Chapter 1
July 1971
Bellatrix’s POV
Gasp.
The first thing Bellatrix felt was pain.
Not the quick, brutal kind that ended her life. Not the searing, blinding agony of Molly Weasley’s curse splitting her apart. This was something deeper, slower, something that settled into her bones and curled into her chest like a parasite. Her breath came in ragged gasps, sharp against the suffocating quiet. Her fingers dug into soft fabric—sheets, not the cold, bloodied ground of battle. She was in a bed. Alive.
No. No, that wasn’t possible.
Her eyes flew open, and the dim green glow of the Slytherin dormitory swallowed her whole.
Bellatrix shot up, clutching her chest as if she expected to find a wound there. But there was nothing—no torn flesh, no scorched skin. Just smooth, untouched skin, unmarked by years of war. Her breathing quickened, and she turned sharply to the side, expecting to see Rodolphus, expecting to see—
Rita Skeeter.
The blonde was sprawled on her own bed, her curls an unkempt mess, glasses askew on her bedside table. Bellatrix’s stomach lurched. This was wrong. This was impossible.
A trembling hand reached for the mirror on her nightstand, her mind screaming at her not to look. But she did.
And there she was.
The princess of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sixteen. Beautiful. The most sought-after hand in marriage. The girl her mother sculpted to be perfect. Before Azkaban. Before Voldemort. Before the war twisted her into something else.
Bellatrix choked on her own breath, gripping the mirror so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her dark curls tumbled over her shoulders in elegant waves—nothing like the wild, tangled mess they became. Her skin, once hardened by years of war, was porcelain again, unblemished, untouched by time. Her eyes—Merlin, her eyes—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t haunted.
But she was.
She could still feel it. The echoes of screams, the thrill of the kill, the devotion, the madness. She had died. She had died in service to him, and yet, here she was—back in the body of a girl who had never tasted true bloodshed.
Her stomach churned. She lurched forward, barely making it to the basin in the corner before she vomited, her entire body trembling. The taste of bile was real. The sickness, the panic—it was all real.
Behind her, Rita stirred. "Bella? What the hell—?"
Bellatrix gripped the edges of the basin, her breath coming fast. She had to think. She had to understand. Why was she here? Who had done this to her? And more importantly—
What the fuck was she supposed to do now?