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.

 

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.