Bellatrix Lestrange, Memory, 1975/1976
Name: Bellatrix Lestrange
Date: Late 1975 to early 1976?
Format: Memory
Relevance: Shreds of Bella's worst memory, presented to her Aunt Walburga. Due to trauma, the memory was retrieved as one incoherent mass but it can be deduced that it relates to a period of at least several weeks.
Bellatrix is sitting in a chair, with her father sitting on one side of her and her mother on the other. A man sits behind his desk, speaking to them, his expression full of concern. Bellatrix watches the hands of the clock jump on and on and on. People look through the coach window so she sinks down in her seat, the curve of her very pregnant body making it awkward. Her mother raps her on the shoulder with her fan. "Sit up straight." The house elves don't meet her eye as she sits on the end of her bed, watching them pack clothes into suitcases. An owl flutters over the rooftops. Her father takes her hand, crushing her fingers within his until her skin is white. "Don't you dare cry, Bella. Don't you dare." The little chalets are pretty but Bellatrix tugs her shawl closer about herself, following after the woman. The room is small and bare, but comfortable. Half-undressed and alone, she lays a hand on her stomach and stares out at the looming mountains, and the chimney. She reads and ignores the others. She scratches at blank parchment with her quill, breaking the point with a sharp crack. She lifts a spoonful of soup and pours it back into the bowl. She lies awake in the bed, watching the mountains. She drags the brush through her long black hair and lifts the weight of it in both hands, knotting it at the back of her head, sticking in pins to hold it. She unknots her hair and smoothes it over her shoulders. It's not quite dawn when they come for her, hushing her and helping her from her bed. It's quiet and she doesn't raise her voice when she answers their questions. "Don't bring them," she says. The potion is pale blue and she empties the glass dutifully, handing the glass back and not seeming to notice as it almost tumbles to the floor before it is caught. She twitches as the hem of her white robe slides up her thighs. She turns her face away as her legs are spread. The ceiling is soft mint green and not far above her head. "Push now, Bella. Gently." "Mrs Lestrange." Her voice is slurred. "You will call me Mrs Lestrange." Everything is silence. Their shadows move across the wall, passing it from one to the other and then out of the room. Don't you dare cry, Bella. She curls up on her bed, back to the wall, and lights a cigarette with a trembling hand. The door is shut, but the window is open and the spark flickers in the alpine breeze. She stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The house elves won't meet her eye.
Date: Late 1975 to early 1976?
Format: Memory
Relevance: Shreds of Bella's worst memory, presented to her Aunt Walburga. Due to trauma, the memory was retrieved as one incoherent mass but it can be deduced that it relates to a period of at least several weeks.
Bellatrix is sitting in a chair, with her father sitting on one side of her and her mother on the other. A man sits behind his desk, speaking to them, his expression full of concern. Bellatrix watches the hands of the clock jump on and on and on. People look through the coach window so she sinks down in her seat, the curve of her very pregnant body making it awkward. Her mother raps her on the shoulder with her fan. "Sit up straight." The house elves don't meet her eye as she sits on the end of her bed, watching them pack clothes into suitcases. An owl flutters over the rooftops. Her father takes her hand, crushing her fingers within his until her skin is white. "Don't you dare cry, Bella. Don't you dare." The little chalets are pretty but Bellatrix tugs her shawl closer about herself, following after the woman. The room is small and bare, but comfortable. Half-undressed and alone, she lays a hand on her stomach and stares out at the looming mountains, and the chimney. She reads and ignores the others. She scratches at blank parchment with her quill, breaking the point with a sharp crack. She lifts a spoonful of soup and pours it back into the bowl. She lies awake in the bed, watching the mountains. She drags the brush through her long black hair and lifts the weight of it in both hands, knotting it at the back of her head, sticking in pins to hold it. She unknots her hair and smoothes it over her shoulders. It's not quite dawn when they come for her, hushing her and helping her from her bed. It's quiet and she doesn't raise her voice when she answers their questions. "Don't bring them," she says. The potion is pale blue and she empties the glass dutifully, handing the glass back and not seeming to notice as it almost tumbles to the floor before it is caught. She twitches as the hem of her white robe slides up her thighs. She turns her face away as her legs are spread. The ceiling is soft mint green and not far above her head. "Push now, Bella. Gently." "Mrs Lestrange." Her voice is slurred. "You will call me Mrs Lestrange." Everything is silence. Their shadows move across the wall, passing it from one to the other and then out of the room. Don't you dare cry, Bella. She curls up on her bed, back to the wall, and lights a cigarette with a trembling hand. The door is shut, but the window is open and the spark flickers in the alpine breeze. She stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The house elves won't meet her eye.