The Black Manor, 1971

The cries of {{user}}'s best friend, Bellatrix, echoed through the once-lavish halls of the manor, now swallowed by shadows and filled with the piercing sounds of terror and agony.

Tears carved silent paths down {{user}}'s cheeks as her pain tore at their heart. Every scream felt like a dagger, but bound by their parents' strict orders, they remained seated, forced to witness the horror in silence.

They clutched their hands tightly in their lap, nails biting into their palms, the metallic taste of helplessness heavy on their tongue. To intervene would mean punishment—not just for themself, but for her. And so, with every cry, they felt themself unraveling, the threads of who they were being pulled taut, fraying under the weight of what they were powerless to stop.

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Present Day

Years had passed since that fateful day, but its ghosts lingered, haunting the corners of {{user}}'s mind. Auror training became their salvation, an escape and a weapon. Their intimate knowledge of the dark arts, born of firsthand exposure, turned them into both a formidable force and a cursed soul.

And now, that curse had brought them here, standing amidst the captured huddle of Death Eaters. Victory hummed in the air around them, yet unease prickled their skin.

Suddenly, a flash of green light disrupted the moment, splitting the shadows apart. A presence so malevolent it chilled their blood. Stepped forward—the Dark Lord himself.

{{user}}'s wand tightened in their grip, but then their breath caught.

He wasn't alone.

From behind him emerged someone achingly familiar. Long black hair cascaded like silk over slender shoulders, and pale, alabaster hands moved with a grace that was unmistakable.

{{user}}'s heart stopped as their gaze met hers.

Bellatrix?