I returned home to retrieve my Invisibility Cloak, and found waiting for me an owl bearing the second piece of bad news: my bill of health from St. Mungo's. Rodolphus and I had been attempting to concieve for some time, with little success; he wanted an heir, especially seeing as his brother had gone through two unsuccessful betrothals and was at the time embroiled in his third. To be perfectly frank, had I not done my duty by our families like a proper Pureblood witch, Rodolphus might not have married either. Honestly, to think that those two are all that remains of the major branch of the House of Lestrange!

After several trying years, we finally decided to see a specialist at St. Mungo's two weeks ago – or rather, I decided, and made Roldophus accompany me. His examination was fairly simple; the Healers performed a few diagnostic spells and pronounced him perfectly healthy. My own, however, involved, in addition to a battery of diagnostics, two blood samples and a urine sample, which were sent to a laboratory for testing – I had not been expecting results for another week.

I snatched the envelope from the owl's claws and Summoned an owl treat for the bird, which took it from my fingers and flew off. The document, when I opened it, was short, containing just a few terse lines: I was barren. The cause: spell damage, and lingering traces of Dark Magic. There was a note at the bottom saying that my results conformed to no known curses, with the closest match being repeated encounters with the Cruciatus. Below that, in even smaller script, it told me that if I had been victim to Dark Arts or Unforgivables, I should contact the Auror Department, with the option of doing so confidentially.

I threw the letter into the fire.

I will admit that, in that moment, I envied Narcissa her little boy. I should have liked a boy of my own; I would have raised him strong in the Dark, and given him into the service of my lord, when he came of age, that he might achieve great things under the Dark Lord's tutelage. A son of mine would have been a worthy heir to the House of Black, unlike my weakling cousin Regulus, or my other cousin, my Gryffindor cousin, Sirius.

I put aside my personal jealousies, then, as I went to retrieve my Cloak from one of the hidden compartments in my dowry chest. This trunk was a Black heirloom; it opened for me and me alone. If even Rodolphus tried to open it, the silver snake on the latch would sink its fangs into his flesh and poison his blood. He discovered this in the first month of our marriage when he sent one of the house-elves to retrieve something of mine – and found the creature dead on the carpet some hours later. That was before he had learned to fear me.

I slung the Cloak about my shoulders and Apparated through the Lestrange wards, into Godric's Hollow.

It was very obvious which house had been the Potters'; it had been blasted apart, the rubble and ruin spilling over into adjacent yards and onto the street. The Muggles had gotten there first, and they swarmed on the wreckage like so many flies on rotten meat. It was such a shame that Muggles relied on such primitive methods of search and rescue; I drew my wand and scanned the area for magical lifeforms – there were two dead, and none living. It would be hours, of course, before these Muggles managed to recover the bodies. I hoped the Ministry arrived soon; whatever mistakes James Potter may have made in life, he was the scion of an old and pure line –  I would not wish these Muggles' hands upon his – or any Pureblood's – corpse. (If I were Rodolphus, I would at this point make some crude insinuation with regard to his Mudblood wife,  but I am a Black, and better bred.)

My lord, however, was nowhere to be found. I was not surprised; he would not have remained here, in these ruins crawling with Muggles. I had, however, expected to find a third Potter. Where had the baby gone? A quick Point Me revealed only that he was not in the vicinity. That left two logical options: Child Protective Services, and the Order of the Phoenix. Given that the Ministry was, as usual, nowhere to be found, I presumed, then, that the Potter child was in the hands of Albus Dumbledore.

I chanced to cast a few more basic scanning spells before Disapparating and found, much to my surprise, a set of magical tire tracks along the perimeter of the ruined house. I would have recognized them anywhere – they were of a size and shape particular to a vehicle I knew very well – my cousin Sirius's dreadful motorbike. The Potters had named him godfather, I dimly recalled. Was their son with him?

I shook my head. My priority, now, should not be the Potter boy, but the Dark Lord. But then... he had not called, and if he did not wish to be found, none of us would have any hope of finding him.

It was a test, I was sure of it. What, I thought, would he want his Death Eaters to do, at this juncture?

To find the child, of course. If the rumors were true – if the Potter boy had not been killed – then he would want us to bring him the child, so that none may say he was defeated by a year-old baby. We were not to touch him ourselves, of course; let it never be said that a mere mortal had to finish what the Dark Lord began, because he could not do it himself.

I knew my duty then. I had to find the child.

Thank Merlin I am a Dark witch. There are certain tracking magics which many wizards would not dare attempt, if only because they involve human blood. Weaklings. People like Albus Dumbledore, for instance, though Merlin knows he has the power and the brains, would rather dance the long way around their problems than shed a little blood. It is little wonder that the Ministry, peopled as it is by dull, paper-pushing Light wizards, never does get anything done.

I conjured an empty glass vial, and cast my spell into the pile of rubble, where I knew the body of James Potter to be. The vial began to fill, bit by bit, with blood. Once I had enough, I conjured a stopper, then sealed it with wax, and cast an Unbreakable charm on the vial.

There was no more to be done here. I Disapparated.