agathokakological
Bellatrix was no stranger to scandalous exposés or seeing her name splashed across Page Six. She had long been accustomed to the lurid details of her life being dissected by the press, their wild speculation and reckless reporting sometimes serving to amuse her. However, even she had not expected what she was about to read.
It had only been a week since the news had broken—the Black family, famed for their wealth, status, and influence in the world of fashion, had publicly disowned their middle daughter, Andromeda. Bellatrix, for her part, was prepared for the barrage of gossip and speculation that would inevitably follow. She’d seen it all before: sensationalized headlines, false assumptions, and wild theories. People seemed to enjoy spinning absurd stories about her family. But what she hadn’t anticipated was how low the press would stoop this time.
The front page of The Prophet, the world’s most widely circulated paper, bore a headline that caught Bellatrix’s eye and immediately twisted something in her gut:
Black Sheep: Scandal Erupts as Andromeda Black Defies Family Legacy
The title itself was little more than a fleeting jab, but what followed—well, that was what truly shocked her. It was something Bellatrix hadn’t seen in years: an unrelenting smear campaign, one that went far beyond typical tabloid nonsense. And as she read further, the full extent of it began to dawn on her.
“Andromeda Black, 23, has been publicly disowned by the elite Black family, a renowned dynasty known for its legacy of success in the modeling and fashion industry. The reasons behind the family’s sudden estrangement remain unclear, though sources suggest a growing rift between the middle Black sister and her powerful relatives…”
Bellatrix’s eyes continued scanning the pages, but the further she read, the more she realized this wasn’t simply a story about Andromeda’s fall from grace. It quickly devolved into something far darker—an attack not only on her sister but on the entire Black family, and most notably, on her.
“...Even so, her older sister, Bellatrix Black, infamous for her controversial affairs with Ministry officials and her history of substance abuse during her teens, remains the pillar of what the Black family represents. While she may not be the heir to their vast fortune, she is undoubtedly the family’s most prominent figure. Bellatrix Black exemplifies everything the Black family stands for: psychotic ambition, ruthless determination, and unparalleled arrogance…”
Bellatrix’s gaze grew colder as she turned the pages. It was almost surreal to read the accusations—half-truths and exaggerations designed to make her seem like some sort of monster. It was bad enough that Andromeda was being dragged into this, but now they were attacking her as well. For the next several pages, the paper continued to shred her reputation—details about her love life, her youthful indiscretions, and her so-called “arrogance” splashed across the page like some grotesque painting. But what truly stung was the fact that her family—her name—was being dragged through the dirt.
At some point, her phone began to buzz. Bellatrix sighed, reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the page to glance at the screen. It was Narcissa. She knew exactly why her sister was calling. Narcissa didn’t usually make calls before noon—let alone this early. There was only one thing that could have her in such a state of agitation.
With a resigned exhale, Bellatrix stood and made her way to the kitchen to answer. She took the phone in hand and, with a slight smirk, pressed the green button.
“Bella! Did you see it?” Narcissa’s voice came through the receiver, shrill and panicked. It was rare for Narcissa to show such emotion. The poised, composed sister had clearly been rattled by whatever was in the newspaper.
“Well, whatever are you referring to, Cissy?” Bellatrix couldn’t help but tease her. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing Narcissa crack for once.
There was a long pause before Narcissa’s voice returned, strained with concern. “You mean you haven’t seen it yet?”
“Seen what?” Bellatrix asked, feigning confusion.
“The Prophet!” Narcissa’s voice rose, her frustration palpable.
Bellatrix arched an eyebrow. “Ohhh, the article about that blood traitor sister of ours?” she replied in a bored tone, tossing the paper onto the counter.
“Oh my—are you kidding me?” Narcissa snapped. “Why are you acting like this is nothing? Have you even read it? They’re calling me a fake, a... a fake bitch!”
Bellatrix paused for a moment, glancing at the pages again. “Well, better a fake than... well, give me a second…” She turned the paper back to the paragraph where they had smeared her name. “‘She [Bellatrix] is everything a through-and-through Black is—psychotic, ambitious, and even more so arrogant.’ At least they didn’t call you an arrogant psycho.”
Narcissa’s voice was tight with fury now. “They called our family a grotesque attempt at a family! They’ve turned everything upside down. They’ve even dragged Sirius into this!”
Bellatrix sat down, her posture relaxed, despite the rage she could feel simmering under the surface. She was never a big fan of Sirius, he was the sole reason she wasn’t heir and yet he was still family. “Sirius? What on earth did they say about him?”
“Well,” Narcissa grumbled, “they said he’s a drunk and a queer. Apparently, he’s been spotted flirting with boys, so they decided that means he’s definitely gay—like it’s any of their business.”
Bellatrix blinked, taken aback. “They seriously called him queer?”
“No, not exactly. But they inferred it, yes. And that’s not even the worst of it!” Narcissa’s voice was trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “They said that the Black family’s supposed ‘dynasty’ is just a façade. They went after everything—our parents, our reputation, everything we’ve worked for…”
“Well, at least for what it’s worth, you were only attacked for what? Two paragraphs?” Bellatrix quipped, trying to lighten the mood, though the sting of the article still lingered. “I was being picked at for two whole pages.”
Narcissa, though, was not so easily appeased. “It doesn’t matter how long it is, Bella! They wrote eight pages about us. The entire bloody paper is dedicated to tearing us apart.”
Bellatrix’s mind reeled. “What? Eight pages? What could they possibly have to say that would fill all that space?”
“Oh, trust me, there’s plenty more,” Narcissa hissed. “I even read what they said about Regulus.”
“Regulus? What could they possibly have to say about him?” Bellatrix scoffed. “He never even does interviews, much less press!”
“Well, apparently he’s antisocial and ‘the most arrogant narcissist of them all,’” Narcissa said, the words dripping with incredulity.
Bellatrix let out an exasperated sigh. “Regulus, the antisocial narcissist? I doubt he even knows what a press conference looks like.”
The two sisters fell into a brief silence, each lost in thought. Bellatrix could feel the weight of the article pressing down on her. The paper had gone after everything they stood for—every little crack in their perfect, gilded façade was now laid bare for all to see. It was personal. The paper wasn’t just attacking their wealth or their name—it was attacking their very existence. And Bellatrix wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
“Well, Bella,” Narcissa’s voice came again, quieter now, “we’ve always known the press has it out for us. But this... this feels different.”
“Different,” Bellatrix repeated, her voice hardening. “Yes, it’s different. But let them talk. Let them try to break us. We’re the Black family, Cissy. We’ve been through worse.”
“And we’ll get through this too,” Narcissa murmured, though there was a tremor in her voice.
“Yes,” Bellatrix agreed, her mind already working through the consequences. “But this isn’t just about Andromeda anymore. This is a war. And they’ve just declared it.”
There was a tense silence on the other end of the phone before Narcissa finally spoke, her voice quieter now. “Well, what are you going to do? It’s not like you’re going to fight the press.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Cissy,” Bellatrix admitted with an exasperated sigh. She leaned against the cool marble countertop, her fingers drumming rhythmically against its surface. The truth was, this situation had left her uncharacteristically unsettled. Bellatrix Black was no stranger to scandal—she had practically been raised in it. She had graced tabloids and gossip columns since she was thirteen, the darling disaster of the elite Black family. At twenty-five, she thought she had grown immune to the spectacle, but this felt different. The sting of it, the public humiliation, had taken root somewhere deep inside her.
The longer she mulled it over, the more the reality of the situation became clear. This was no ordinary scandal. It wasn’t about frivolous gossip or fleeting drama. This was calculated, a deliberate attempt to dismantle everything her family stood for.
Bellatrix’s mind raced with half-formed ideas. She pictured herself holding a press conference, poised yet venomous, addressing the scandal head-on. She imagined leaking an even more salacious story to the press, one so outrageous it would distract them from this debacle entirely. But none of it felt right. None of it would fix what had already been broken.
“Well,” Narcissa interrupted her thoughts, “it’s only a matter of time before Maman or Tante Walburga messages us. They’ll probably demand a family meeting, or something equally insufferable.”
“Probably,” Bellatrix agreed, her voice flat. “You can all pack your bags and come to Paris. We’ll host the meeting at the estate. That should be suitably dramatic.”
Narcissa let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I suppose we haven’t had a proper family meeting since... well, you know.”
Bellatrix didn’t need clarification. It had only been a week since Andromeda’s disownment, the event that had triggered this mess in the first place. The family had gathered then, a suffocating spectacle of whispered accusations and icy glares. Bellatrix had thought, at the time, that it would be months before she’d have to endure another reunion. But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.
“Just to say,” Narcissa continued, “I’m in London at the moment. Sirius and Regulus are obviously with Tante. Or wherever she’s hidden them away. They’ve probably read the article by now.”
“Oh, no doubt. I’m sure Sirius is having the time of his life with this,” Bellatrix muttered. Her younger cousin had always been the black sheep of the family, delighting in every opportunity to defy tradition and stir the pot. “I’m more concerned about Maman. She’ll be calling soon, I’m sure—probably sobbing uncontrollably about how this is going to ruin her precious Yule Gala.”
That elicited a real laugh from Narcissa, light and airy. For a moment, Bellatrix could almost picture her sister’s face softening, the sharp angles of her cheekbones less severe. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come.
“Everything’s such a mess,” Narcissa said with a sigh. “And now we’re left to clean it up. As usual.”
“Of course,” Bellatrix replied dryly. “Who else could possibly manage?”
There was another pause, this one heavier. “I should go,” Narcissa said finally. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I need to think. Alone.”
“I understand,” Bellatrix said, her voice unusually gentle. “I’ll see you soon.”
With that, she pressed the red button to end the call. The silence that followed was deafening. Bellatrix stared at her phone for a moment, as if expecting Narcissa to call back. But the screen remained dark.
The stillness of her apartment pressed in on her. Paris, the city that never truly slept, was alive and bustling beyond the windows, yet within these walls, everything felt hollow. Bellatrix drifted from the kitchen to her sitting room, her bare feet gliding soundlessly over the polished floors. She sank into her armchair, her gaze fixed blankly on the wall.
She sat like that for what felt like hours, though it was likely no more than a few minutes. Her mind replayed the headline over and over again, each repetition sharpening the ache in her chest.
Black Sheep: Scandal Erupts as Andromeda Black Defies Family Legacy
The words mocked her. For all her defiance, all her bravado. Bellatrix wasn’t sad or even humiliated, she just felt pure unadulterated rage. It was an attack on all of them—on the family as a whole. And while Bellatrix had always prided herself on being impervious to public opinion, this was different. This felt personal.
This scandal made her remember the first time she saw her name in the press. How they wrote about her body and personality. It was after her first ever show and she doesn’t even remember what had happened besides remembering that feeling of euphoria after. It was later that week where the press released an article digging into her life and her as a person. They wrote about her body and how thin she was, how ugly. They wrote about her personality and how she was no different than a spoiled brat. She at first kept a brave face to the public, how she was just amazed that anyone cared enough to write about her. But for the next few months she would reread the article and sob into her pillow for hours on end.
She thought of her mother, Druella, who would no doubt call soon, frantic and tearful. Druella Black, the picture of elegance and control, would be beside herself over this. The scandal threatened not only her family’s reputation but also the meticulously curated image she had spent decades building. And Walburga—Bellatrix’s formidable aunt—would be equally incensed, though far less prone to dramatics. Walburga’s fury would be cold and calculating, her solution swift and ruthless.
Bellatrix leaned her head back against the chair, her dark curls spilling over the edge. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to think clearly. This wasn’t the first time her family had faced public scrutiny, and it wouldn’t be the last. But they couldn’t afford to handle this the way they always had—with silence and veiled threats. This was different. This required a new strategy. She ran her fingers through her hair picturing herself then for a brief moment ripping it all out.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of her phone. Bellatrix opened one eye, glancing at the screen. It wasn’t her mother, as she had expected, but rather a name she hadn’t expected at all: Andromeda.
For a moment, Bellatrix stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t had the time to block her number, or rather she thought that Andromeda would’ve blocked her number by now. She had half a mind to ignore the call, to let it go to voicemail and deal with it later (which means essentially deal with it never). But something—perhaps curiosity, perhaps guilt—compelled her to answer.
She pressed the green button, lifting the phone to her ear. “Andromeda,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
There was a pause on the other end, followed by a soft, hesitant voice. “Hello, Bella.”
The sound of her sister’s voice sent a pang through Bellatrix’s chest. It had felt so long since she’d heard it—longer than she cared to admit. For a moment, she was silent, unsure of what to say. Bellatrix wanted to yell at Andromeda. Bellatrix wanted to cry and sob and ask her why she did what she did. Bellatrix wanted to listen to Andromeda.
“What do you want?” she asked finally, her tone sharp.
“I... I wanted to talk,” Andromeda replied. “About everything.”
Bellatrix closed her eyes, her grip on the phone tightening. “You’ve caused quite the mess, you know.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” Andromeda said quickly. “I never wanted this.”
“Well, congratulations,” Bellatrix snapped. “You’ve managed to drag the entire family into your little rebellion. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“Bella,” Andromeda said softly, her voice laced with pain. “Please. Just listen.”
And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Bellatrix didn’t.
Bellatrix quickly hung up the phone and started at the end of the call blankly. Her lower lip trembled from the amount of emotions she was feeling. This morning she already had been through enough. She let out a tear and then decided that she should get along with her morning rather than mope around.
Drinking day-old coffee and taking scalding morning showers had become something of a ritual for Bellatrix. There was a certain satisfaction in the simplicity of it—a momentary reprieve from the chaos that seemed to follow her everywhere. Now, her hair clung damply to her back, curling at the ends as droplets slid down her skin. Her body was flushed pink from the water’s heat, and a towel hung loosely around her frame as she wandered aimlessly through her penthouse.
Mornings like this, where she had nothing pressing to do and no one to perform for, left her strangely unmoored. She didn’t mind it, not entirely. On such days, she often did very little, savoring the quiet monotony.
Bellatrix pulled open the nearest kitchen drawer, her fingers sifting through its contents until they landed on a half-crushed pack of Marlboros. She pulled one out, holding it between her fingers as she rifled through another drawer in search of a lighter. The drawers were cluttered, as they always were—a chaotic jumble of forgotten receipts, mismatched cutlery, and bits of jewelry she had discarded in fits of distraction.
Finally, her fingers brushed against the cold metal of a lighter, tucked into the crevice of the third drawer. She flicked it open with a practiced ease, the tiny flame casting shadows on her face. Cigarette in hand, she pushed open the glass doors to her balcony and stepped outside.
The Parisian air was crisp, the faint remnants of morning dew still clinging to the world below. Though it was already mid december, there was no snow. This winter was warm and Bella decided to enjoy it. Bellatrix leaned against the iron railing, lit her cigarette, and took a long drag.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The sharp burn of nicotine filled her lungs, followed by a heady rush of euphoria. She tilted her head back, letting the sensation wash over her. It was moments like these that made her feel strangely weightless, as if the ground might give way beneath her and she would simply drift away. The cigarette dangled between her fingers as she gazed out over the city, her mind blissfully empty.
Somewhere in the recesses of her thoughts, her mother’s voice echoed faintly, sharp and unforgiving. What sort of woman poisons herself so shamelessly? Druella had always disapproved of Bellatrix’s vices, though she had never been able to stop her. The memory brought a wry smile to Bellatrix’s lips as she took another drag, savoring the rebellion.
Her gaze drifted over the city stretched out before her. Paris in the morning had its own kind of beauty—calm and subdued, as though the city itself were catching its breath after the rush of dawn. The streets below were quieter now, with the morning rush having come and gone, and it would still be hours before the lunch crowd filled the cafés and bistros.
The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, its iron lattice stark against the pale blue sky. Bellatrix found it oddly underwhelming, a monument that had always struck her as unbearably plain. Still, there was something comforting about its presence, a constant reminder of where she was—of the life she had built for herself far from the shadow of her family’s estate.
Her thoughts, unbidden, turned to the countryside manor where she had spent her childhood summers. It was a world away from the bustling streets of Paris, with its sprawling gardens and stately halls. The memory of it was both distant and vivid, as if she could still smell the lavender fields that surrounded the estate. Those days had been a mixture of bliss and suffocation, the beauty of the surroundings tainted by the weight of familial expectations.
Bellatrix took another drag, letting the smoke curl lazily around her as she considered the irony of it all. She had spent years trying to distance herself from her family’s legacy, carving out a life that was distinctly her own. And yet, no matter how far she was, the name Black followed her like a shadow. She never knew if it was something she secretly loved or hated. She loved her family after all, but she sometimes in moments like this wished that she was born in a different world.
She let her eyes roam over the buildings surrounding her, their facades a mix of classic and modern architecture. The city was alive with stories, each corner whispering secrets of lives lived and lost. It was both exhilarating and exhausting, this city she had chosen as her refuge.
Her cigarette burned low, the ash threatening to fall onto the balcony floor. Bellatrix crushed it against the metal railing, the embers smoldering briefly before fading into nothingness. She lingered there a moment longer, her hands gripping the cool iron as the breeze tousled her damp hair.
The morning felt endless, the kind of day that stretched on without urgency. Bellatrix wasn’t sure what she would do next. Perhaps she would make another pot of coffee, stronger this time. Perhaps she would open a book and lose herself in its pages. Or perhaps she would simply remain here, on the balcony, watching the world below move on without her.
Whatever she decided, it could wait. For now, she allowed herself to simply exist, untethered and unhurried and still waiting for her mother’s call.
It was nearing noon when Bellatrix finally heard from her mother. Not a phone call, of course—Druella Black rarely bothered with such personal gestures when an email would suffice. The message arrived with a curt subject line: Read This. Bellatrix opened it with a flick of her thumb, already bracing herself for its contents.
Bella,
You have read what was written in the Prophet. Walburga and I have already spoken, and we have arranged a family meeting at the Estate by tomorrow morning. Your cousins will be in attendance, as will Narcissa. We will discuss how best to handle the matter at hand.
Best regards,
D. Black
Bellatrix let out a long, exasperated sigh. Relief warred with irritation as she stared at the screen. Relief, because at least the family was finally taking action—no doubt to save face rather than out of genuine concern. Irritation, because her mother hadn’t even had the courtesy to call. Druella’s cold detachment, as usual, made Bellatrix’s stomach churn.
She set her phone down on the marble countertop and pressed her fingers to her temples. The thought of trekking to the family’s estate in Provence filled her with a sense of dread. It was a hassle at the best of times, and this was far from the best. The estate, with all its grandeur and suffocating nostalgia, was an eight-hour drive from Paris. Bellatrix couldn’t fathom enduring such a journey by car.
For a brief, fleeting moment, she entertained the idea of a road trip. She could imagine herself behind the wheel of her sleek convertible, speeding along winding country roads with the wind whipping her hair. But the fantasy was short-lived. Road trips, she decided, were for people with far fewer resources—and far fewer expectations.
No, this was precisely why private planes existed. Her personal jet, an indulgent gift from Uncle Orion on her twenty-first birthday, was already prepared. Bellatrix had made sure of it as soon as she’d read her mother’s email.
By evening, her essentials were packed and her destination confirmed. As the car pulled onto the tarmac, Bellatrix glanced up at the sleek aircraft, its exterior gleaming under the amber glow of the runway lights. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she ascended the steps, her presence as commanding as ever despite her simmering frustration.
Once aboard, she accepted a chilled glass of champagne from the steward without a word. The bubbly liquid swirled lazily in the crystal flute as she made her way to her seat. Bellatrix sank into the plush leather and stared out of the window at the night sky.
The irony was not lost on her. Here she was, on a jet that epitomized luxury, heading toward a meeting that promised nothing but thinly veiled accusations and carefully constructed plans to preserve the family name. She raised the glass to her lips, savoring the dry fizz as she gazed at the stars—or rather, the lack thereof. The city lights below had all but drowned them out.
"Fitting," she muttered to herself, a bitter smile playing on her lips.
The flight was short, just over an hour and a half, but it felt interminable. Bellatrix passed the time by staring out at the patchwork of French farmland below, faintly illuminated by the moonlight. Even in the darkness, she could trace the outlines of lavender fields and rolling vineyards, their quiet beauty a stark contrast to her inner turmoil.
Her thoughts, restless as ever, turned to the inevitable confrontation awaiting her at the estate. She imagined Druella and Walburga seated in the drawing room, their expressions as severe as the portraits that lined the walls. Narcissa would be there too, perfectly poised yet simmering with barely concealed anxiety. As for her cousins, Sirius and Regulus, their reactions were harder to predict. Sirius would likely be disdainful of the entire affair, while Regulus would sit in silent judgment, his dark eyes betraying nothing.
What, Bellatrix wondered, would their brilliant plan be this time? A press conference, perhaps, where they would smile stiffly and assure the public that the Black family remained as united and illustrious as ever. Or worse—a meet-and-greet, designed to parade their supposed perfection before the cameras. The mere thought made her skin crawl.
Bellatrix drained her champagne and set the empty glass aside. She leaned back in her seat, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. But even in the quiet hum of the cabin, her mind refused to still. The scandal had ignited something deep within her, a simmering anger that refused to be extinguished.
By the time the plane touched down in Provence, Bellatrix felt no more prepared than she had hours earlier. She stepped off the jet and into the cool night air, her heels clicking against the pavement once again. The estate loomed in the distance, its grand silhouette framed by the soft glow of lanterns lining the drive.
As the car carried her toward the house, Bellatrix felt the weight of her family’s legacy settle heavily on her shoulders. The estate was beautiful, yes, but it was also a cage—a gilded prison where expectations and duty reigned supreme.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, and Bellatrix stepped out, her jaw set and her eyes sharp. Whatever awaited her inside, she would face it with the same resolve that had carried her through countless battles before. She was a Black, after all. And if there was one thing she had learned from a lifetime in the spotlight, it was that survival was its own kind of art.
The estate was a monument to both grandeur and history, built—or rather, rebuilt—in the 18th century. Its story, like that of the Black family itself, was steeped in legend. The original Black estate, constructed in the 15th century, was said to have been adorned with murals painted by none other than Michelangelo. Bellatrix had always found this claim both audacious and oddly believable. If any family had the arrogance to commission one of history’s greatest artists for their home, it was the Blacks.
But that estate, with all its Renaissance splendor, had been tragically lost to a great fire. The flames devoured not only the priceless artwork but also a chapter of family history that could never truly be reclaimed. It was said that her distant relatives, Polaris and Norma-Bellatrix Black, had undertaken the monumental task of rebuilding the estate. Bellatrix often found herself lingering on the latter name—her name. There was something satisfying, almost poetic, in knowing that a namesake of hers had restored the family’s legacy.
The current chateau was both plain and extraordinary, a paradox that seemed fitting for a family that thrived on contradictions. From afar, it appeared simple—a vast, symmetrical structure of beige stone, its boxy silhouette stark against the soft greens of the surrounding countryside. Yet upon closer inspection, its details revealed a mastery of craftsmanship.
A grand staircase swept up to the main entrance, its marble steps framed by immaculately trimmed hedges that looked as though they had never dared grow out of place. The bushes and grass were so perfectly manicured that they seemed more like an extension of the architecture than part of the natural landscape.
The façade was a testament to understated elegance. Its clean lines were softened by Corinthian columns that flanked the towering oak doors, each carved with intricate runes and family sigils. Above the entrance, a series of tall windows with delicately arched frames caught the light in a way that made them gleam like polished jewels. The blue-gray slate roof, though subdued in color, added a regal touch, its steep angles lending a sense of grandeur to the otherwise rectangular structure.
The pathways that wound through the estate grounds were paved with smooth, gleaming marble. They branched out like veins, connecting the main house to the surrounding gardens, fountains, and outbuildings. Everything about the estate exuded an air of control, of calculated perfection that bordered on the oppressive.
Bellatrix stepped out of the car and onto the driveway, her heels clicking against the stones as she approached the staircase. Her eyes swept over the familiar sight, taking in the harmony of the estate’s design. It was, without question, beautiful—but in the same way a perfectly curated museum exhibit was beautiful. This was home.
She ran a hand along the cool marble of the banister as she ascended the steps. The estate had always been a symbol of the family’s unyielding power and prestige, but for Bellatrix, it also served as a reminder of the expectations, it was as if the stones themself were telling her—her place.. The Blacks prided themselves on their lineage, their wealth, their influence—but most of all, their perfection. There was no room for error, no space for vulnerability.
As she reached the top of the staircase and approached the grand doors, Bellatrix took a moment to glance over her shoulder. The sprawling grounds stretched out before her, a patchwork of gardens and vineyards that seemed to blur into the horizon. Beyond them, the faint glow of a nearby village’s lights dotted the darkness.
It was beautiful, she thought, but beauty alone was never enough. Not for the Blacks.
Not for her.
With a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the cavernous silence of the entrance hall.
The house was already alight, its chandeliers casting warm golden hues over the polished marble floors. The estate staff, as expected, were lined up in quiet readiness for her arrival. Bellatrix was greeted first by Kreacher, the head of the estate’s management staff. His small, wiry figure was bowed low, his patchy hair looking more threadbare than ever. Time had clearly taken its toll on the old man, though he maintained the same perpetually sour expression that Bellatrix remembered from childhood.
“Welcome home, Madam Bellatrix,” he said, his voice smooth but lacking warmth. He bowed deeply, his bony hands clutching the hem of his tea towel uniform.
“Yes, hello,” Bellatrix replied, her tone flat, already bored by the formalities. “Is anyone here yet?”
“If you are referring to Mistress Druella and Madam Narcissa, no, they have not yet arrived,” Kreacher said, his bulbous eyes narrowing as he spoke. “However, Mistress Walburga and Masters Sirius and Regulus have returned. They are currently settled in their rooms.”
Bellatrix gave a curt nod and gestured dismissively toward her car parked outside. “Have my things taken to my room,” she said, her voice as disinterested as her expression.
Kreacher bowed again before barking orders to the other house-servants, who scrambled to unload her luggage. Without waiting for further interaction, Bellatrix ascended the grand staircase, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the walls of the expansive hall.
The second floor stretched out in long, dimly lit corridors, the walls lined with portraits of her ancestors. Their painted faces stared down at her with cold, imperious expressions, each bearing the distinctive Black features: sharp cheekbones, piercing gray eyes, and dark, cascading hair. Bellatrix felt a strange pride as she passed them, a sense of belonging to a lineage that was as unyielding and magnificent as the portraits suggested.
Her room was at the end of the hallway, its door marked by a gold handle polished to a mirror-like sheen. She turned the handle unceremoniously and pushed the door open. The room was immaculate, as though untouched by human hands.
It was difficult to believe this was the same room she had left behind in disarray just a week ago. The wallpaper that had been charred and peeling after her most recent outburst now looked pristine, the elegant floral patterns restored. The bed, once stripped and unkempt, was now made with crisp, pressed sheets that gleamed white in the soft light. The scorch marks on the floorboards had vanished, and the shattered window she had broken in a fit of rage had been repaired without a trace.
Bellatrix exhaled deeply, a long, weary sigh. Her eyes were drawn to the corner of the room, where her writing desk sat beneath the tall windows. Something was missing. She walked over and noticed that all the photographs of her and Andromeda were gone.
Her anger flared, hot and sharp. Who had dared to remove them? she thought, fists clenching at her sides. Those pictures were hers—memories of a sister who, despite her betrayal, had been an integral part of Bellatrix’s life. The audacity to erase them felt like an affront not only to her but to Andromeda’s existence.
And there it was again—the simmering frustration that had been gnawing at her all day. The entire situation was spiraling, and Andromeda had become the epicenter of it all. How selfish her sister had been, Bellatrix thought bitterly. How reckless, to throw everything away for love.
She turned abruptly from the desk and paced the room, her movements sharp and restless. She considered going to find her cousins, Sirius and Regulus, whose rooms were on the opposite side of the hallway. She could see faint lines of light shining through the cracks beneath their doors. But the thought of facing Sirius, with his flippant remarks and rebellious air, was unbearable. And Regulus—well, Regulus would only offer quiet, compliant sympathy, which Bellatrix found equally irritating.
As for her aunt, Walburga, she was nowhere to be seen. Bellatrix was grateful for that small mercy. She couldn’t summon the energy to keep up the façade of strength and composure that her aunt demanded.
Impatience gnawed at her as she waited for her belongings to arrive. Finally, she heard the muffled thud of footsteps on the stairs and turned to see the house-elves struggling under the weight of her suitcases. They shuffled into the room, bowing low as they placed her things neatly by the wardrobe.
“That will do,” Bellatrix said coolly, waving them off. The house staff scurried away, and she shut the door firmly behind them, twisting the lock with a satisfying click.
She stood still for a moment, letting the silence envelop her. Then, without bothering to unpack, she walked to her bed and collapsed onto it, the plush mattress absorbing the weight of her body. The tension in her shoulders began to ease, but the thoughts swirling in her mind refused to settle.
The bed was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where she could momentarily escape the burdens of her family’s expectations and the chaos of the scandal threatening to consume them. But tonight, exhaustion overtook her.
For once, her restless mind yielded to sleep, and she drifted off, the weight of the day melting away into the stillness of the night.
There was no breakfast that morning. Instead, the family gathered in the dining room for what could only be described as a strategic meeting—a cold, calculated effort to restore their fractured image. Bellatrix rose hours before eight, her body refreshed from an unusually dreamless sleep. She dressed with deliberate care, her black robes pressed to perfection, her dark curls smoothed and pinned back to give an air of control. Today, she resolved, she would remain calm. It was what the family needed. It was what she needed.
The dining room was bathed in golden sunlight streaming through tall, arching windows. Despite the brightness, the atmosphere felt heavy. The long, polished table dominated the room, its dark wood cool to the touch. Each place was marked with a pristine eating mat, though there was no food in sight—just the subtle scent of polished wood and fresh-cut flowers. The room’s grandeur, with its intricate molding and gilded mirrors, only heightened the tension that hung in the air.
Bellatrix took her seat silently, her sharp eyes scanning the faces around her. At the head of the table sat her aunt Walburga, a figure who exuded authority with every measured movement. Her pale complexion was as stark as the pearls around her neck, and her sharp, assessing gaze flicked from one family member to the next.
Sirius lounged lazily in his chair, one arm draped over the back as if the meeting were an unbearable inconvenience. Regulus sat stiffly beside him, his hands folded tightly in his lap, his discomfort evident in the way his shoulders hunched. Narcissa was to Bellatrix’s left, her pale hands resting on the table, her gaze unfocused as though she were lost in thought. Druella, Bellatrix’s mother, sat at Walburga’s right, her regal posture betraying none of the exhaustion she surely felt.
Walburga cleared her throat, the sharp sound cutting through the room like a blade. Instantly, all conversation—or what little there had been—ceased.
“Bonjour,” Walburga began, her voice crisp and commanding. “I see everyone is here.”
The fact that she spoke in English, rather than her usual French, set Bellatrix on edge. English was reserved for moments of gravity, for when the family’s unity needed to be emphasized. Her aunt’s piercing gaze lingered on Sirius, who rolled his eyes and tipped his head back in mock boredom.
“Sirius,” Walburga said sharply, her voice like a whip.
His head snapped upright, and he straightened his posture with a theatrical sigh.
Walburga’s icy glare remained fixed on him for a moment longer before she continued. “We’ve all read what the Prophet published yesterday. While I do not typically concern myself with the drivel of gossip columns, it is clear that this so-called scandal demands our attention.”
Her words were precise, each one carefully chosen and delivered with the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed. Bellatrix couldn’t help but admire her aunt’s ability to command a room, to turn even the faintest hint of chaos into order. Walburga embodied the duality of the Black family—cold and ruthless, yet capable of wielding warmth as a weapon when it suited her.
“The incident has cast a shadow over our name,” Walburga continued. “And while I will not dignify it by repeating the details here, we must address it as a family. We must present ourselves as a united front, a symbol of strength and tradition.”
Narcissa’s gaze remained fixed on her hands, her expression carefully blank. Regulus fidgeted, his nervous energy palpable as he shifted in his seat. Bellatrix, by contrast, sat perfectly still, her chin slightly raised in defiance of the discomfort that pressed down on her like a weight.
“To that end,” Walburga said, her voice hardening, “we will, of course, proceed with the Yule Ball as planned.”
Druella let out an audible sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Bellatrix, however, frowned. “Tante, mais pourquoi?” she asked, slipping into French out of habit. “Why would we continue with the Ball? Shouldn’t we avoid the press for a while—”
“See, I wasn’t finished, Bella,” Walburga interrupted, her tone sharp enough to silence any further protests. Bellatrix clenched her jaw, biting back the retort that threatened to escape.
Walburga’s eyes swept the table, ensuring she had everyone’s full attention before continuing. “The Ball will go on because it is a cornerstone of our family’s legacy. To cancel it would be to admit defeat, to show weakness. But there is one thing I intend to implement before the event.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Even Sirius leaned forward slightly, his feigned disinterest momentarily forgotten.
“I propose immediate press training for all of you,” Walburga announced. “We will ensure that each of you knows how to handle yourselves with grace and dignity. Additionally, I am considering hiring a journalist to observe us—discreetly, of course—and to report on what we truly stand for.”
“What?” Sirius’s voice cut through the tension, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Are you insane? What’s the point of that? Neither Regulus nor I are ever in the public eye—thanks to you sending us off to that cursed boarding school. And—don’t even think about interrupting me, Maman—I fail to see how inviting journalists into our lives will do anything but prove how arrogant and manipulative we really are.”
“I agree with Sirius,” Narcissa said quietly, her voice steady but tinged with unease. “Bringing journalists closer will only give them more ammunition. We should be distancing ourselves, not inviting them in.”
Bellatrix’s temper flared at the interruption. “We need to show a strong front,” she said sharply, her voice rising. “Not cower and let them paint us as weak and divided.”
Sirius turned to her with a smirk that only fueled her anger. “And you shouldn’t comment,” he said, his tone mockingly casual.
“What did you just say?” Bellatrix demanded, her voice dangerously low.
“You heard me,” Sirius replied, his smirk widening. “This mess started because of you, Bella. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Bellatrix’s composure cracked. “Sirius, you and I both know the blame lies with your favorite blood traitor, Androme—”
“SILENCE!” Walburga’s voice rang out, a piercing shriek that echoed off the walls. Even Regulus flinched, and Narcissa lowered her head, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Walburga’s nostrils flared as she glared at both Sirius and Bellatrix, her fury palpable. Sirius shrugged and leaned back in his chair, his expression one of practiced indifference. Bellatrix, on the other hand, felt the weight of her aunt’s disappointment settle heavily on her shoulders.
“Bellatrix,” Walburga said, her voice cold and clipped, “if you haven’t noticed, the Prophet devoted pages to you, while the rest of us warranted only one. You are the spectacle, the scandal, year after year. That ends now.”
Bellatrix’s cheeks burned with humiliation, but she refused to let the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes fall.
“You may reply,” Walburga prompted.
“Oui, Tante,” Bellatrix said, her voice low. “I understand.”
Walburga nodded, her gaze softening slightly. “You will begin press training tomorrow. You will return to Paris and keep a low profile until the Yule Ball. No grand gestures, no lavish outings. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Tante,” Bellatrix replied, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
“Maman, I have a question,” Regulus said tentatively, his voice breaking the tense silence.
“Yes?” Walburga replied, her tone softening slightly for her youngest son.
“Will the rest of us need this... training as well?” Regulus asked, his brow furrowing. “Sirius and I rarely interact with the press, so—”
“You will benefit from it nonetheless,” Walburga said firmly, her gaze flicking briefly to Sirius, who looked away in annoyance.
The rest of the meeting devolved into logistical discussions, but Bellatrix had already tuned out. Her mind churned with frustration and resentment.
Who would be assigned as her press trainer?
Would they be one of those smug, self-important types who thought they could “fix” her?
One thing was certain: she would despise them.
As the meeting concluded, Bellatrix rose from her seat, her movements precise and controlled. She wouldn’t let them see her crack—not today. She walked briskly down the hallway, the echo of her heels a sharp staccato against the polished floors.
Reaching her room, she closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, exhaling a shaky breath. Her reflection in the gilded mirror caught her eye. She stepped closer, studying her sharp features and stormy gray eyes.
For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of it all—the expectations, the scrutiny, the relentless pressure to embody the Black family legacy. Then, with a sharp inhale, she straightened her posture.
She wouldn’t let them break her.
Not yet.
In a matter of seventy-two hours, Bellatrix Black had encountered more surprises than she cared to admit, though she would have liked to claim otherwise. It was now morning once again, and she sat alone in a quiet café on the outskirts of central Paris, her fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee she had barely touched.
The café, St. Marie’s, was unassuming, a far cry from the lavish establishments she usually frequented. It had a worn charm—a tiled floor in faded checkered patterns, weathered wooden tables, and a faint aroma of fresh bread mingling with the bitter scent of coffee. Bellatrix chose it precisely for its lack of pretense. The windows, fogged with condensation, framed a bleak view of leafless trees and scattered dead leaves skittering along the cobblestones. The sky was overcast, a solid sheet of gray threatening rain later that evening.
It was peaceful here. No photographers lurking outside, no prying eyes watching her every move. And yet, even in the absence of others, she could feel the cold, judgmental stares of her family like an echo she couldn’t escape.
“This mess started because of you, Bella. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Sirius’s words reverberated in her mind, sharp as glass shards digging under her skin. How dare he? How dare any of them suggest that this was her fault? Her lips pressed into a thin line, her dark eyes narrowing as she stared into the swirling black depths of her coffee. It wasn’t her fault—she repeated that to herself as though repetition alone might make her believe it.
True, some scandals could be traced directly back to her, and she’d never denied being the source of the occasional controversy. But this? This particular debacle was Andromeda’s doing. Her treacherous sister had announced to the world that she’d been disowned, dragging the Black family name through the mud in the process. That wasn’t Bellatrix’s fault. No, Andromeda was selfish, weak, and ungrateful—a disgrace to the family and everything they stood for.
And yet.
Bellatrix’s fingers tightened on the handle of her coffee cup. She would never admit it aloud, but beneath the anger and resentment, there was something else. A hollow ache, a gnawing sense of loss. Andromeda had been her confidante, her best friend. They’d whispered secrets to each other under the covers as children, plotted harmless mischief together, and shared an unspoken understanding that no one else could touch.
And now she was gone.
Bellatrix shook her head sharply, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. She hated how easily her mind wandered these days, how often she found herself caught in a web of conflicting emotions.
“Bellatrix Black, right?”
The unfamiliar voice pulled her abruptly from her reverie. Bellatrix blinked and looked up, her expression guarded.
The woman standing before her was young—surprisingly young—and strikingly pretty. Her platinum-blonde hair, styled into soft curls that framed her face, glinted even in the dull light filtering through the café’s windows. It was a shade that reminded Bellatrix faintly of her mother’s hair, though Druella’s had always been meticulously styled in a bun, never left loose like this.
“Yeah, I can sign an autograph,” Bellatrix replied flatly, her tone clipped. She cast a glance at the clock on the wall and felt her irritation mount. Not only had she expressly told the café owner, Marie, to keep fans and photographers at bay today, but her press trainer—whoever they were—was also late.
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don’t want your autograph,” the blonde retorted, her tone laced with mockery. “I’m Rita. Rita Skeeter. I’m your press trainer—or journalist. Not entirely sure what title I’m supposed to use.”
Bellatrix stared at her, momentarily taken aback. “You’re my trainer? This has to be a joke.”
Rita raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Why would it be a joke?”
“I don’t know,” Bellatrix said, struggling to explain without sounding offensive. “I just thought you’d be... well...”
Rita crossed her arms, waiting expectantly.
Bellatrix sighed. “I thought you’d be an old hag.”
Rita’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or annoyance was unclear. “Well, I don’t really know what to say to that,” she said with a hint of sass.
Bellatrix was growing more confused by the second. Not only was her so-called trainer young and attractive, but she also had a personality—snappy, irreverent, and entirely unexpected.
“Right, so... Rena—”
“Rita. Rita Skeeter,” the blonde corrected sharply as she openly sat down across from the small round table Bellatrix was sitting at. “A name you’d do well not to forget.”
Bellatrix’s eyebrow twitched. At first, she had found Rita’s boldness vaguely entertaining. Now it was beginning to grate on her nerves.
“Fine. Rita,” Bellatrix began again, her voice laced with forced patience.
“Is it true you demand your servants wash your feet every night before bed?” Rita interrupted, pulling a notepad from her bag with practiced ease.
“What? No!” Bellatrix snapped, thoroughly thrown off by the question. “Why do you even have a notepad? I thought you weren’t a report—”
“Is it true your sister, Andromeda, cut ties with the family because she couldn’t stand the lot of you?” Rita pressed on, her quill poised above the page.
Bellatrix’s patience snapped. She reached across the table and snatched the notepad from Rita’s hands, her grip tight enough to crumple the edges.
“Listen to me, Skeeter,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “We are not friends. You are not here to gather gossip for your ridiculous articles. I came here hoping to get this over with quickly, but you’re making it insufferable. So keep your questions to yourself, do your job, and stay out of my way.”
Rita leaned back in her chair, unfazed by Bellatrix’s outburst. “Well, aren’t you a joy to work with,” she said dryly, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “No wonder she left the family before it was too late.”
Bellatrix froze, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing important,” Rita replied breezily, though the glint in her eyes suggested otherwise. “It’s just... the papers weren’t lying about your personality, were they? You’re as wicked as they come.”
“I am not wicked,” Bellatrix snapped.
Rita tilted her head, her expression skeptical. “Really? What would you call yourself, then? Agathokakological?”
Bellatrix frowned. “What?”
“Agathokakological,” Rita repeated, her tone almost teasing. “It means composed of both good and evil.”
Bellatrix hesitated, caught off guard by the unexpected question. “I suppose we all are,” she said eventually, her voice quieter.
Rita let out a noncommittal humph and rose from her chair, heading toward the counter to place an order.
Bellatrix watched her go, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. There was something infuriating about Rita Skeeter—about her perfectly polished appearance, the pearls around her neck, the way her glasses framed her face as though they were made just for her. Even the way she carried herself, with an air of entitlement that bordered on arrogance, grated on Bellatrix’s nerves.
She hated her already.
And yet, as she sat there, glaring at the blonde’s back, Bellatrix couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that this was only the beginning of what promised to be a deeply aggravating acquaintance. She resolved, then and there, to hate Rita Skeeter for as long as she lived.
And knowing Bellatrix, she would do so with every ounce of her considerable passion.