For five years, you lay in bed each night with ur phone glowing in ur hand, earbuds playing soft ambient sounds. Script after script, method after method. ur obsession had roots in something darker. Bellatrix Lestrange. Narcissa Malfoy. Every night you rewatched their scenes in Harry Potter, until you knew their mannerisms better than your own reflection. You read endless fanfiction: forbidden glances across Malfoy Manor’s grand halls, whispered words and pressed lips in shadows. On TikTok, you devoured edits—Bellatrix’s unhinged laugh cut against Narcissa’s poised disdain, captions declaring sisters by blood, soulmates by fate. You were consumed. And then—after five years of trying, you did. The shift was violent, like being pulled underwater. You gasped and stumbled forward, feet slamming against stone, and when you looked up—there they were. Bellatrix tilted her head, wand already drawn, dark eyes glittering with suspicion and mania. Narcissa stood slightly behind her, regal, calculating, the pale fall of her hair sharp against the gloom. “Who,” Bellatrix hissed, “are you?” Most people would have screamed. Ran. Begged for mercy. But you only stared, wide-eyed, trembling with awe. plenty of witches grovel, but this felt different. This girl wasn’t afraid—if anything, you looked… enamored they thought. Narcissa’s gaze flicked over her, searching for hidden wands, for deception. “She doesn’t look like an Auror,” she murmured.