MISTRESS OF THE DARK LORD:

An Augury Origin Tale

Description & Disclaimer:

When Bellatrix discovers she's pregnant and can't control her emotions the way she used to, she looks to her sister for advice. No, not Narcissa. The other one.

During their lengthy, alcohol-aided conversation, estranged sisters Bellatrix and Andromeda reminisce on dark times in the Black family past, reflect on the moments they'd met the men they'd later love, discuss the dangers of pregnancy, and each question the other's loyalties… while struggling over their own.

No trigger warnings (because I don't believe in them as an author nor do I appreciate them as a reader) but if dark, disturbing themes and sexual violence bother you, or if you're under 17, you should not read – this is about the relationship between Bellatrix and Andromeda but also about the relationship between Bellatrix and Voldemort, the first in a planned short series. It's not a fluff fic.

Obviously I don't own HP or related content (I wish!). Reviews greatly appreciated! Thanks.

CHAPTER ONE:

Sick

"What's wrong with you?" asked Rodolphus, staring at his wife across the dining room table at Malfoy Manor.

He knew she wouldn't be happy to learn they were out of jam, but to cry over it? Bellatrix never cried. Over anything. He couldn't even remember her crying on their first day in Azkaban, when he and his brother had both wailed like toddlers protesting naptime while she seemed to see her sentencing and imprisonment as a source of pride, a fact not lost on the Dark Lord when He returned.

"Go to hell!" Bellatrix slammed her hand down on the table so hard the silverware rattled. "There's not a bloody thing wrong with me. What's wrong with you is that your small mind forgot to get the jam."

"Had a bit else on my mind. The Wizarding World is preparing for war – or hadn't you noticed?"

"Go to hell," she said again. "Expected to prepare for war but can't manage to remember the jam. Fat lot of good you'll be. I thought that last battle with Potter broke your leg, not your brain."

"I don't think a jar of jelly will be responsible for the demise of Potter, Bellatrix."

She glared at him, dark eyes flashing madly.

"No, but it may well factor into yours."

"Psycho, that's what you are," muttered Rodolphus, returning to his Daily Prophet and toast. Bellatrix picked up her tiny porcelain tea cup and chucked it in his general direction. He ducked and it shattered against the wall behind him, which just made her angrier.

"Fuck!"

"What's all the noise?" asked Narcissa as she entered the kitchen, looking concerned. Followed closely behind her was her husband, Lucius.

"Ask her," snapped Rodolphus. "She's gone round the bend, crying over jam."

"I don't cry!"

"Are you feeling alright?" Narcissa tried to place her hand on her sister's forehead but Bellatrix pulled away. "You weren't feeling well yesterday or the day before. Actually, you've been a bit off for the last couple of weeks. Perhaps you're coming down with something. You look paler than usual. Sickly."

"Nonsense," said Lucius. "She looks fine to me." He smiled at Bellatrix in that way he always used to – half like he was afraid of her, and half like he wanted to take her to bed – before their relationship, if it could be called that, deteriorated fully into one of mutual loathing.

Bellatrix hated that smile.

While she wasn't exactly crazy about the mess she'd married, at least she could be confident he wasn't fucking everything that moved behind her back, unlike her brother-in-law. Why Narcissa put up with him she didn't know. No, that wasn't quite true. She knew. Narcissa put up with him because he was a Malfoy, a well-respected wealthy man from a notable pureblood family, a man with whom she could enjoy both status and security (save for that nasty mishap in the Ministry last year, which led to Lucius being sent to Azkaban thanks to The-Brat-Who-Lived). Bellatrix supposed she could understand her sister's uncanny ability to entirely overlook each of Lucius' many affairs, though she would never allow herself to be disrespected in that way. It was bad enough that she allowed herself to remain with a man who could live with knowing his wife was screwing around and didn't seem a bit bothered by it.

What was wrong with him anyway?

Most men would hit the roof if they so much as suspected their wife was shacking up behind their backs, but when she first told him of her intentions to do just that, mere months after they were married in June, 1973, he said "Do what you feel you have to." That was all. "Do what you feel you have to."

And later, much later, after they'd broken free from Azkaban, once they'd brought back the Dark Lord and once it started to seem that their side would overtake Dumbledore and his Muggle-loving army, when she told Rodolphus in no uncertain terms that she intended to return to the embrace of the man with whom she'd long cuckolded him, her pathetic husband merely shrugged again and replied, "If you'd like." As if she were telling him they'd be having pasta for dinner. "If you'd like."

Not that he could've stopped her anyway. She did what she wished. She had a problem with authority figures. Always had. And no man would be stupid enough to deny the Dark Lord his requested pleasure. But if might have been nice if her husband had at least pretended to protest.

After breakfast, of which Bellatrix ate no more, she returned to the bedroom she and Rodolphus were sharing in Malfoy Manor. She had been planning to change to go out for the day, but a swirling feeling in the pit of her stomach overwhelmed her and moments later she was rushing to the toilet to throw up. Again. For the ninth time in two weeks. She was hunched over, still dry-heaving, when she felt a hand on her back. Narcissa.

Dammit, she'd forgotten to charm the door locked.

"You're not well," said Narcissa simply, rubbing her hand in comforting circles. "Should we talk about it? I know… I think I know… what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

"Bella."

"Cissy."

"You can talk to me."

"I've nothing to talk about."

"Fine." Narcissa gathered her sister's hair back away from her face and the toilet as Bellatrix dry-heaved again. Using her wand, Narcissa tied the hair back in a low ponytail with a green ribbon. The look was a bit odd on the elder sister, whose untamed black hair was as much a part of her post-Azkaban image as her heavy-lidded eyes, gaunt face, and slim frame.

"You were quite pretty when we were younger, you know," said Narcissa, who then clapped her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I was quite pretty," Bellatrix agreed, sounding… not at all like herself. Her voice wasn't harsh or sarcastic or angry, as Narcissa might have expected. On the contrary, she sounded sad. Perhaps even remorseful. "He found me very attractive, you know. Always. He told me. Back then… before… before that damn prophecy, before that dreadful baby with his wretched scar. He didn't love me, not in the way I loved Him, but it didn't matter. He desired me. Only me. Only I was ever worthy of Him in that way. He'd use others, sometimes, but that was to assert his dominance over them, to remind them of their place. With me… back then… you wouldn't know Him. It's not the same now. He still wants me on occasion. Physically, He wants me. But it's not at all the same."

"The Dark Lord?" Immediately Narcissa realized she'd said the wrong thing.

"What business is it of yours?" asked Bellatrix, her harsh voice back to normal. She stood up, flushed the toilet, and used a charm to clean out her mouth. "What right do you have to pry into my business, baby sister?"

"I'm sorry, Bella."

"You should be. Get out. Go. I need… I have a lot to do today."

"Of course." Narcissa found herself ducking her head, as if a servant bowing to her master. It made her crazy, having to act inferior to anyone, particularly her own flesh and blood, but that's the way it had always been with them, even in childhood. Bellatrix was the protector of her younger sisters, but that position came with a price, and the cost was the knowledge that they were beneath her. Though the two were close in many ways, especially after their parents cast out Andromeda, Bellatrix never hid the fact that she felt she was on a pedestal above everyone. Above her relatives, above other Slytherins, and later, above other Death Eaters, especially their wives… Everyone including her own sister. She was, after all, His chosen one. For the first ten years after she joined the Death Eaters, He avoided putting her in harm's way, but spent more time coaching and training her than He had anyone else. He taught her Occlumency, Legilimency, wandless magic, to perform the Unforgivable Curses, to conjure the Dark Mark in the sky. He taught her how to satisfy a man. How to satisfy a woman. He taught her how to do what He liked. He invested in her.

Once Narcissa was back downstairs and Bella was again alone, this time with the door locked, she started to get dressed. Suddenly, though, she felt exhausted. Physically and emotionally. She decided a teensy rest on the bed couldn't hurt. Lying on her back, staring at the ornate ceiling, she absentmindedly let her hands run over her lower belly, where, even though she couldn't see a significant change yet, she knew it was growing. Would He be pleased? She wanted to please Him. And He had suggested she be "less careful" with Him, when it came to those matters. He had additionally demanded she refrain from giving herself to her husband or anybody else until further notice, which was hardly a sacrifice, especially considering her husband had still been in Azkaban at the time. Not that it would've been difficult to abstain from sex with him even if he weren't in prison. Hell, she'd been avoiding going to bed with Rodolphus since the day they got married – and she wasn't looking for any reason to increase their intimate encounter times now, nor was she on the prowl for others.

She couldn't ask Him, but she had the distinct feeling this is what He wanted. But why? She wasn't stupid. She knew they weren't traditionally in love so it wasn't romantic. They weren't married so it wasn't her duty. It certainly wasn't to express or reveal their feelings for each other or to see what they could create together.

He wanted an heir. That had to be it.

Why now?

What happened when Dumbledore died?

That was the night everything changed. The night He changed. Not that she minded.

Dumbledore was dead.

He was pleased. More than pleased.

He was insatiable.

The way He used to be.

And she was more than willing.

But she couldn't deny something was different.

During the first war, between 1968 and 1981, He'd been abundantly clear that she was not to let this happen, not under any circumstances. Once, maybe a year before the Potter boy was born, she realized she had screwed up. She suspected she was expecting and quite frankly she wasn't sure whether it was His or her husband's, so she told Him first, and He flew into a rage. He grabbed her by her hair, threw her roughly onto the bed, and hit her several times, not with magic, but with his fists. When He finally backed away, her left eye was swollen, there were red marks along her throat, and she was bleeding from her lip and nose. Then He hit her again, this time with the strongest Cruciatus Curse she'd ever had to withstand.

When the abuse was finally over, He subsequently assured her there would be more pain to come if she didn't take care of the problem.

So she sought assistance from a trusted mediwitch.

Together, they took care of the problem.

And again He seemed pleased.

And they resumed their normal ways.

More carefully.

She was in love with Him. Of that much she was certain. And the thought of carrying His offspring inside her filled her with happiness and pride. But what if she'd read Him wrong? What if it was not at all what He wanted? What if He turned on her again, beat her like before, made her get rid of it? On the bed, still resting her hand on her abdomen, Bella's eyes filled with tears.

Fuck.

Bellatrix never cried. Not for her child, not as a child, not when Father died. Not when Mother died.

But the night her beloved Dark Lord was defeated by that scar-marked baby?

She locked herself in a room and screamed and sobbed and broke anything and everything she could. She cried not only for what could have been for the Wizarding World but for what could have been for her. Her womb had never felt more empty before, not even when that mediwitch was done with her. She was nearly certain she'd never see her Master again and had lost her only chance to carry inside her half of Him. She couldn't give up hope. Not yet. She wanted to find Him, to restore Him to health, to bring Him back, to lay with Him again. She cried because she wasn't sure whether there was any reason to have that hope. No one had ever survived the Killing Curse. No one had ever had it rebound that way. No one. So she cried until she had no tears left. Then she'd dried her eyes, changed her clothes, gathered her husband, brother-in-law, and another young Death Eater, and went out looking for revenge. Well, technically they were out looking for information, seeking any possible way to find and fix their former master, but revenge… it felt so good. Torturing the Longbottoms, it felt so good. She hit them with hexes and curses He'd taught her, a few He'd developed himself, and, of course, the Cruciatus, over and over and over. Watching them writhe in pain made her feel closer to Him.

Even when their fat-kneed baby toddled into the room, when he looked up and saw them tormenting his drooling father and dumbstruck mother, even when that one-year-old started to cry, she felt good. For a moment. She felt good for a moment, and then that empty feeling crept into her womb again and suddenly she couldn't stand his tears.

She grabbed him by his pudgy arm and yanked him roughly from the living room into the hall. Pointing her wand directly at the space between his eyes, she murmured, "Obliviate."

His expression went blank.

"Bellatrix, what the hell are you doing?" called her brother-in-law, Rabastan. "We've got to get out of here."

Baby Neville, his eyes still unfocused, reached up toward Bellatrix, fat fingers wiggling, as if she might pick him up, might comfort him in his confusion. For a wild moment, she considered it. Then, for reasons even she couldn't put into words, Bellatrix slapped baby Neville hard across the face. His blank expression dissipated, replaced by tears.

"Mama!" he wailed.

"Until we meet again," she whispered.

"Bellatrix!" She made it back to the living room, but the disapparation charms were already in place – Ministry Aurors had arrived. They were caught.

On the bed in Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix replayed this scene over and over again in her head. Wittle baby Longbottom, sniveling and wailing in the hall of his home after witnessing the torture of his parents, which he would never remember, thanks to her. Why had she done it? Why erase his memory? Why ease his pain? The charm she'd hit him with was so strong she'd have been surprised to learn he could still respond to his own name after that, but she'd done it so his last memory of his parents wouldn't be of seeing them being tortured into endless insanity. Why did she want to pick him up? Why had she slapped him? Why couldn't she stand his blank baby eyes staring up at her, almost as if dead? Her own eyes filled yet again with tears.

Damn it.

If the next seven-or-so months would be like this, she'd lose her reputation as a bloodthirsty sadist and lover of torture and be relegated to… to… to… to being nothing but a trophy wife, like her sister, stuck away from the action, existing only to provide emotional support (and occasional physical release) to the men doing the real fighting.

The notion disgusted her, as did the tears now escaping from the corners of her eyes. She was acting like such a girl! She shook her head, trying to erase the mental image, trying to wrap her brain around what to do next. She had to tell Him, of course. Him, and no one else. She hoped He would be pleased. She hoped she'd read His signals correctly. She hoped He'd still want to fuck her once He knew. She hoped He might want even more.

She'd been obsessed with Him for so long.

They'd met in a pub down on Knockturn Alley when she was barely seventeen, about to start her final year at Hogwarts. He was still handsome then (thought, quite honestly, she still found Him handsome now, despite his bald head, sallow skin, and lack of nose). He was 41 years old and as charming as He'd been back during his Slug Club days. It was 1968. He wasn't quite to the world as Lord Voldemort yet. He was quiet with His identity, despite already having left Tom Riddle behind. He was still gathering followers and gaining power, but on the sly. He'd actually been gathering followers since His own days at Hogwarts, and He was planning something big.

She was wearing a form-fitting black dress with a corset top and lace overlay bottom that had once belonged to Sirius' mother, her aunt, who gave it to her when she was finally forced to accept she'd never have a girl. He was wearing floor-length dark gray robes over a Muggle suit, which He explained by saying, "It was necessary in order to fit in around London today, on business." It was clear from His tone that He resented this.

When He first spotted her, she was sitting alone at a table, nursing a firewhiskey, which burned her throat as it went down. She rarely got any alone time at home or at Hogwarts so she was trying to enjoy it. She also rarely had any interest in alcohol but wanted to appear older than seventeen. She was reading Magick Moste Evil. He noticed that first.

No, that was a lie.

The first thing He noticed was the way the corset top clung to her thin frame and the round curve of her breasts.

He noticed her high cheekbones, dark eyes, and the white of her skin in stark contrast with her untamed curly black hair.

He noticed the way she presented herself with an air of better, as if her personal worth greatly exceeded that of everyone else in the pub, as if the others all belonged in such a dank, dusty place, while she happened to find herself there simply because there were no suitable castles nearby over which she could preside.

The last thing He noticed was her restricted reading material.

"Mind if I sit?" He smiled.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not looking for a friend," she said finally, returning to the book.

"Neither am I. I asked for a place to sit, nothing more," He said, still smiling.

In spite of herself, she smiled back. "In that case…" she gestured to the chair beside her.

They started to talk. Everyone once in awhile, He would touch her – stroke her arm, brush her hand, nudge her knee with His own – and she was surprised to find she didn't hate it.

"Magic isn't for Muggles," He'd told her during that first conversation. "And it's not for Mudbloods either."

He'd bought her a drink. Then another.

She was a virgin but not altogether inexperienced, so when He invited her up to the room He was renting above the tavern, she didn't consider saying no. She worshipped Him from that very first conversation and was obsessed with Him forever afterward. In His rented room, in His bed, He was as passionate as He'd been downstairs when talking about the race war to rid the world of Muggleborns and restore Wizards to their rightful place, above all others, but it was a rougher passion. He'd pinned her down by the wrists, bit her neck, drew blood from her lower lip, made her hurt… there… and, to her complete surprise, it felt good. She didn't know pain could feel so good. She knew inflicting it on others entertained her, excited her, but this was new.

When He was satiated and she was struggling to remember how to stand in order to dress herself, she told Him she wanted to join His cause.

"I knew you would," He said. "I knew the moment I saw you that you were going to be one of us."

One of us. She liked that.

She spent her last year at Hogwarts fantasizing about Him. She was certain they'd be married and go on to rule the Wizarding World together. They'd have a child, two perhaps, a boy and a girl, and raise them the way Wizarding families should. Their son would grow up to be His successor. Their daughter would marry a member of a notable old family, one of the Sacred 28, and make them proud.

But that didn't exactly happen. Instead, He encouraged Bellatrix to marry Rodolphus, a pureblood wizard from a noble Slytherin family... a member of the Sacred 28, but not what she wanted for herself.

He had her help him recruit the Lestranges and others to their cause. He trusted her with secrets no one else was privy to.

But He did not love her, nor did He pretend to – not in the way she wanted.

"This is precisely why He doesn't love you," she scolded herself aloud, wiping the tears from her eyes. "You're weak. You've always been weak."

Except that wasn't true. Bellatrix had never been weak. Never in the 46 years of her life leading up to this moment had she ever been weak, not even in Azkaban.

It was the baby. The damn baby was making her weak. Did all babies do this to the women who carried them? She could ask Narcissa. No. She could not ask Narcissa. Narcissa could not know. He would be angry if Narcissa knew. And Narcissa might give it away to others, to those like Snape who could use Legilimency, or to Lucius in bed at night, or to any one of the many Death Eaters who were in and out of Malfoy Manor with increasing frequency. She trusted Narcissa in many ways, but her sister's mind was an open book. So no, she could not ask Narcissa for advice.

But there was someone else she could ask.

Someone she hadn't seen or spoken to in years.

Her other sister.

Andromeda.