Bellatrix

Bellatrix is 13 when their mother dies. It comes as a shock to no-one. Mrs Black was a sickly woman; confined to shadowy rooms and a huge green bed, peering out at the streets through closed curtains. She is spoken, of and to, in whispers. Softly, softly, she disappears beneath blankets.

One day, Mrs Black’s amazing vanishing act reaches it’s muted finale. They bury her in the family tomb with generations of Blacks to surround her. The heavy marble lid slides into place, and she is never spoken of again.

The following day, Andromeda is moved into her own bedroom down the hall. She is the eldest, and entitled to her own space.



Bellatrix and Narcissa lie in bed at nights, trying not to listen. Soft voices drift through the too-thin walls. Angry whispers pressing together into a hiss. The hiss gives way to grunts, groans, and quiet sobbing as Father stomps back up the stairs to his study. They do not speak, they do not sleep, but stare at the ceiling and shudder.

The next morning at breakfast, Bellatrix stares at her plate, her hands, her tea and says nothing.

She will not look at Andromeda, and spends the last weeks of summer avoiding her. Her sister’s shame is contagious, and Bellatrix hates her for it.



Bellatrix is 15 when Andromeda leaves their house forever. The Blacks are a silent breed and Bellatrix stands in the stairwell with Narcissa, watching mutely as Andromeda drags her trunk past them and never looks back.

Bellatrix is moved to the room down the hall. She lies awake at night, pale hands clenched, and listens for the creak of footsteps on the ancient stairwell.

Afterwards, the house elf comes to take away her sheets. Efficient. Its giant eyes will not meet hers and she hates her sister more because shame is catching and Bellatrix wants to vomit.



The following night there is a second set of footsteps, softer than the first, as Narcissa creeps down the hall and slips into the room. Narcissa strokes her dark hair as she cries, and sits with her till dawn.

As grey morning light sifts through the curtains, Cissy slips back to her room, and Bellatrix finally sleeps.

At breakfast, the girls sip their tea without a word, but Narcissa squeezes her hand under the table.



Sixth Year begins, and Bellatrix is alone. But she dreams of fat tongues and grabbing hands, grunts in her ear and hot breath on her neck. She wakes up sweating, and has too hot showers while the other girls sleep, scrubbing her skin to an angry red.

Rudolphus Lestrange tries to kiss her, and she screams until her throat tears and the copper of her blood masks the taste of his spit.



Summer again, and Bellatrix is counting down the days until her birthday. Her trunk is packed beneath her bed, and she thinks of it waiting beneath her when Father visits.

But she watches him as he stares at Narcissa, and her stomach churns.

On the eve of her seventeenth birthday, Bellatrix catches him peering through keyhole of the bathroom. He meets her eyes without shame, and her cheeks burn. She unpacks her trunk.

When Narcissa finds her in the kitchen the following day, she looks shocked for only a moment, then takes a seat beside her. Bellatrix feels a warm clammy hand press into hers, and it is enough.



Father, apparently, is easily distracted. It takes all Bellatrix’s effort to keep his attention.

She begins knocking on his study door in the evenings, terrified that his walk down their hall will falter at the other room. She pushes her fingernails into her palms as her face is pushed into the dark wood of his desk.



Bellatrix still dreams, and wakes one morning with a different shame. She changes her underpants, and will not look Narcissa in the eye all day. Surely she would know, and Bellatrix couldn’t bare digust on her sister’s face.

That evening Father looks at his hand and leers. Bellatrix looks at the wall and hates herself.



At the end of Seventh Year, Abraxas Malfoy contacts Father about an arrangement with his son.

Bellatrix begs Father to offer Narcissa instead, and he leers again.

Narcissa looks beautiful in soft white robes, and clutches at her sister’s hand after the ceremony. Then Cissy is gone as well, and the halls echoe with ghosts and grunts and the silent presence of the house elves, who sneer at Bella when her back is turned.



Then Bellatrix meets a man, and he is cold and remote. He is impersonal and she loves him for it.

He whispers in her ear, not grunts or groans, but incantations and spite. She is a willing pupil, and listens with rapture to his sermon of malice and power.

Bellatrix knocks on her Father’s door for the last time. She leaves with blood on her hands and a smile on her face. She wipes her fingers on a tapestry as she walks downstairs to her new master, who waits in the hall.

He takes her hand in his and laughs as they walk out the door, without looking back.



Bellatrix knocks on the ornate wooden door and waits, raining dripping from greying hair into sunken eyes. Her nails are still broken from clawing at cell walls, her throat hoarse from nights of screaming.

The door opens and Narcissa stares, in shock or in horror.

“Hello, Cissy.”

Bella is dragged in out of the rain, and her sister grasps at her hands and cries. It is enough.