Prologue

Main Pairings: Bellatrix Black/Voldemort & Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Side Pairings: TBA

No Bashing. No Dark!Harry. Good!Bellatrix. Teacher!Bellatrix. Black-Family-centric

Sunlight glinted against the stone of the enormous castle, casting playful shadows across the grounds of the world-famous Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The bright early June morning brought along fresh air after a terrifying night for three little first year students.

Inside its long halls, Albus Dumbledore sighed and closed his twinkling blue eyes as soon as the doors to the infirmary shut close behind him, leaving inside an injured green-eyed little boy that had his father's looks, yes, but his mother's spirit as well. Dumbledore allowed a small smile at the thought of his former students. Lily and James would be so proud of their boy. His smile then lost some of its lustre when he continued with the fantasy of his students being alive. And they'd probably kill me for putting him in so much danger. Dumbledore shuddered, thinking of Lily's brilliant green eyes glinting dangerously at him for putting her boy in danger, and of James' burning hazel eyes narrowing disapprovingly at him.

He turned around and started the long walk back to his office, but before leaving the infirmary completely, he spared a nod at Madam Pomfrey, who eyed him with a disproving glint in her dim blue eyes and little sneer on her face as he passed without another word and set off to his office. Only when he was finally way from her terrifying gaze – he could admit that there were very few people that instilled the fear of the Gods in him as well as Poppy Pomfrey – he finally breathed a little sigh of relief and then, as the full scale of just how abysmal this year had been hit him, he winced a little.

Madam Pomfrey's criticism – and anger – were more than justified. He, in his hubris, had put an entire roster of a thousand students in danger, had left the school when it needed him the most and left the uncommonly brave little 1st Year Gryffindor students to solve the problem he had created when he'd hired Quirinus Quirrell.

The old Headmaster, who had seen more than his faire share of troubled people and impossible odds, couldn't help but sigh when he thought of the deceased Professor he had hired three years ago to teach at his school.

Quirinus Quirrell had had an impeccable resume; he had spent some time in Albany studying the dark creatures that dwelled on those forests, he had written one or two papers about the application of the Dark Arts and how to defend oneself against them and had taught at one of the lesser known schools in Britain where he had been well liked by his former students and his peers. He had looked perfect for the job, and when he had survived his first year, Albus thought that the curse was finally over. Now that he had come to know the truth, Albus knew that it had only been Voldemort's presence that had mitigated and drowned out the effects of whatever curse the man had indeed placed upon the position.

Still, Dumbledore could not deny that Quirrell – Voldemort? He wondered. Just who had been in charge in whatever complicated arrangement they had… – had been an excellent teacher. In the past three years, students' marks in DADA had risen higher than they'd ever been, O.W.L. and N.E.W.T score average were well above the previous years' result, and students seemed to actually like their professor despite his almost-debilitating stammer.

As he passed a giggling gaggle of 5th Year girls, he waved a little at them, making them giggle even harder and wave back. He smiled a little as he heard them talk about his bright purple robes.

The students were aware – or at least had the most basic of details – of what had happened, and Albus suspected that young Mister Potter's life would only become more complicated as time went on, and that his fame would only grow much to Albus' discontentment; the boy had been through enough, he should be able to have a normal childhood, but Tom clearly had no ideas of leaving everyone and everything well and truly alone.

Albus had always known, with a conviction he could not explain, that Tom was out there alive, gathering strength and allies. Albus had known that the war had never truly ended and that it had merely been postponed. Albus knew that the war that had taken so many lifes in its first round, was right around the corner again, and that there was still so much to be done, no matter how he had prepared in the last decade.

As Albus rounded the corner of the corridor that gave way to his office and found himself face-to-face with a little Slytherin boy, his silver-and-green tie and black robes perfectly pressed and perfectly donned, and his white-blond hair styled with gel and pushed back, giving the eleven-year-old a look not entirely dissimilar to Malfoys of old, although, Albus could not deny a certain hint of Black emanating off of him.

"Headmaster."

The boy spoke and as always Albus internally flinched at the fake tone emanating from the Pureblood boy. This is the problem with Purebloods, Albus thought, this inherited fakeness that they can't seem shake off, that they can't seem to mask and always leaves me just this side of uncomfortable. Albus was of the opinion that no child ought to sound like that, and yet, Draco Malfoy seemed to impersonate his ilk just fine.

But no matter how well his parents had trained their boy to be the perfect heir to Pureblood society, he was still a child and Albus could clearly see into the grey-ish blue eyes of the boy and know why exactly the young Malfoy had gotten up so early today to stand in front of his office.

"He is fine, Mister Malfoy." Dumbledore allowed the young boy the news he so clearly craves. The rivalry between Harry and the young Malfoy heir was unquestionably the highlight of the year for many students and even some teachers. And even the boys themselves had evolved due to the rivalry.

Dumbledore smiled as he watched little Draco Malfoy lift his chin arrogantly in a gesture the Headmaster could identify as being entirely born out of Narcissa Malfoy's own almost unbearably large ego. The tone that the blond boy then used, however, was entirely Malfoy, "It's not like I cared, Headmaster. Potter could be kicked out for all I care." The boy snarls in an impressive simile of his father.

Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes were firmly in place when he nodded at the boy, "I am sure, Mister Malfoy." He assured the boy. Next with a small smile on his thin lips, he added, "And happy birthday, my boy."

"Thank you." Is the automatic answer that Draco, raised from birth to be the perfect scion of Pureblood society, gave. Then the boy scowled then as what Dumbledore said fully hit him, and here Albus is reminded of a young Sirius Black, "And I'm not your boy."

"Of course not." Albus easily acquiesced and watched Draco Malfoy narrow his eyes at the blatant pandering the Albus gave him. "Now, I'm sure your friends are looking for you, Mister Malfoy, and you wouldn't want to be late to breakfast, would you? The pumpkin tart is disappearing rather quickly these days."

Draco eyes remained narrow in distaste at his dismissal but soon enough the boy was moving towards the entrance that gave way to the Great Hall, a sure spring in his step as the news of Harry Potter's sure recovery seemed to manifest unconsciously within the boy.

Albus Dumbledore turned up his thin lips, his blue eyes twinkling in unison with his smile as the something seemed slide into place as an idea regarding the young Mister Malfoy and Mister Potter formed in his mind. Albus wondered exactly how all of this was going to end.

With a sigh, Albus turned to face the entrance to his office. With his luck, Minerva was already there, an entirely earned disapproving scowl on her face as she waited for him to arrive, so she could throw her aggrievances in his face. With a last deep breath, Albus Dumbledore passed the threshold to the passageway that led to his office.

It was time to face the music.

Minerva made sure to cross her arms in a disproving gesture when she heard the door to the Headmaster's office open. She took in the bright purple robed wizard, who was one of the most powerful wizards of their – and probably any – time. She took in his despondent blue eyes, the tiredness in his step and his hunched figure as if the very world hung on his shoulders. Touched by the man's humbleness in face of his mistakes, Minerva relaxed her stance a little, there was nothing she could say that he hadn't said to himself already.

"Come," She sighed and gestured towards the desk where a tea set waited for them, "I've made tea."

Albus nodded, and Minerva could detect a hint of gratefulness in his eyes. With a heavy step that Minerva knew he'd ever seldomly show to anyone, Albus walked over to his desk and instead of sitting himself in his chair, sitting opposite to Minerva, he chose to sit himself on the visitors side of the desk. Minerva, sat beside him, not a word exchanged between them.

The set poured itself into the white cups, with a little help from her magic. Silence reigned as the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress shared a cup of tea, each reflecting on the poor year they'd had. Then, after their second cup was empty and the teapot was well below being half-full, Albus spoke, stroking his long white beard as he did so, his blue lost in thought as he shared what was on his mind.

"I have an idea."

That tone. Minerva shudders at it, she knew that tone all too well. It usually meant trouble. Like the time he had roped her into being the Head of House of the most impulsive, brash young people to ever grace the corridors of this school. Or the time he had challenged her for a little bet which had ended up with her knee deep in a pool of mud and him standing over her looking as pristine as always – even if in slightly psychedelic colours – looking at her with a somewhat sorrowful – and fake, very fake, she could tell – look in his eyes. Or the time he…

Minerva sighed.

Yes, that tone meant trouble. Trouble for her, specifically.

Dumbledore, unaware or most likely too-amused to comment on her inner struggles, elaborated on his brilliant idea. "You and I both know that Voldemort-…" At her wince, Dumbledore arched an eyebrow, which she waved away much to his amusement, "…-that Tom claims to have cursed the entire position of DADA professor." Minerva nodded, and waited for him to continue, which he did in an almost apologetic tone, "I was thinking; there is someone who is familiar with his curses and who can usually get out of them pretty easily…"

"Oh, no." Minerva, epiphany clear in her sea-green eyes, gasped in near-horror.

"…Well, I'm sure you remember…"

"Oh, no." Minerva repeated.

"…I think we should really go for her…"

"Absolutely not!" She finally snapped. "Albus, for Merlin's sake! She's a … She's a… I don't even know what she is!" Minerva's famous Gryffindor temper flared, her eyes flashed with fiery anger. "She is the wrong choice for these students!"

"She's the only one that has a fighting chance against the curse, Minerva. These students need consistence, need someone who knows the war, someone who fought it and understands the consequences and…" Dumbledore sighed, "…as much as it pains me to admit, someone who understands both sides. Both light and dark."

Minerva rolled her eyes at him, "And which side is she on, Albus?" Minerva persisted, "She might have fought for the Order, but she was never truly with us." She reminded him. "She believes in what he's doing, she just doesn't like how he's doing it. How can we trust her, Albus?"

"We can't. And you're right, I don't know which side she's on." Dumbledore admitted. And then with a soft voice, "I don't think she even knows what side she's on."

Minerva sighed, defeated. Dumbledore's mind was set, and when his mind was set there was nothing and no one who could dissuade him. She leaned back in her chair and turned her face to pinch the bridge of her nose as he whispered the words that would define generations to come.

"So it is decided," Dumbledore spoke, resolute, "Bellatrix Black will be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."