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The Diary of Bellatrix Black - September 1967

Melodius S Lestrange presents the diary her great aunt kept during Year 5 at Hogwarts.

By Deanna CassidyPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 29 min read
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The Diary of Bellatrix Black - September 1967
Photo by Ester Marie Doysabas on Unsplash

***1 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Horrible weather. Gray and sprinkling all afternoon. Rain picked up at night.

The only good thing to happen today was watching Cissy get Sorted into Slytherin. I only have three more years of putting up with the rubbish of the other Hogwarts Houses. If Daddy would let me transfer to Durmstrang I’d do it tomorrow.

Of course, Danielle Bagman was made Prefect too, and she is such a brute about it. We all had to meet in the first carriage of the Hogwarts Express to receive instructions—“patrol the train” and “guide your House’s first years back to your common room” and such. Alan McLaird is Head Boy this year, and Danielle was fawning over him pitifully. But, he did have that snaggletooth fixed.

When we were dismissed I “patrolled” to Cissy’s compartment. She had found a friendly little knot of other well-bred first years. Good girl.

The other Slytherin fifth year girls had a compartment towards the middle of the Express, with a seat reserved of course for me. Then Danielle barged in. She didn't even knock on the door first, she just said, “Knock, knock,” as she came in, with that stupid cheerful smile.

“What?” I asked her.

“Good afternoon!” she positively beamed at us all. “I wanted to let you ladies know that I'm not just a Gryffindor prefect. I'm a Hogwarts prefect. I'm here for all of you, and if there’s anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask for help!”

“You can go away for me,” I told her.

“Oh, Bella,” she sighed with false regret.

“My name is Bellatrix,” I corrected her. She knows I will only tolerate “Bella” from Andie and Cissy.

“I do hope you'll remember that prefects can discipline each other, too. If you need any assistance learning manners, I’m happy to help!”

I would have cursed her stupid button nose right off her stupid smiling face, but Valeria Spaulding grabbed my arm and wouldn't let me pull out my wand.

“Prefects can give detention!” Valeria hissed.

Danielle smiled again. There ought to be a law against being so cheerful. She said, “Well remembered, Valeria! Well, I hope you ladies have a pleasant ride up to Hogwarts, and enjoy the welcoming feast!” Then she finally left.

I shook Valeria off. “I can handle anything that hag-brain sends my way.”

“Do you want detention before the school year even starts?” Valeria retorted.

“You would miss your little sister’s Sorting,” Ganymede Greengrass pointed out.

It was logical enough. “Fine,” I said. “But the time will come when Danielle Bagman and I come head to head, and I'm counting on you lot to keep watch.”

Millicent Mitchell made that grunting laugh noise she makes. The others agreed.

At Hogsmeade Station, I lingered long enough to see Cissy following the gamekeeper off to the lake. The First Years closest to her were all the purebloods from her carriage—our cousin Edwina Rosier, Zephyr Parkinson’s little sister, that Flint boy, and Maximilian Thorpe. She had found herself acceptable companions for the boat ride across the lake, so I went to the thestral-drawn carriages. Millicent and Adrienne Chester had waited for me.

“We thought you might check on Narcissa,” Adrienne explained. “She’s so lucky to have you and Andromeda for sisters. You’re always so attentive.” I gave her a polite smile. I’m not fond of Adrienne’s cloying flattery, but her father is a school governor and her mother is on the board of St Mungo’s Hospital, so she must be tolerated.

Millicent didn’t bother explaining her presence. She never has much to say, and it reflects very well on her.

We climbed into a carriage and some younger Hufflepuff nobody popped over to ask if there was room for one more. We had an empty seat, but he saw my expression and excused himself.

This year’s Sorting Hat song was the usual trite rubbish about unity between Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. The four school founders were bosom friends, so the members of each of their Houses are supposed to love each other too. Then Dumbledore, that abominable Deputy Headmaster, read out the First Years’ names for the Sorting. Narcissa Black made the family proud. Then Hogwarts had another unhappy surprise for me before the feast started. Madame Rowle left the Charms post to go teach and be Deputy Headmistress at Beauxbatons. Our new Charms professor is just a half-blood, Filius Flitwick.

The feast itself was fine: roasted pork loin on a bed of root vegetables with a lightly dressed salad. Pudding was a pineapple upside-down cake with lots of cherries. It was too sweet, but the cherries made it tart, too. So that was all right.

I'm back in my bedroom now. Adrienne says her boyfriend Michael Bernstein shares one large dormitory with the other Ravenclaw fifth year boys. I can’t imagine how little privacy they get. Sure, the Slytherin bedrooms are small, and each year but the seventh has to share a parlor. I’d take that any day over seeing each other’s beds and hearing each other’s snoring.

Michael Bernstein was made prefect, too. He's a smart boy, a pureblood, and well-connected at the Ministry. He’s a good choice for a Slytherin girl like Adrienne, even if he isn't a Slytherin himself.

Still. If only this school were just the one house, and they only taught the students born with the divine right to learn magic.

***9 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Sunny and cool all day. Light breeze. I like it.

I brought Cissy to Professor Slughorn’s office this afternoon. Frankly, I'm disappointed in the slug. He’s had a few classes with her and while he claimed to be delighted to meet her, he hasn’t yet shown her any particular attentions. He says it takes time to weed through all the new students each year and find the most promising ones, but he knows the House of Black.

In any case, I've corrected his oversight. Mother sent her first care package this morning: dark chocolate newts for me, Bertie Bott’s for Andie (GAG!), fizzing whizbees for Cissy, and assorted crystallized fruit for the slug. After classes finished for the day, I stole Cissy away from the billion little boyfriends I knew she'd already have, and brought her with me to Slughorn’s office. Before we knocked, I cast a shrinking charm on the box of fruit for dramatic effect.

There were two Ravenclaw boys in there with him: Alan McLaird and another seventh year I recognized from Slughorn’s dinner parties. McLaird is a well-connected pureblood, and he really is passable to look at now. The Head Boy badge doesn’t hurt. Horace Hilliard is an insufferable prat, but his father is a Quidditch star and he was named after Slughorn.

As soon as the slug saw who it was knocking at his door, he ushered Cissy and me in with his usual warmth.

“Miss Black, I’m honored by such an early call!” he beamed. “And Miss Narcissa Black? I am beyond delighted!” He took Cissy’s hand in both his own.

“I hope we aren’t intruding, Sir,” Cissy said with perfect manners. She knows exactly how to play her part.

“Not at all, my dear! Please, please do come in.” Slughorn introduced her to the Ravenclaws, and both shook her hands.

“Did you have a good summer, Bellatrix?” McLaird asked.

I told him about our holiday to Venice. He responded with jealousy; his parents had only brought him to the Isle of Wight. I know they can do better, but his mother is too necessary to the Floo Network to stray far from London for long.

Finally the Ravenclaws excused themselves.

“Do sit down, ladies, please,” Slughorn said graciously. “Can I offer you some tea?”

“We’d be delighted,” I accepted. “And in fact, we’d like to offer something to you, too.” Here I took the miniaturized box of crystallized fruit out of my pocket and undid the charm, so it grew to its normal proportions in my hand.

Slughorn applauded. “The Black family is, as always, too generous,” he simpered.

“What is generosity between friends?” Cissy said sagely.

That sent the slug over the top. “My dear, it is a true privilege to be a friend of the House of Black. Perhaps your elder sisters have told you that I occasionally hold little dinner parties? Just a small get-together, now and then, you know. My first of the year will be the twenty-sixth of September, and I do hope all three of the talented Black sisters will consent to join us.”

I accepted the invitation on my own behalf and Andie’s. Cissy graciously told him she'd be glad to come.

We engaged in some boring chat about the summer, Slughorn insisted on lending me the biography of some Hufflepuff descendant, and the tea grew cold. Cissy and I went off to dinner. Now I've written this instead of doing homework. But Dumbledore made a point of assigning a long Transfiguration essay, because it's my class’s Ordinary Wizarding Level exam year.

***13 September 1967, Hogwarts***

If it weren't for the threat of Azkaban, I swear I would cast all three Unforgivable Curses on Danielle Bagman. First I would Imperius her to strip down to her pants in the Great Hall and dance on the teachers’ table at breakfast. Then I would command her to run into the lake, and Cruciate her until she nearly drowned. I’d let her swim to safety on the shore, believing she could survive the embarrassment and the torture, and then I would snuff out her hope with Avada Kedavra.

I can't believe what she did to me. Little Mary Sunshine that she is, what a fake!

During break time this morning, I saw Leonard Crabbe sitting alone in a courtyard with a book. It's not every day you see a handsome, popular single boy sitting alone with a book! Crabbe usually hangs around with William Cole. So I went to talk with Crabbe about what he was reading, and he was very receptive. He put the book down and invited me to sit with him. He’s got such a lovely smile that when you look at it, you don't even mind the freckles.

We were talking about how it’s the new moon tonight, and he was considering sneaking down to the greenhouses to pick some cowbane for a Fits Potion that he wanted to brew for a prank.

Danielle and her gang of Gryffindor girls “just happened” to walk by, close enough to “coincidentally” overhear. Within minutes, all of Hogwarts was buzzing with gossip about Leonard and me walking out on a moonless night, so we wouldn't be seen. The whole school has been snickering and calling me “fast” and patting Leonard’s shoulder with, “attaboy,” and, “way to tame a shrew.”

Worse yet, I got called into a conference with Professor Ambitio, who said a “concerned prefect” was “worried” about my “health and reputation.” Ambitio talked for an hour and a half about how I should act and talk like a lady and never spend time alone with a boy. As if I, a pureblood daughter of the House of Black, required any lessons in prudence! Ambitio is an insufferable old hag! She should keep her sermons for her Ravenclaws and leave us Slytherins be. At least Slughorn knows not to nag at us.

Danielle Bagman will pay for what she’s done to me.

I've been branded as the school harlot for talking with a boy, by the most hypocritical slattern in Hogwarts history. Everyone knows Danielle kissed Albert Fenton when she was going steady with Timothy Hornby. And when Hornby broke it off with her and she was going steady with Fenton, she kissed Borias Longbottom.

Ganymede tried reassuring me that Danielle only spread those awful lies because she’s jealous. Danielle is square-faced and ugly, with stringy blonde hair and the figure of a marshmallow. She's only a half-blood, and can't compete with purebloods like the Black sisters. Still, this is unacceptable. I don't know when or how yet, but I will make her pay.

***14 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Even Mother says I must deal with Danielle. I received this at breakfast, so she must have heard the rumor first thing in the morning and written me immediately. I took spellotape from Valeria’s trunk to affix this, but I’m sure it won’t be missed.

***14 September 1967, Letchworth***

Bellatrix Druella Black,

I certainly won’t credit the preposterous rumor I have heard about your behavior with Leonard Crabbe. You know your worth as a scion of two ancient bloodlines too well to go walking out at night with any boy. But, apparently I have to tell you explicitly: take better care of your reputation. What people say about you reflects just as much on your family. At present, the Blacks are more concerned with little Sirius stealing a Muggle motorcycle and Walburga’s resulting histrionics, but the Rosiers will notice if any of my daughters allow their names to be soiled.

Find out who has started these rumors and quash them.

Your father and I are in excellent health. I visited Grandfather Rosier yesterday, and he is as hale and active as ever. His latest experiment has been an attempt to cross-breed Hixan apples with American crab-apples. Something about attempting to cultivate the Hixan poison in higher concentrations. He’s had some success. He also talked about my cousin Markleton, the one who is traveling all over the world with friends. Markleton lately sent a letter from South America, with photographs of exotic jungle flowers and some very picturesque Incan ruins.

Blinker has birthed her offspring and named her Misty. Do tell Andromeda—I know she’s fond of the House Elves. To honor the occasion, we gave Blinker a gift of two beeswax candle stumps. She wears the baby in a little sling and sings to her as she cleans. The effect is not unpleasant.

My best love to Narcissa and Andromeda.

Warm regards, Druella Rosier Black

***18 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Windy with intermittent rain.

I’d have preferred if Cissy’s first flying lesson had had better weather, but it could have been worse. Naturally, she’s already an accomplished flyer, but First Years aren’t allowed their own brooms at Hogwarts. They’re supposed to use the school’s old Meteor 10’s, but I couldn’t bear to see her risk her neck with such an ancient braking charm. I convinced Andie to let Cissy use her broom.

Andie was a real pain about it, though. She whined that she would need her broom back, and in the same condition as it already was, in time for this afternoon’s Quidditch practice. She tried to argue that since I was worried for Cissy’s safety, I should lend my own broom—but hers is already scraped and dented from Quidditch. There’s no sense in sending mine to a first year flying lesson when hers is good enough and already broken in.

Then the little fool accused me of loving Cissy more than her.

“Stop whining and try harder, then,” I told her. She cried, right there in the common room where everyone could see. “Cissy would know better than to make such a display,” I said. So she ran back to her bedroom to cry privately. What a scene.

And Cissy proved me right. She caught my eye and gave me a subtle questioning look. I nodded, and without a word, she went back to Andie’s room.

When Cissy came out, she had Andie’s broom.

People say that Andie looks like a smaller version of me, but the resemblance is only superficial. There’s a weakness in her. She’d rather practice the piano than the charms and potions that Mother and Daddy taught us. Sometimes during breaks or on weekends, I see her in the library or on the grounds with halfbloods in her year in different houses. And I know for a fact that she had loaned her silver potions knife to a mudblood on at least one occasion.

Thank goodness for Cissy’s good breeding. She is always perfectly calm and polite, but knows better than to give mudbloods the time of day.

Danielle’s ridiculous rumors persist, and have grown to truly absurd proportions. Now Bellatrix Black doesn't just walk out with boys on moonless nights; she dances naked in the Forbidden Forest and eats wild berries gathered by pixies. No one seems to notice that Danielle has borrowed from the anti-Morgan le Fey propaganda. I suppose if I'm to be compared to any witch in history, I could do worse. Still, I must have my revenge.

I’ve convinced Professor Wikowski to give me extra instruction on nonverbal spellwork. Normally, Hogwarts doesn’t teach nonverbal spells until sixth year, but Wikowski owes his Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching post to Daddy’s influence. He knows what is due to the House of Black. So, this evening after dinner he gave me my first private lesson, and we shall continue every day until I have mastered nonverbal counter-jinxes. Naturally, the focus must be on defensive spells. But once I can perform those wordlessly, Danielle Bagman will be helpless against me.

***20 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Sunny, windy, cold.

Adelaide MacMillan and Horace Hilliard had a loud, messy, public breakup in the Great Hall at lunchtime. Professors Nott and Ambitio both had to go shut them up. It takes the attention off of me, and I hardly saw anyone slapping Leonard Crabbe’s back today. He mostly just sat reading on his own during breaks and lunch. At dinner he and William Cole talked with each other, ignoring everyone else. Andie says they behave much the same during Quidditch practices. It’s a suitable enough companionship.

So, the rumor mill has moved on to its next subject—not that I will forget.

I am satisfied by my progress with nonverbal spells. Wikowski raves about my talents and has waived this week’s DADA essay for me. He’s well-bred enough to never act inappropriately, but he’s falling in love with me. I can tell by the way he looks at me. Daddy said that Professor Dippet balked at hiring a teacher who was only twenty-four years old. Maybe this is why. In any case, it could be useful to have my hands on the heartstrings of someone who can waive assignments and dock points from other Houses. I’ll be sure to shoot him a few of those stupid puppyish smiles I see other girls giving their boyfriends. Maybe perfume my essays. Rest my hand on his arm. All that nonsense.

***26 September 1967, Hogwarts***

Rainy with howling wind, but today could not have been any more perfect. Danielle Bagman won't be able to embarrass me ever again.

I began the first phase at lunch time. The entire school was in the Great Hall, save a handful of teachers. I sat with a good view of Danielle and hit her with a Cheering Charm first, nonverbal, with my wand discreetly hidden under the table so no one would notice. She gave her usual idiotic grin. I knew this would keep her too happy in the moment to object, and would make it all the worse--being publicly humiliated, and forced to smile the whole time. Then, the Jelly-Legs Jinx, rendering it nearly impossible for her to get up and run away.

Her gang of Gryffindor girls noticed that something was wrong with her legs, but that didn't get enough attention. So, I hit her with the tickling charm. She shrieked with laughter. She started shaking, yelling for whoever it was to make it stop, laughing hysterically. I used the tickling charm over and over, until the whole school was looking around. Dumbledore rushed over and tried to help her get up. He must have used Finite, because the tickling charm and jelly-legs jinx both vanished. I snuck in the cheering charm again, and before Dumbledore could usher Danielle out of the hall, I hit the gossiping idiot with a perfectly aimed Incontinence Jinx. The entire school was laughing loudly, to see a fifteen-year-old girl wet her robes in the middle of lunch. She ran out of the hall, screaming “No! God, please, no!” Except, she smiled the whole time.

It was an eminently satisfying experience: causing her to suffer, watching the anguish grow as she could do nothing about it. No one at Hogwarts will take her seriously again. Now they may even question the horrible gossip she started before. Who can trust the word of a busybody who isn't even toilet trained? She can't touch anyone else’s reputation again, except by making her own friends less popular.

Dumbledore scanned the room and I could feel his cold blue eyes on me. I was careful to laugh with Millicent and Sylvia—three innocent schoolgirls amused to see an incontinent prefect.

But, what good is revenge if the person who wronged you doesn’t know you’re getting them back? I allowed Danielle a few hours to fret over it all.

Tuesdays end with double Arithmancy, which we have together. Danielle and her Gryffindor friends spent the whole time in a whispered argument. Professor Vector didn’t go easy on her just because she had a public humiliation earlier. Vector took three points from Gryffindor for each of the chatterboxes. I made sure to volunteer answers and help pass back last week’s graded essays, so I could earn Slytherin points right in Danielle’s ugly square face.

Then, shortly before class was over, I caught Danielle’s eye. Apparently she wasn’t in the mood for her usual saccharine smile this time. She glared at me. I smirked. I held up three fingers. Her brow furrowed. I lowered one. She looked confused. I lowered another. I saw the panic set in as my countdown finished and I lowered the last finger. Then I nonverbally cast the incontinence jinx again.

She gasped. She cast Tergeo to clean herself, but she can’t do nonverbal spells yet, so this meant she talked again. Professor Vector gave her detention.

Now she knows that I am the author of her misery. She wronged me, and I repaid her tenfold. I have power she does not.

… I like that phrase. I have power she does not.

Danielle Bagman had better fear me.

Time to get ready for the Slug Club party.

***27 September 1967, 12:15am, Hogwarts***

It’s after midnight, so I suppose it counts as the 27th. I feel too energetic to go to bed.

Andie wanted to skip the party and go to Quidditch Practice instead, but I talked some sense into her. Then she wanted to have her hair half up, but I had already styled mine that way. She can be so impossible sometimes. I dragged her into the fifth and sixth year Slytherin girls’ parlor and had Valeria give her a braided updo. When you wash off the Quidditch pitch mud, that little brat can do credit for the Black family.

I wore my burgundy dress with the lace at the neckline, and two strands of pearls at my throat. Cissy looked positively angelic in her white dress with crimson trim. I loaned her my ruby necklace. And Andie wore something blue.

Mother had sent more crystallized fruit for the slug. I had Andie carry it, since she hadn’t yet visited him outside of classes.

“But I don’t like Professor Slughorn,” she whined.

“Nobody likes him,” I told her. “But he’s useful. And he’s most useful when he’s smiling. Carry the fruit. Laugh at Slughorn’s jokes. Then you may find someone you can talk Quidditch with.”

Andie scowled a bit less when Cissy told her she looked beautiful. You’d have to be more obstinate than Andromeda Black to withstand a compliment from Cissy.

Edwina joined us for the walk to Slughorn's office. I was pleased to see the little Rosier get her share of distinction too, and her dress was every bit as good as Andie’s.

I timed our arrival perfectly. Music, conversation and canapés were in full swing, but we weren’t the last to arrive. Slughorn laughed with delight as Andie handed him the box of fruit.

“Oh, thank you very much indeed, my dear!” He exclaimed. “You must excuse my laughter, but this is just too perfect! Great minds think alike, do they not? Mr Malfoy?” He called over the Malfoy boy, another Slytherin in Andie’s year.

I’d seen him before in the common room, at last year’s Slug Club parties, and here and there outside of school. We’re something like sixth cousins. He’s a slender child, with blond hair down to his shoulders. As usual, he had two other boys with him: Leonard’s ugly younger brother Vincent Crabbe, and fat little Pemberley Goyle.

“Mr Malfoy, you won’t believe what Miss Andromeda Black has been so generous as to give me!” Slughorn fawned. “Great minds! I can hardly believe my fortune in having such thoughtful connections.”

Of course, Malfoy had provided an almost identical box of crystallized fruit. Slughorn finished the introductions, and we left the younger students to mingle amongst themselves. Slughorn led me over to the evening’s guest of honor, the potioneer Florian Fortescue. Apparently, he had recently received some sort of award for his Cooling Cocktail, which could maintain a temperature below freezing for up to six days, no matter what the surrounding conditions were. Unfortunately, he was a bore—an ugly looking fellow who only talked about some history book he had just read.

Dinner was Cornish game hen. The vegetables were too heavily buttered for my taste. Slughorn had seated me between McLaird and a sixth year Ravenclaw boy named Pius Thicknesse. Wikowski was there too, seated between Fortescue and Hilliard, who moped and scowled and occasionally mentioned his ex girlfriend. A bore and a boor. Wikowski didn’t need any encouragement to look my way, but I granted him a few covert smiles anyway.

McLaird was a decent conversational partner. He asked polite questions about my studies, which led to us talking about nonverbal spells. I’d mastered the art in a week. Thicknesse has been trying them for over three weeks, and still isn’t getting on too well. McLaird says that Thicknesse is right about where most sixth years are in their first month. Thicknesse took it as a comfort, and didn’t seem to notice that it was a compliment to me.

Pudding redeemed Fortescue. His Cooling Cocktail had allowed him to transport a variety of other concoctions of his own design: ice creams. The dark chocolate was exquisite.

During pudding, I realized the Malfoy boy was sitting between Andie and Cissy. I watched them for a little while. He must be rather charismatic. He juggled them both in conversation, had Andie blushing, and made Cissy laugh several times.

Fourth year and below have an earlier curfew. As a proper prefect, I reminded the younger students to leave after pudding. Malfoy escorted Andie, Cissy and Edwina out, with his dim witted friends trailing behind. I’ll never understand how the Crabbe family produced both the handsome, intelligent Leonard, and the trollish Vincent.

And why was Vincent at Slughorn’s party, when Leonard wasn’t? Leonard’s best friend is the Slytherin Quidditch captain. Cole is doing wrong by his keeper and seeker by scheduling a practice when Leonard and Andie should be at Slughorn’s dinner party.

With the younger students gone, the older students joined Slughorn and his few adult guests for tea and conversation. I considered sitting with McLaird, but he and Thicknesse were attempting to comfort Hilliard. His breakup was a full week ago, and he still hasn’t shut up about it.

Borias Longbottom is a pureblood, but he was holding hands with mudblood Bethany Stevenson. Slughorn does sometimes single out bits of filth. Every once in a while they prove useful to him, but Stevenson’s presence is a glaring reminder that the slug’s judgment can’t be relied upon.

Eunice Perkins and Amelia Bones were chatting on another sofa. Bones is well-connected and I haven’t heard anything notable at all about the Perkins family. Still, between their mindless gossip and Fortescue’s droning talk, I decided I could better tolerate Fortescue.

He, Wikowski, Slughorn, and a seventh year Slytherin girl named Bridgett McNair were chatting by the windows when I joined them. The men were drinking very old whisky, and McNair, a glass of mead. Slughorn hiccupped and started pouring me a glass of whiskey, but Wikowski put a hand on his.

“She’s a bit young for that,” Wikowski said.

“Oh! Quite right, quite right,” Slughorn slurred. “My apologies, Miss Black. Some elf-made wine? Or perhaps a bit of mead.” He hiccupped. A House Elf appeared at his elbow, holding up a tray with two bottles and a wine glass.

Daddy says there is some magical significance to sharing alcohol. Mead is too sweet, so I accepted the wine. It was passable.

“We were just talking about Fortescue’s cufflinks,” McNair told me.

Fortescue obligingly held out his arm. His cufflinks were fine gold pieces, big enough to display wealth and small enough for good taste. Each was in the shape of a triangle, with a circle in the center and a line from one point to the middle of its opposite leg. Grindelwald had used that symbol, some two decades ago when he made his major push for Wizard dominance over Muggles.

I studied Fortescue’s face more closely. His name wasn’t recognizable as one of the best pureblood families, but perhaps his heart was in the right place. He was nothing remarkable to look at—middling brown eyes, neutral brown hair flecked with gray, lines at the eyes and mouth.

“You recognize it?” he asked hopefully.

Daddy had told us all about Grindelwald’s great works and sad fate. But openly supporting the same ideals is liable to draw unseemly attention to one’s family. I carefully said, “I’ve seen the mark of Grindelwald before.”

“You see, Florian?” Slughorn hiccupped. “That’s all it is.”

“I said so, too!” McNair smiled at me.

Fortescue withdrew his arm, shook his head, and took another sip of whisky.

Wikowski leaned towards me confidentially and explained, “He’s been calling it the symbol of the Deadly Hallows.”

“Deathly,” Fortescue corrected him. “Fashioned by the earth goddess Demeter as a wedding present when her daughter Persephone married the God of the Underworld. They were stolen by the Peverell family.”

Slughorn and Wikowski laughed, not unkindly.

“I’d heard a different myth entirely,” Wikowski said. “The Deadly Hallows were created by an old Norse wizard-king who was tired of constantly defending his lands from Vikings. He lived to be 77, which was very old indeed back in those days, and then he gave one Hallow each to his three sons.”

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn said, waving his hand vaguely.

“That sounds like an old Beetle the Bard tale,” McNair said.

Slughorn laughed. “Yes, I remember that tairy fale.” He hiccupped again and tried to correct himself: “Fairy fail. Story. Three brothers meet Death Incarnate.”

“Yes, and he tries to trick them with gifts,” I added.

“The myths and legends and fairy tales have a root in fact,” Fortescue said gravely. “We don’t yet have any proof that a stone of resurrection or an eternal cloak of invisibility exists, but the wand! The wand! The wand…” He trailed off and looked distant.

I concluded that all three men were too drunk to make sense.

“My goodness, I’ve never known an evening to pass so quickly,” I declared. “It’s nearly curfew.” I said it loud enough to rouse the other students. They said their adieus, thanking Slughorn for his hospitality and shaking Fortescue’s hand. McNair added a, “Lovely to chat with you, Bellatrix,” and left before me.

With them gone, Wikowski and Fortescue helped Slughorn stumble back into his bedroom.

I noticed the boxes of crystallized fruit on the sideboard. Who could resist such an opportunity? I readjusted their positions so that the one from the Black family sat firmly in the center of the table, and the one from the Malfoy family balanced precariously on the edge, easily knocked off by a hungover slug.

I started to leave. Fortescue and Wikowski returned. I said good night to Fortescue as he stretched out on the sofa. I’m sure he fell asleep within moments. Wikowski walked out with me.

A cold draught whispered through the empty corridor, flickering the occasional torches in sconces on the walls. Statues and suits of armor and portrait frames cast strange, elongated shadows.

“Demeter and Persephone,” Wikowski commented with amusement.

“And an old Norse wizard-king,” I teased him.

“That one is almost plausible,” he insisted. His cheeks and nose were flushed red. “Some of those ancient, crude spells are extremely powerful. Blood and conception and death and all that stuff. They’re raw, primal forces. Our culture is too civilized, too nice to meddle with such power. And we’re better off for it, I assure you. Safer. But…” He floundered here, and then admitted that he couldn’t remember the point he was trying to make.

“How much whisky did you drink?” I asked him.

“There’s no harm in a little wine or the occasional stiff drink,” he answered, “but it’s very unwise to match Horace Slughorn glass for glass.”

We reached the grand staircase.

“Good night, Professor Wikowski,” I told him.

“Good night, Miss Black,” he said. “I really was impressed with your nonverbal spellwork this afternoon.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t have a extra lesson today,” I reminded him.

He smiled at me. “No. Today, you taught the lesson today.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course. Excuse me. Too much whisky. Good night, Miss Black.” He gave me a rather formal bow.

“Good night, Professor.” I turned and walked down the stairs. He presumably walked on to his room.

And now, it’s much too late. I should try to get some rest.

***27 September 1967, 8:30pm, Hogwarts***

Yesterday’s rain and wind continue.

Danielle Bagman didn’t attend any classes today. The general report is that she’s in the first floor lavatory, weeping her eyes out with that pathetic ghost Moaning Myrtle and refusing to stray too far from a toilet because she never knows when she’ll need it. But, in Potions I heard Margaret Spelling say that Danielle was in the hospital wing on Dumbledore’s insistence.

I’m actually quite disappointed. At fifteen years old, we’re nearly adults. We take our OWL’s this year, we have a later curfew, and we take on more responsibilities. The entire school should be buzzing with derision for the prefect who needs potty training!

But most of the people talking about it express concern for Danielle’s health. They talk about the stress of OWL year. They make conjectures about illnesses and ask about her home life. Even in my own House, where I should be assured that most (or all!) of my classmates have the right priorities, less than half of the students seem to recognize how filthy and unworthy Danielle really is.

Some punishment this is! She gets to have a day off classes, getting pampered in the Hospital Wing by Madam Pomfrey. A few brief hours of embarrassment, no lost friendships, even sympathy from people who didn’t like her before!

My first instincts were better. The Unforgivables would land me in Azkaban, but there are less extreme ways I can exert my rightful control.

Danielle Bagman will feel pain, and she will know she brought it on herself by wronging me.

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This work of fanfiction was based on characters and settings created 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. Trans women are our sisters.

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About the Creator

Deanna Cassidy

(she/her) This establishment is open to wanderers, witches, harpies, heroes, merfolk, muses, barbarians, bards, gargoyles, gods, aces, and adventurers. TERFs go home.

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