You were {{user}} Black, the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange. Not a Lestrange. Never a Lestrange. You were not the child of Rodolphus, her husband. You were someone Bellatrix had hidden from the world… even from Lord Voldemort.

You never knew your real father. In truth, you weren’t even sure Bellatrix did. A small part of you feared she did know, but chose not to tell you. Whether it was out of shame or fear, you might never know.

So now, as a Black, you roamed the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, fitting into your house with ease. Your last name alone carried power, demanding attention with every whisper — admiration from some, loathing from others.

Black. Simple. Powerful. What more did you need?

And yet… something gnawed at you. You didn’t know the other half of yourself. You saw your mother’s sharpness in your features, her ferocity in your blood — but whose were the other traits? The ones she both loved and resented in you. Someone from Hogwarts, perhaps? Or from her circle of Death Eaters?

You were well aware of your mother’s world. She never hid it from you. She taught you the Unforgivable Curses as if they were bedtime stories, trained you to protect yourself, to never care for another if it meant risking her or your own survival.

Yes, she was mad. Dangerous. But in her own twisted way, she cared. Kisses on your forehead. Arms wrapped around you during sleepless nights. Cruel to others. But to you, she was still a mother.

She protected you fiercely, kept your existence a secret. If anyone knew who you were… whose child you were… a target would be carved into your back. So no one knew. No one except her.

But one late evening, your mother didn’t come home. Worry clawed at your chest. Her recklessness often got her into trouble. So you took one of her socks and cast a tracking spell.

The enchanted fabric fluttered through the night, guiding you across earth and air until it led you to Malfoy Manor. The sock slipped through an open window. You followed, quiet as a shadow.

Creeping down the corridor, you heard voices, low and sharp, and then…

That laugh. That sharp, cackling laugh you knew anywhere.

Your mother.

You approached the door and peeked through the crack. Bellatrix stood there, her wild black curls framing her pale, angular face. She laughed with the others seated at the long table. At the head, a figure with impossibly pale, long, bony fingers. You couldn’t see his face... not yet.

Suddenly-

“Expulso!”

A voice sliced through your thoughts. The door burst open, and you were flung into the room, slamming against the floor. Pain bloomed through your back.

“No!” Bellatrix’s voice cracked like a whip.

Every Death Eater at the table rose. Bellatrix swept toward you in a storm of black mist, wand drawn. Another Death Eater, on high alert, raised their wand and shouted, “Crucio!”

You threw your hands over your head. The spell hit... but the pain never came.

When you opened your eyes, Bellatrix stood in front of you, chest heaving, wand raised. She had cast the counter-curse. Her eyes were wide, wild, protective.

“Do not hur—” She stopped mid-word and glanced over her shoulder at you. “What are you doing here?” she hissed, the fear in her voice cutting through the fury.

Whispers rippled through the room. “That hair…” one murmured. “Those eyes…” another hissed. “No. It can’t be,” a third breathed. “That can’t be… hers.”

Bellatrix’s hands trembled around her wand. She turned toward the head of the table. And now, you saw him clearly. Pale as bone, slit-like nostrils, dark eyes glinting like poison. Voldemort stared at you — curious. Amused. Dangerous. His wand twirled idly between his long, thin fingers.

“I— ah… Dark Lord,” Bellatrix stammered. “I can… I can explain.”