The first of November, of the year nineteen eighty-one, was the worst day of my life. I was in the study awaiting the summons of my lord, when the first of two pieces of bad news arrived by Floo, shortly before dawn. My sister Narcissa's head appeared in the fire, with red-rimmed eyes and disheveled hair – anything short of immaculate grooming spoke volumes. It was a minute or two before she had composed herself enough to speak.

“What happened, Cissa?” I demanded. Perhaps it was not the welcome she expected; I had not slept at all that night, which did not improve my admittedly short temper.

“He's gone,” she said.

I did not understand, at first. “Lucius? Did he –”

“No. The Dark Lord. They – they say he's dead.”

“Impossible,” I snapped, even as the blood turned to ice in my veins. My lord had not called – there was already a glimmer of pink at the horizon, and still he had not called. “He is immortal – you know that.”

“But he's gone! He disappeared last night at the Potters'. They say the baby killed him.”

“Ridiculous. He'll be back, and you'll be sorry you ever doubted him.” I glanced down at her, mustering more confidence than I felt. “How could a baby kill the Dark Lord?”

“I don't know, Bella, I don't know! What will happen to us?” Her voice was suffused with a tinge of hysteria – the Black madness rearing its head, beautiful and terrible to behold. Now, however, was not the time.

“Cissa, for Merlin's sake, calm down and let me think! Here, just come over and sit down – I'll order tea.” My sister is ridiculously fond of tea; I knew that a pot of chamomile would work wonders on her nerves.

She stepped out of the fire and sank into the nearest armchair as a house-elf poured her tea. Once I saw her comfortably settled, I asked, “Who is spreading these rumors?”

“They're not rumors anymore. Lucius's contacts at the Ministry have the news from Dumbledore himself. The baby's alive – he was supposed to die.”

“Dumbledore? You can't trust him. You can't trust anything he tells the Ministry – he lies to them all the time. We need to find Snape – he'll know.”

“He's gone too. They arrested him an hour ago.”

“No,” I whispered, as my stomach gave a sickening lurch. I never liked the man, but he was valuable to the Dark Lord. “He can't have – I mean, Dumbledore –”

“They just did. I don't know about Dumbledore, but Lucius got the news from someone who saw the Aurors get him.” For all the apparent calmness in her voice, the cup was clattering in its saucer as Narcissa poured herself more tea. “Bella, what if they come for us?”

“They won't,” I said. “Dumbledore will vouch for Snape – he's got the old man fooled – and no one else will get arrested. We've taken precautions enough. Right now, we need to find the Dark Lord.”

“How?”

“I'll find someone who knows what's going on. One of Dumbledore's people. An Auror. They'll tell me, one way or another, when I'm done with them. Oh, they will.” I smiled the smile I saved for my enemies, the last thing they saw before they died.

I could see a glimmer of hope in my sister's eyes. “You can't go alone, Bella. Aurors are dangerous.”

“I know.” It was sweet of her, but I have always been the strong one. Strong, and mad, perhaps, but not stupid. “Don't worry, sister, I won't be alone. I'm not taking your husband, but – ”

“– but you will take yours? He's –”

“ – competent enough, and will do as I say, which is more than can be said for Lucius. I'll bring Rabastan, too, and one more. The Crouch boy, perhaps. The sight of him ought to do wonders with any Auror.”

Narcissa rose, setting down her cup. “Be careful, Bella.”

“I will. Tell Lucius to keep his eyes and ears on the Ministry.”

“You know he will. Good luck, sister mine.” She Disapparated with a pop.

 

---

We arrived just outside the Longbottoms' wards with the edge of a blood-red sun peeking from beneath the horizon. It had been rumored that they went under the Fidelius Charm, but there was no trace of it now. They were the other couple our lord had marked; both were Aurors known to us. They had been responsible for a number of casualties – my father-in-law, for one – and I was quite looking forward to making them bleed.

“Now, remember,” I said to Rodolphus and Rabastan, “we are here on our lord's business. Vengeance must wait.” I waited for them to assent. “Good. You will take the east, Crouch. Rabastan, the south. Rodolphus, west, and I shall be the north.” I drew my wand as they stationed themselves around the perimeter and prepared to cast the ward substitution. There would be no hope of rescue, nor of escape.

I sent a stream of orange light towards my husband, who caught it on the tip of his wand and sent it racing towards his brother. I waited as it sped around the house and came back to my wand, completing its circle, flaring upwards and sinking into the wards. There was a tiny movement in one of the front windows – they had seen us. Good. I prefer my enemies to see me coming and dread every step of my approach.

“Sonorus,” I whispered, tapping my throat. “Longbottom,” I called, my voice carrying across their spacious front lawn, “We would have words with you.”

“We do not parley with Death Eaters,” the husband – Frank, as I recall – answered. I had expected something of the sort, of course, but they were Purebloods, and so the formalities must needs be observed, even in war – it is a mark of good breeding, and good blood.

I gave the signal, and the front and back doors of the house exploded inwards. The Longbottoms did not emerge as we advanced. Theirs was an old ancestral home, with formidable defenses in its very walls – but even such a house would not save them. The Dark Lord had invented spells for use against these bastions of Light, spells that would eat away at the generations' worth of place magic and turn it against the house itself. It was a powerful piece of magic, and I was honored to be one of the first to learn it.

We entered the house to find the Longbottoms standing shoulder to shoulder in their main hall, wands drawn and feet planted in the classic dueling stance. They are both Purebloods of old, unsullied lines, I remembered, and they are skilled fighters. It is a pity they favor the wrong side. I should have liked to fight beside them, in different circumstances.

“Longbottom,” I said, nodding to both of them, “We have questions for you. We would be much obliged if you would answer.”

“Lestrange,” answered the husband, “There is little we would willingly tell you.”

“You will answer, willing or not,” I told them. It was not a threat so much as a statement of fact; I, Bellatrix, do not make idle threats. “Where is the Dark Lord?” I demanded.

“Haven't you heard? He's dead. Gone,” said Frank.

“You lie,” I declared. “The Dark Lord cannot be killed.”

“He was, though, whether you believe it or not. Go home, Lestrange. There is nothing you can do for him anymore,” said Alice, his wife.

“I suspect,” Frank added, “we will be seeing you shortly, on our own terms, in any case.”

Rodolphus practically growled behind me, but I ignored him. “You leave us with little alternative, then,” I said, and raised my wand. “Crucio.”

They were fast, as fast as any two Aurors I've ever seen. They worked seamlessly together, with a sort of grace and control that Rodolphus and I could never hope to achieve. They were what a Pureblood marriage ought to be – partners, equals, like matched blades or twinned wands – I thought with a twinge of jealousy.

They did not escape the second time. “Crucio,” I incanted softly, while Frank Longbottom was preoccupied with the Crouch boy. He struggled – he fought it, like the stubborn Gryffindor he was – but one cannot fight the Cruciatus Curse. He fell to the ground screaming, and his wand clattered to the floor. I noted with some satisfaction that he had a beautifully strong voice.

“Frank!” his wife gasped. She pivoted on one foot and launched a most impressive Blasting Curse at Crouch – he flew backwards into the wall with a sickening crunch, probably breaking a few ribs. Frank Longbottom did not cease convulsing; I, not Crouch, had cast the Cruciatus.

“Crucio,” Rodolphus shouted beside me, hitting her squarely in the chest. She fought, too, but Rodolphus soon had her screaming as well. For all his frustrating immaturity, my husband, I will admit, casts an exquisite Cruciatus.

I lifted my Cruciatus for a moment. “Come now,” I said to Frank, “you need not watch your wife suffer. All I ask is that you answer one question. Where is the Dark Lord?”

“I don't know,” he gasped, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “I told you, he's dead.”

“Liar,” I spat. “The truth, now.”

“It's true.” He coughed – a wheezing, wet sound. “The baby –”

“You mean to tell me that the Dark Lord was bested by a child? You fool! Crucio!” The force of the curse slammed his jaw into the tiled floor with a satisfying crack.

I motioned to Rodolphus to release Alice Longbottom. She lay on her back like a twitching ragdoll, her breath coming in small spasms. “What about you?” I asked. “Will you tell me where the Dark Lord has gone?”

“I don't know,” she said brokenly. “Disappeared. Dead. I don't know.”

“You can do better than that,” I told her, crouching beside her to look her in the eyes. They were glassy, bloodshot, wild with pain. They reminded me of carnelian and veined marble, and I told her so. She flinched away from me when I laid a finger on her cheek, which was wet with blood and tears. “You taste like a thunderstorm,” I whispered, “and iron, and the sea. So beautiful, Alice, so beautiful. But your husband has the better voice, you know.” I gave my wand, which was still trained on Frank Longbottom, a twist, and his screams grew a touch louder, a touch more ragged, a touch more desperate. Another twist, and a bone – one of his ribs, I believe – snapped, loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

“Stop it,” she rasped, “please.”

I released her husband – his broken, hoarse sobs echoed in the otherwise quiet room. “Where is the Dark Lord?” I asked again.

“Told you,” she said, “Don't know. Dead. Godric's Hollow, maybe. Don't know.”

“Godric's Hollow,” I repeated to myself. How appropriate, I thought, that the Potters lived in Godric's Hollow. “Thank you, Alice.”

I rose to my feet. “We have our information. Let's go.”

“But Bella, we've just started!” The speaker was, much to my dismay, my husband.

“We are not here for sport – we came for information, and we got what we needed. You can play with them later, after we have found the Dark Lord.”

“But –”

“You may stay if you wish – I am going to our master.” Without so much as a backwards glance, I stalked out of the house. Good riddance, I thought. I shall find him myself.