Bellatrix Black had always been different.
Born from an accident involving the then-13-year-old Cygnus Black’s encounter with a misplaced lust potion and the 17-year-old Druella Rosier, her existence had been a mistake, an unwanted consequence. A scandal, whispered about in pureblood circles, unabated by a hasty farce of a wedding. Raised by house elves with the occasional visit from her mother, having first met her father in an awkward visit (or so her grandmother had whispered) during his summer break.
For the first few years of her life, she’d spoken in broken French and English learnt from the elves, soaking up their stories and lullabies and mimicking their strange magics. She’d even thought of herself as a house elf, because Bella couldn’t possibly be like those imposing creatures called ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’.
But then Andromeda had been born, and then Narcissa, so tiny and so precious. Suddenly she wasn’t an elf, but a witch; no mere child, but a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, living in equal terror and admiration of the Mother and Father that seemed to intrude upon every aspect of her life.
Bellatrix was tutored and taught, molded and broken until cold violet eyes and a frozen face was all she ever saw in the mirror. She was sorted into Slytherin, the words mudblood and blood traitor branded into her mouth like the reddened marks of her mother’s sharp rings as she hurled herself in front of her trembling sisters. Still, though, pieces of the old Bella remained: sometimes, she’d stare at them wistfully, the bold Ravenclaws and laughing Hufflepuffs (but never where she’d be seen). She would watch the handsome Prefect two years above, who seemed so perfect with his smiles and chiseled features - top of his class with the professors singing his praises, Quidditch star always surrounded by his friends after every match - whose only flaw was his blood. (And then she'd run to her dorm and cry because he could never be hers.)
But as the years passed, Bella found herself the recipient of those same blinding smiles in late nights at the library, listening to fascinating speeches about muggle art and science and culture (she never thought muggles could be so cultured) and passionate rants about the barriers of blood status and non-magical ancestry with the gleam of ambition in his eyes. And just like those giggling Gryffindor girls that seemed to follow him, Bella hung on to his every word.
When he expressed interest in ancient magics only seen in Black Family grimoires, she diligently copied pages upon pages of pureblood knowledge. She should’ve seen it then, she should’ve refused him, but like a fool in love, she gave him everything he asked for. But she was hooked with every kiss, every touch, every secret rendezvous; blind to the truths beneath charming smiles and honeyed words. (She should’ve looked down before she fell, but by then she’d passed the point of no return.)
When he graduated Hogwarts with 12 perfect NEWTS and a Head Boy badge and dozens more Black Grimoires, he stopped returning her owls. And Bellatrix Black, with a pit in her stomach, realized she hadn’t bled in months. Panicked, she’d bought a dozen illegal glamours from Knockturn Alley that even the best revealing spells couldn’t penetrate. (What would Cygnus and Druella Black say if they knew their perfect, pureblood daughter was pregnant with the bastard spawn of a mudblood?) She forced the incantations of numerous medical spells down her throat, played the part that was expected of her at the obligated pureblood gatherings, and scribbled at her summer homework until her fingers were read and raw.
Fruitlessly, she searched for news of the former Head Boy, contacting acquaintance after acquaintance until she resorted to blood tracking spells. (How could she do this alone? She was fifteen, she had barely even passed her OWLs, she'd be disowned and leave Andy and Cissy all alone in that graveyard of a manor, and- and-)
Finally, Bellatrix succeeded at tracking him to a townhouse in an expensive neighborhood of muggle London. She stood at the doorway, shaking in dread and desperation as she knocked. A young blonde woman answered the door, dressed in posh muggle clothes with no wand in sight.
The woman gave Bella a once-over, eyes narrowed at her robes. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Hector Montfort,” the Black witch said coldly, slamming her emotions behind the pureblood mask that had been burned into her from childhood.
“What do you want with my fiancé?” The blonde asked Bellatrix in suspicion.
With that one word, Bella froze as her heart shattered. Fiancé? He’d never, not once, mentioned a muggle fiancé. (Of course, why would he have, given what he'd done?) Was this why he hadn’t answered her letters? Was it all some kind of game? To reduce Bellatrix Black, vicious dueler and pureblood Slytherin, into some foolish little fifth year girl like all the others?
Fury like no other burned within her (and if her eyes burned too, with unshed tears, who would know?). She was a firstborn daughter of the House of Black, a powerhouse not seen in generations. He'd wanted to play with her? She would show him how it was done.
She didn’t know when she’d drawn her wand, nor when she’d pointed it with curses on her lips, only when she was standing over the body of a girl whose name she didn’t even know. Bellatrix stepped over the body (beautiful blonde hair stained red, immaculate skin torn apart) walked inside.
Hector was sitting at an antique oak desk, penning what looked like wedding invitations. He didn’t notice her entrance until she shot a blasting curse at the stack of invitations.
“You won’t be needing those, not anymore.” A hysterical laugh tore itself from her throat. (Not with the girl she’d killed, anyway.)
“Bella?” He exclaimed.
“Weren’t expecting to see me, were you?” Bellatrix’s voice was like nails over ice. “And don’t call me Bella. You don’t have the right to, not anymore, mudblood.”
“How did you-“
“-Find you?” She removed her glamour, revealing body swollen from seven months of pregnancy. “It’s simple when you have the right blood to track.”
“Alice? Did Alice see?”
“Why? Worried about your dirty little secret?” Bellatrix laughed again. “You needn’t worry about your pretty, muggle fiancée ever again. She was rather rude, you see, and I was rather angry.”
The only trace of emotion in Hector Montfort’s face was the flash of calculation in his eyes. “We were engaged by our families when I was born. She is the last heiress of their businesses and fortune - or, I suppose, she was. Now, it would all belong to me.”
“You cared for her as little as you cared for me, didn’t you?” Bellatrix scoffed. “She might be lying dead downstairs, but I will not disappear so easily. I,” her eyes flashed and her wand burned, “am a daughter of the House of Black. And we always have our revenge. With one word to my family, I could ruin you, mudblood.”
His eyes widened, and for the first time, his handsome face turned manic, terrified. Ah, so that was it. The only life he cared about was his own, and with a single flick of her wrist, she could end it. Bella's mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile. But as she stepped closer, teeth bared threateningly, his wand was moving before she could register the blur of motion and his voice was hissing an incantation and a curse was flying towards her before it all went black.
The emergency portkey, carried by all Black Family members and activated by mortal danger, had transported her through the wards of the Black Manor. She’d been bleeding, the fatal curse spreading through her body as the Black family healers tried to save her. They’d told her, later, that her child was dead and she’d never have another. She’d never even gotten to hold her daughter, see her body, or even have a grave to mourn. Instead, she had secrets and lies, the pain of her mother’s Cruciatus, and a marriage contract to Rodolphus Lestrange. Bella Black had died with her unborn child, and all that was left was the violent shell known as Bellatrix Lestrange.
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1980-1981
Arcturus Black stepped into the vault that held his greatest secret.
Nearly two decades ago, he had held a newborn child and thought about letting it die. Its existence was brief and fragile, cut out of the womb too early with a deadly curse coursing though its veins. It was a problem, a mistake, a blight on the House of Black that would solve itself. Yet… its soft, dark curls and pale violet eyes were so like his daughter Lucretia’s had been when he’d held her in his arms and though its blood - given the girl’s refusal to name the father of her bastard - was likely impure, Black Family magic coursed through its veins.
So he used an apocryphal spell to freeze the child into stasis, both the spread of the curse and its natural development halted, until years later, he had finally found the cure. As he finished the ritual, the infant in the cradle opened her eyes.
Bellatrix had thought her daughter long dead, and had since gone mad with violent devotion to the latest dark lord terrorizing the British Wizarding World. The war had ravaged their family, the two remaining scions on opposite sides: one fighting for the “Dark” as the second in command of a genocidal madman, and the other seemingly-estranged and on the side of the “Light”. At least Arcturus remained neutral and had heirs on both sides; whichever won, the Black Family would live on. However, Bellatrix was barren and there was no guarantee that either her or Sirius would survive.
That was why he needed this child. She was a fail-safe, and as he could already sense, a powerful one at that. So when Arcturus received the news on October 31st, 1981 that the dark lord was vanquished and both of his heirs were in Azkaban, all was not lost.
He needed a new heir, and the newly-christened Aquila Bellona Black would do quite nicely.
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Bellatrix screamed as she was thrown to the dementors. She wouldn't stop screaming until some auror backhanded her with a cry of "shut up, Death Eater bitch!" And then, when the stars faded from her eyes, she'd just start screaming again.