater, and no other team seems to want him.”

“What shame,” Slughorn sighed. “But I’ve always said he was wasting himself on Quidditch. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times: his talents would be perfect for the Beast Division of the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures. My dear Miss McNair, please remind your brother that I would be delighted to introduce him to Esther Jones.”

“Thank you, Sir. I surely will,” Bridgett replied.

Worple called Slughorn’s attention back to his biography-writing. I gave Bridgett a politely inquisitive look.

She responded with a composed smile. “Walden’s only passing NEWT was Care of Magical Creatures,” she explained.

“That is one with rather limited use,” I said to her.

She shrugged. The gesture seemed to both acknowledge what I’d said and request that the subject be discontinued.

“My uncle’s letter mentioned you, by the way,” Bridgett said. “He said his friend Rosier always perked up when he received a letter from his family. Said it was always quite cheerful to hear about the goings-on at home.”

“How kind of him to say.” I made my voice sound warm.

“He asked me to tea at the Hog’s Head,” she added casually. “Next Hogsmeade weekend, you know. Mentioned you might be meeting Rosier, too.”

I had to wonder how much she was intending to say. Markleton specifically requested that I not discuss his companions’ plans or whereabouts. I settled on telling her, “Yes, I figured I’d go. Always nice to see a friendly face.”

Bridgett nodded. “I don’t know if their intention was to gather a big group of friends and family in the main pub, or have smaller, more intimate reunions. But it’ll be pleasant to have someone to walk there with.”

Slughorn must have overheard this last bit, too. “Now, that’s what I like to see!” He hiccupped. “That’s what the Slug Club is all about. Miss McNair, Miss Black, I had both your mothers at my little dinner parties, and it delights me to see you two as friends, too.”

“Our mothers are still friends,” Bridgett told him. “Bellatrix and I had a lovely luncheon together with them and their branch of the Daughters of the International Statute of Secrecy, over the holiday break.”

“Lovely!” the slug said, clapping. “Lovely. Makes me proud. I’m always getting letters and notes—and even such thoughtful gifts as the pineapple you gave me, Miss Black—just for making introductions! Did you know? I’m the one who introduced Bartemius Crouch to Trinity Westin. They’ve been happily married for years now. I think their little boy is, oh, five or six now.” He hiccupped again, and patted Wikowski heartily on the shoulder. “I’m always pleased to help foster friendly connections between worthy people.”

Bridgett blushed a delicate pink.

I finished my wine and remarked with some relief that we were coming up on curfew. Wikowski wished me a very warm goodnight. Then, no doubt to cover his tracks, he did the same with Bridgett. She walked back to the common with Leonard and me, so I held his hand the whole way to keep up appearances. Thankfully, Bridgett didn’t talk much. She seemed lost in thought.

***25 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Snowing and cold.

Not much going on. Keeping on top of prefect duties and heaps of homework.

Sylvia’s getting annoying. She saw me with Confuse, Corrupt, Control, again in the Nature’s Nobility dust jacket. This volume is slender and not as tall as the last. Sylvia came up behind me when I was sitting in an armchair in the common room, reading, and remarked on the book’s dimensions.

I simply insisted that it was the same volume, and reminded her that her family didn’t merit an entry in it.

Can’t wait for Saturday. Even if nothing more interesting happens than a walk with Bridgett and tea with Markleton, it’ll be good to get out of the castle and away from Adrienne’s sycophantic flattery, Millicent’s stupidity, Ganymede’s vapidity, and Sylvia’s increasing impertinence. Between them, prefect duties (too frequently with Danielle!), a boyfriend I don’t even like, and Andie’s horrible attitude, I sometimes wonder if it’s even worth staying at Hogwarts at all.

***27 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Light snow but PERFECT. I saw him again!

As planned, I walked down to the village with Bridgett. Leonard stayed at the castle “to study for his NEWT’s.” I insisted. I’m tiring of him.

A fair few Slytherins and one or two Ravenclaws made their way to the Hog’s Head. Ones I recognized included Patrick Gamp and Rodolphus Lestrange.

Bridgett met with Rowle and her older brother in the main bar. They and all the other Hogwarts students with visiting relatives clustered around small tables and started some friendly chatter.

I was special. Markleton met me on the ground floor, too, but escorted me to the private dining room upstairs. Everything at the Hog’s Head is small, dirty, and cheap, but Markleton used Tergeo to clean the teapot himself, Aguamenti Calida to fill it, and his own tea from China.

We exchanged some pleasantries while he served and sat across from me. I drank the tea without sugar or lemon, and it was exquisite. He didn’t sip from the cup in front of him.

“None for you?” I asked.

“It isn’t mine,” he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

“Do I get to find out what his ‘business near Hogsmeade’ is?” I asked. I leaned in closer. “Is he going up to Hogwarts?”

The door opened. Markleton leapt to his feet. I rose, too, so quickly that it almost felt as if I’d been pulled upwards by my own marionette-string.

Lord Voldemort stepped in. For a moment, the entire room seemed to fade into nothingness around us. He was the only thing I could see, hear, feel. He was the only thing in existence.

His pale, handsome features radiated like moonlight. His entrancing red eyes plunged into my soul. He smiled at me.

Before I knew it, Lord Voldemort had crossed over to the table and was shaking my hand. Markleton was saying something. My name.

“It’s an honor, my lord,” I said. I felt breathless but somehow I did manage to speak. His beautiful, otherworldly gaze held my eyes. I couldn’t help but remember the seductive dream I’d had of Morganna’s Beltane ritual. My cheeks grew hot.

“It is a pleasure, Miss Black,” he said in a melodic tenor.

“Bellatrix, please, my lord,” I said. I heard Markleton’s sharp intake of breath and suddenly worried I’d taken too great a liberty by asking Lord Voldemort to call me by my first name. But, he smiled indulgently.

“Bellatrix, then.”

...I don’t know if I can really put in words what it felt like to hear him say my name. It was like an ancient song, or a powerful spell, or maybe like a very hot bath that smells like lavender and sandalwood.

I nodded. I think I smiled.

“Bellatrix, I have something very particular I’d like to discuss with you,” Lord Voldemort said.

“Your business near Hogsmeade?” I asked.

He shook his head, just a little. “You are my business near Hogsmeade.”

It was like lightning.

This is ridiculous. Ancient songs and hot baths and strikes of lightning. Next I’ll be selling lyrics to that saccharine singer, Celestina Warbeck. Language fails me when I try to put the effect Lord Voldemort has on me into words, so I wind up writing the way my vapid, ludicrous classmates talk.

Lord Voldemort gestured for me to sit. I did. He sat across from me, and Markleton stood by the tea service like a servant.

“I hear you like to read,” Lord Voldemort said casually. He took his tea black, just like I do.

“Yes, Sir,” I said. “Thank you for the recommended titles. I especially enjoyed Ancient Rites.”

“What about it appealed to you?”

I thought for a moment. “I suppose it was the core philosophy, Sir. So many of the teachers at Hogwarts seem to think that magic is a tool, to be used and improved and shared openly. But, Ariel Durant carefully curated ancient works as if they were sacred treasures.” Lord Voldemort nodded encouragingly. “They’re the birthright of ancient wizarding bloodlines,” I added.

“Very good, Bellatrix,” Lord Voldemort purred.

My heart fluttered.

He continued, “There are branches of old magic that frighten most witches and wizards across the world.”

I couldn’t help but scoff.

“They’re right to be frightened, Bellatrix,” he said gently. “They are lesser men and women. They know they cannot handle the deepest arts, and they do not dare to try.”

His snakelike eyes pierced right through me. Again, the image of my dream floated to the forefront of my mind. I gulped in a deep breath, and let the air out slowly, pushing the memory forcibly out of my thoughts. As ridiculous as it sounds, I had the impression he could see it.

Lord Voldemort’s smile never wavered. “You are not afraid,” he remarked.

“I am not a lesser woman,” I said. It felt like such a bold statement to make to him. But isn’t it true? Every witch or wizard who has ever played a noteworthy role in my life has recognized my beauty, my intelligence, and my innate talent for spellwork.

“You are not,” he agreed.

Nothing Leonard or Wikowski or Slughorn or even Daddy has ever said about me can compare.

I wracked my brain for what to say next. I wondered if I should tell him I’ve been collecting his press clippings. Or that I’ve gone beyond the book titles he suggested and I’m studying the Dark Arts on my own. I even wondered if I should ask him about “dating” a homophile.

Lord Voldemort is the only person in the world to whom I feel I could expose myself to entirely. If he found me worthy, he would keep my soul safe. If he didn’t find me worthy, it would only be because I wasn’t.

My heart pounded against my ribs as Lord Voldemort held my gaze. I lost track of how much time passed.

“Bellatrix,” Lord Voldemort finally said in his dulcet tenor. “I’d like to tell you a secret.”

I know my face turned red. I don’t even care. I nodded.

“I am mastering the darkest arts and deepest depths of magic. It is my intention to enact great changes in the world. Not just the wizarding world; I seek a new order entirely. An order that better reflects the natural divisions of power and weakness among all men.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Yes.”

“By protecting muggles and mudbloods,” Lord Voldemort continued, “The Ministry of Magic is putting true witches and wizards in danger. They are diluting ancient bloodlines, disseminating ancient secrets, and destroying ancient culture.”

I trembled with rage. How could the Ministry do this to us?

“Your cousin Rosier, and all my closest companions, are actively supporting my efforts,” Lord Voldemort explained. “In return, I am sharing some of my knowledge with them.”

“In return for supporting you,” I countered, “They will benefit by your new order asserting the rightful dominance of wizards.”

Markleton agreed. I had forgotten he was there. Lord Voldemort didn’t acknowledge him.

“Indeed,” Lord Voldemort told me. “I call them, the Death Eaters.”

The phrase sent a thrill down my spine. Lord Voldemort’s followers will be so powerful they will eat Death.

Lord Voldemort continued, “Your accomplishments of late have impressed me, Bellatrix. I’d like to ask you a favor.”

“Can I be a Death Eater?” I blurted out. Gross. I’m embarrassed about it now. But, at the time, it seemed natural to let down my defences with him.

“Perhaps,” he said archly, “In time. When you are fully qualified and of age. In the meantime, there is a very great service that only a current student at Hogwarts can render me.”

I sat up straighter. It felt so important to look dignified and mature. I told him, “I would like to help.”

“I suspected I could rely on you,” Lord Voldemort said. My whole body burned with an unfamiliar heat. He said, “You are perfectly poised to influence your classmates towards supporting my cause. You can help normalize the culture of Pureblood supremacy by encouraging it in other classmates.”

“I do!” I said earnestly. “All my friends know—“

He gestured and my mouth shut obediently. “Friends are a good first step, Bellatrix,” he said. I could listen to him say my name all day. “I’m talking about more than your immediate social circle. Horace Slughorn’s favorites, for instance, who are so frequently well-connected.”

“How?” I asked.

“You’ve already said, here in this room, that power is ‘the birthright of ancient wizarding bloodlines,’” Lord Voldemort told me. “Say it again, Bellatrix. Whisper it in the ears that need to hear it. Applaud when others say it. Choose the right moments to amplify the message.”

I nodded again, then asked, “And when someone opposes this message…?”

“Keep yourself out of trouble,” Lord Voldemort answered: “But show no mercy.”

I didn’t need time to consider. “I’ll do it,” I told him. “I’m happy to. Really.”

He smiled with satisfaction. “I believe you are,” he told me.

He rose, and I stood too. He shook my hand again, this time encasing my hand in both of his. I could sense sheer magical power flowing out of him.

“It’s been a delight, meeting you,” Lord Voldemort said.

“I’m honored,” I said. He still held the handshake. My knees felt weak.

“Do keep up your correspondence with Rosier. Even Death Eaters enjoy a letter from home.”

“I will,” I promised.

One last deep look into my eyes. One last anxious moment of wondering if he could see my mental image of us alone together, wearing woad paint.

“Farewell for now.”

When the door closed behind him, my knees buckled. I sat down heavily, and Markleton sat across from me once more.

“Do you ever get used to being so close to so much power?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sort of.” He checked his watch. “You’ll be wanting to get back to the castle before sunset,” he said. There was no cause to argue.

I walked back with Bridgett and Lestrange. Then I immediately sat down to write this all out. I want to remember every single word Lord Voldemort said.

...Especially the way he said, “Bellatrix.”

***30 January 1968, Hogwarts***

Bitter cold.

I have been betrayed.

• Andromeda Black
• Leonard Crabbe
• Guideon Wikowski
• Helena Shafiq

It must have been one of them. The only other people who know about my extracurricular reading are Cissy, my parents, and Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. None of them would ever have mentioned my Restricted Section access to Dumbledore.

I hate to have Andie’s name on my list, but she hasn’t convinced me that she has the right priorities. Still, she is a Black. She is my sister. Her attachments are acute enough for me to trust her.

Of course, Leonard has already proven himself to have a deceptive nature. Still, I am in his confidence for too important a secret for him to betray me. Beyond trust, he has seen what I do to Danielle Bagman for fun. He is too wise to risk my wrath.

Wikowski… I can’t think of a reason not to trust him. He owes his teaching post to Daddy. He has all the right priorities, and has covered for me in the past. And I’m quite sure he’s in love with me. How sad is it that I can exonerate Wikowski with more ease than my own sister?

It must been Helena Shafiq. If she had had any sense at all, she would have kept her fat mouth shut about me. She could have kept her post as Hogwarts Librarian. She could have maintained a pristine reputation, befitting a venerable Pureblood witch. Being bested by a student must have rankled her pride.

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This work of fanfiction was based on characters and settings created by JK Rowling for her Harry Potter series. I'd like to note that my fair use of this popularly known source material does not in any way represent an endorsement of Rowling's harmful public statements against the validity of trans identities. Please consider supporting The Trevor Project at https://www.thetrevorproject.org/