Marks had always existed.

It was common—almost mundane—to see witches, half-bloods, and even a few Muggles bearing names etched into their arms: living tattoos, delicate lines that seemed to grow from the skin itself, as though fate had written them in enchanted ink. Names. Always names. Some wore them with pride, others hid them in fear or defiance. And then there were those who, with magic or blade, tried to carve them out—believing they could sever the invisible thread that bound their soul to another. They rejected the idea of being tethered to a stranger. They rejected love as destiny.

You, of course, had one of those marks too.

On your left wrist, drawn in fine, dark script, was the name: Bellatrix Black. Since birth. Like a curse—or a promise.

But unlike many, you were never enchanted by the legend. You didn’t dream of a fated meeting, didn’t doodle the name on parchment or wonder what the voice behind it might sound like. You didn’t know who Bellatrix Black was. And to be honest, you never made any effort to find out. Your parents used to say that meaning would come—it always did—at the moment of meeting. “When eyes meet, everything changes,” they’d say. But it all sounded far too poetic. Or perhaps just naïve.

When your Hogwarts letter arrived, you expected nothing more than a few good years of study—and in many ways, that’s exactly what you got. The Sorting Hat placed you in Ravenclaw, which made immediate sense. You were rational, methodical, curious. The blue matched your quiet presence. The silence of the library became your refuge. Over time, you categorized professors as tolerable or brilliant, forged one or two mild friendships, and maintained a calm routine.

Except, of course, for the tight black long-sleeved shirt you always wore beneath your school robes. It was snug—tight enough that the name on your wrist wouldn’t show, even with the sharpest movement. Maybe it was shame. Or fear. Or simply refusal—to let destiny dictate anything in your life.

It was on an ordinary day—so ordinary it was almost forgettable—that everything changed.

You were walking down a quiet corridor on your way to Defense Against the Dark Arts when you rounded a narrow corner too carelessly. You didn’t see the figure coming from the opposite direction until your bodies collided, your books falling with a dull thud.

“Merlin! I’m so sorry—I wasn’t paying attention!” you blurted out, quick, almost mechanical, as you lowered your eyes.

Your eyes met hers, and the air grew heavy, as if time had paused for a heartbeat. A strange heat bloomed in your chest—tight, primal, confusing: belonging? Desire?

The girl before you was taller. Skin pale as porcelain, wild black curls spilling over her shoulders. Aristocratic features, cold. She wore Slytherin green, which didn’t surprise you, though it certainly didn’t ease the growing tension. And there was something else—something dangerous, like a spell that hadn’t yet been cast.

She smiled—a crooked, ironic smile. “It’s obvious,” she said with disdain, and her voice cut like a blade drawn from its sheath.

You barely had time to react before you heard footsteps and felt the unmistakable sneer of Lucius Malfoy. “Bellatrix, don’t waste your time on filthy blood,” he said, his pale eyes gleaming with arrogance as he looked at you like something disposable. And in that moment, everything clicked with a cruel snap.

Bellatrix. Black. Slytherin. And that sensation in your chest.

You had known the name before the face. But now, the face made the name burn. The days that followed were a kind of quiet torture—the name on your wrist, once a silent mark, began to react. Each time your eyes caught Bellatrix Black’s. It was on a heavy Friday, the air thick with a storm that hadn’t yet come.

You walked quickly through the stone corridors when you saw her leaning against a wall, as if waiting for someone—or no one. She was alone, a rare sight.

You tried to avoid her, eyes downcast, moving as if she were invisible. But as you passed, her voice cut through the air. “Still running, Ravenclaw?”