Tales of the Warrior-Star

Tales of The Warrior-Star

by cennet

Only a few hours remained until they would reach the island; only a few hours until it would be 1982. The year would pass while they were still on the ocean, crossing the North Sea.

Barty did his best not to pass out in front of his friends, convinced they would not lend him their support. The guards might do so perhaps, but that shame would be more than Barty could bear. He felt ill and feverish. Unlike the other three who were with him, he had never set foot in Azkaban, though he had an idea of what it might be like after a week of imprisonment in the Ministry of Magic. Barty did not wonder about his chances of living to see the Dark Lord return - he wondered about his chances of living.

A sharp pain struck his head when he tried to meet the gaze that was pointed at him.

Her hand felt like ice as it touched his burning forehead. Barty could not help his shoulders crumbling a little as he leaned into her touch, before he lifted his head and let his eyes search hers through the dirty, matted strains of his hair.

The sun, a crimson fireball in the silver evening sky, sank behind her to the sea. Silhouetted by the waning red light, her features were shadowy under the black hood of her robe. Yet, he could see her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, high cheekbones, and her soft, sensitive mouth. Though it was hard to imagine such finely shaped lips uttering harsh words and curses, it had been done countless times. How many times had he witnessed such horrors, present at her side as he was now?

"Forgive me," he whispered, breaking the silence with the first words any of them had uttered since they had left the Ministry. "I am weak."

She searched him with her fathomless eyes, looking for something Barty was not sure if she would find. Only four years his senior, she had been his first teacher in the Dark Arts. Barty had long since given up on trying to understand how Bellatrix could be so strong, so superior to so many who were much older than herself. He remembered sensing the horror the judges beheld her with - she was young enough to be their own daughter, many of them had known her since she was a little girl. Or they had known at least her family, witnessed her social success from afar, seen her wedding photograph in the Daily Prohphet.

But she had left it all behind, Barty had no doubt about it. Now only pain awaited them. But then, pain was something she knew a lot about.

~*~

"Don't be afraid," I said, trembling myself, though not with fear, but with strain and a fierce determination at the thought of what lay before me. They were hammering against the door when I took Barty by the hand and led him to the fireplace at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Even now, the thought that they had the nerve to arrest us there fills me with anger. Not even twenty-four hours had passed since my cousin Sirius had been sent straight to Azkaban without a trial for murdering twelve people and committing high treason. Now, it was our turn.

It was laughable, I thought - ironic, though bitterly serious. It was because of my cousin we were bothered. He was the white sheep in a family of black ones - a well-respected family of black sheep...the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Barty stood tall at my side. Cold and numb, his fingers lay intertwined with mine; his face was so pale that his freckles became more prominent. In his eyes, I found the very same fervent glow that shined so like my own, as he leaned down to me. "I'm not afraid," he spoke quietly. "I want to fight."

"And fight you will," I promised him, and I meant it. We depended on Barty then like we never had before. He was our youngest ally, untouchable because of his closeness to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I knew he was up to the task though, as it was I who had instructed him.

"Soon," I assured him. "Very soon I will be back here with you. We won't give Him up for lost. We will find Him."

"We will stand at His side when He returns," Barty replied.

I stood on tiptoes, kissing him softly on the forehead, remembering the time I had done so in a more impulsive moment. That was in my seventh year at Hogwarts, when Barty had managed to win the Snitch and the Quidditch Cup for my team. We ran the last few meters that separated us on the Pitch, and as we lifted him up in victory, only I could quietly hear him say, "Captain, my captain." He had whispered those words with a smile, and I had kissed his forehead as most of the students on the Pitch and in the stands chanted his name.

Two years after my graduation, my Lord sent me to Barty. He was only fifteen then, but it was already easy to see that he would become a great wizard. The Dark Lord was most interested in Barty's skills in Arithmancy, as he had broken a school record in the subject long held by another student named Tom Riddle. My Lord was fascinated, but we both learned, after my training and the Dark Lord's direction, that numbers were not the only things the boy could master.

The evening before his seventeenth birthday, I led Barty to our circle and he received the Dark Mark from our master's own hand. When the Mark was burned into his skin, I could see his face and tell he was scared to death. Yet, no cry escaped his lips, and he did not reveal the least bit of uncertainty.

At times, it was difficult to tell who was more proud of Barty, the Dark Lord or I..

One week later, the Ministry authorized the use of Unforgivable Curses against suspects. From time to time, my protégé spoke of his father, the other Barty Crouch, who was at the head of those who authorized using Unforgivable Curses. The only indication of the natural affection between child and parent was the bitterness, which crept in his voice when he spoke of the man whose name he had to bear and in whose life he played such a secondary role.

"Is that the reason?" I asked him the night we had rid ourselves of the Bones family. We stood in the garden of Number Twelve, where the birds already sang, watching the clouds in the eastern sky redden. "Is that why you joined Him? Because He can understand what you went through?"

"I only wish to serve Him. I'm certainly not going to compare myself with Him. I serve Him because His power and knowledge are more real than anything else in this world. And what about you?" he asked provokingly.

"Why do I serve Him?" I asked. "Because I want to know - all there is to know." I laughed at him. "And not because being your mentor is such a thrill."

So, neither of us had lied and yet we hadn't named the most important reason we shared with so many of His followers. He was the master of the fatherless children - Barty's, Florence's, Severus's, and mine. My father had died when I was only thirteen.

When He fell, we were orphans.

Nevertheless I felt that, deep in his heart, Barty had not believed until the very end that his father would leave him to the dementors. I can't be sure, how much of his performance at our trial was heartfelt and how much wasn't. He had most likely meant what he had said.

I couldn't believe it either, until I saw it with my own eyes. Of course this would have made no difference at all - I would have demanded Barty's loyalty anyway. Yet it would have been moving to witness his father disowning him--if there would have been anything left in me to be moved.

"Justice must be satisfied," the unshakeable Crouch said to me when I was sitting in front of him two days after my arrest. The Longbottoms had been taken to St. Mungo's to the department for spell damage. But I wouldn't be there, doing my duty and making the first tests as I had done with so many others during the war. And my colleagues would never know how much of our patients I had put in their state myself.

"Justice?" I repeated, enjoying myself quite well. "Whose? For whom?"

"You have offended against every law of wizarding society. You were a Death Eater. You tortured and you killed."

"Unlike whom?" I asked straightaway. I know he understood me perfectly well. A so-called guardian of the law, who doesn't back away from using the criminals' methods, has no right to feel superior to them. No greater difference lay between the two of us, than existed between his son and me. He hates the two of us all the more.

~*~

Azkaban was called the Grey Fortress and not without reason - grey stone rose under a grey sky, surrounded by the grey sea. By the time they had been allowed to leave, Rabastan had forgotten about colours, as he would forget as soon as he passed the gate again.

The nights were usually grey as well; however, this night offered a deep black, starry sky when the sun had set. No moon could be seen, as only the starlight fell across the shores of the island, making the sight bearable for these last minutes when they were still fellows, friends, brothers, and lovers. The boat in which the convicts had been transported, had docked in a small bay, from where a narrow path led up to the fortress. They were waiting on a small platform in front of the main entrance while Amelia Bones went through all the formalities. The paralysing terror inside was not perceptible yet.

Rabastan felt calm, very much more so than he had thought possible. The last weeks had been spent that way - in simple, icy determination that he knew would endure, for however long it might take.

His eyes darted to the two people he loved most in the world. Rodolphus lifted his bound hands over his wife's head, his arms surrounding her. Bellatrix mirrored the gesture and buried her face on his shoulder for along moment, before lifting her head up to him. Rabastan imagined how their mingled breath would warm their faces in the cold night air, and he could almost feel a breeze of it.

~*~

Kreacher had left the window open and now all my Potions papers were gone with the wind. Without a wand, but hopping mad and therefore insensitive to the cold permeating my nightdress, I climbed out of the window and went hunting for my intellectual wealth outside. The storm and I raged through the gardens of Number Twelve, when I saw my last missing paper flying into the fountain. In one leap I sprang after it and seized it, gasping for breath when the icy water touched my feet. Heading back for the house, my mind on torturing the good-for-nothing house-elf, I caught sight of Rodolphus Lestrange. He was slightly smiling and obviously absorbed by my unusual appearance. Arms crossed I tried to regain my composure and keep myself from laughing out loud. A strange thought struck me--since when did it matter to me what my school-friend Rodolphus thought of me running through the gardens in a nightdress? For seven years we had been learning, playing, fighting and training in the Dark Arts in Slytherin House at Hogwarts.

It was then that it struck me for the first time that he was a male. And although he never said so, I instinctively knew, that he had been waiting for something like this to happen.

Rodolphus and I were married when he returned from France, two years after graduation, and I became Bellatrix Lestrange - healer at St. Mungo's, specialising in magical injuries of the brain, wife of a wealthy pureblood, a leading light of wizarding society, and a pupil of the most powerful Dark Wizard of all times. I was a walking contradiction in terms. When I got pregnant, I kept it to myself - not exactly happy, not exactly unhappy about it. That's life, I thought - you get married then you have children. I tend to blame my indifference for what happened.

The Dark Lord and I shared a bond, though I did not realize how strong is was until the night I lost the child. In the haze of pain and desperation there was only one thought I was capable of: My Lord had come for me. He had sensed my pain, and he took me away from the blood-soaked bed and my husband's accusing eyes. He healed me from my injury and from my loss. Getting as close to him as I never had before - or anyone else for that matter - I estranged from my sister who wanted to look after me but was prevented from doing so by her pregnancy.

There were days and nights when I would have sworn without hesitation that my Lord and I were the last living beings on earth. Here and now, every once in a while it occurs to me that this might be my very own motivation for torturing the Longbottoms in my search for him: I wanted to lay my head down in his lap, look up to him and listen to his voice as I did in that February night when he carried me in his arms away from my agony.

I recovered, took my place in the Death Eaters' circle, back at my husband's side though he could not forgive me. These were the silent times when we talked rarely, even during the meetings. One night I woke up with Rodolphus lying on me. I tried to push him away, swinging at him, hitting him. It was a silent, grim fight, and I lost. "I hate you!" I screamed. "I'm in love with Sirius! Do you hear that - with Sirius!" He hit me in the face. And I hit back, fist clenched.

Hard to believe, but things were sorted out after that. We talked, we stood side by side at the meetings, he straightened my chair at the ministry banquets, and at one point we went to bed together, strangely sober. He asked the inevitable question, if I had meant what I had said that night. I told him the inevitable truth that nothing had ever happened between Sirius and myself. He believed me, and the subject didn't come up again until the end.

Rodolphus was with me that Halloween Night, when our world died a sudden, violent death. He was with me, when they slammed against the door of the house of my fathers and arrested us because of our relationship to Sirius. He was by my side when Frank Longbottom set us free with a simple "no offence!" and also when he and his wife cracked under the shear force of our focused curses.

It will take more than Azkaban to tear us apart, much more.

~*~

Sirius, the Dog Star, is the brightest star in the nightly firmament. The convict in the west tower didn't feel the icy night air on his skin when he turned his face towards the subdued silver light. It had been a long time since he had been able to differentiate between heat and cold. Time increasingly lost its significance.

The inmates of Azkaban slept a lot. Fighting the terrors lurking in their own minds was too exhausting while being awake. The convict in the west tower was no exception. For some time, the few hours he spent awake fell at night, when he would sit under his cell's open window, eyes fixed on the star he had been named after. Ages ago he had known them all - every celestial body recognisable with the naked eye, because he had been taught them when he was a young boy.

Now only he alone was left. The world fit in one sentence. I'm the brightest star in the sky and I'm not to die in this place. Like a faraway echo of this thought, at the edge of his conscious stirred a new perception that didn't belong there. One word flew up to him in his cell, penetrating his mind like the sound of a musical instrument, whose name he had forgotten.

"Wait!" He knew who had spoken, even if he wouldn't have recognized his best friend stepping into his cell right now. As typical for this place, all that came to his mind was the drawling voice of a black-eyed pest in a frame, saying: "I know what's the matter, young Sirius. It's your blood that calls you." Even if he had refused to believe in the old families' blood magic, he had witnessed it more than once in the past. And what other explanation could there be for the heavens suddenly to house two stars where all the past weeks only one had been?

In this place, saving your blood-traitorous face didn't matter anymore.

"Ah," the strange sound of Sirius Black's voice echoed softly in the dark cell. "Housing under the same roof again after all this time, are we?"

~*~

I positively loathed being taken by the hand, but when my Uncle Alphard found me completely exhausted and at war with the entire family at the foot of the stairs to the west wing, he could only murmur, "Well, well." He captured my hand, guiding me up under the domed roof, past the astrolabium, to his telescope and the huge, padded armchair in front of it, where my cousin Sirius sat up and eyed me curiously when we arrived.

The Seven Sisters... It must have been the half of the year when Sirius and I would not be the same age. I guess I must have been five and he six. Andromeda must have been eleven and Narcissa eight - my seniors but not that much to excuse the outrageous injustice of them being allowed to join our parents at the Rosiers' party, while I had to stay at Grimmauld Place.

The constellation Orion... Rigel, Beteigeuze, Bellatrix...

My star. "Your name means female warrior," Uncle Alphard explained, softly pushing a single hair back from my hot cheek. He was sitting on his armchair, and I rested on his thigh, while Sirius sat on the armrest. "Yes, Bellatrix is a part of Orion. Your father loves you so much that he wanted you to be with him in the sky as well." Exactly now I didn't want to hear about this. I was the female warrior, and hated my father with a passion.

Sirius leaned in to us. "How far away are they?"

"Bellatrix is about 243 light-years away, and Sirius about 9 light-years."

"Light-years," I repeated. It stirred something in my five-year-old memory; I hadn't been born to just any family after all.

"Light-years means, it takes this star's light that many years to reach us here on earth. Meanwhile anything could have happened to the star. It might have become a supernova. So there would be no star any more, only we could see it still or rather its light which reaches us only now."

Sirius and I exchanged a look. We didn't like the idea that our namesakes might be dead and gone at all. "That's horrible," my cousin stated in a tight voice.

"Not at all," Uncle Alphard smiled, pulling us closer and putting an arm around each of us. "You have to understand that we wouldn't even exist without supernovae. Our planet is built up of the remains of exploded stars. Everything existing on earth comes from a supernova--even the air we breathe. Can you imagine that, little Bellatrix?"

I nodded. "Stars had to die, so we can live."

After all this time this realisation is just as touching to me as it was then.

~*~

Even now, Amelia Bones still thought that Mrs. Lestrange had to be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

Twenty-three years old since last Thursday, so it read in the ministry file Amelia had given the guardian at the entrance. The youngest of three sisters, scion of one of the eldest pureblood families of wizarding Britain, trained as a healer in St. Mungo's - she got her certificate two and a half years after her graduation from Hogwarts, in January 1979. The war had been in full swing then and the hospital had desperately needed accomplished people to work. By that time nobody could know that Bellatrix Black herself put her patients in the state they were in when they came to the department for spell damage. It would certainly take the wizarding world its time to cope with this shock.

Yet, there could be no doubt about the young woman's rotten core after her performance at the Wizengamot. Bellatrix Lestrange had not just strayed from the path of light by coincidence. He Who Must Not Be Named had been her real life - everything else was only façade.

Any other would have collapsed under her fellow wizards and witches' fury and abhorrence, but she had stood by her choice unswervingly. "Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait!"

It had been terrifying and fascinating to watch the assembled witches and wizards back away from her every unexpected movement. Their fear of the unarmed woman flanked by dementors was all too obvious.

"I want to say goodbye to my sister!" Mrs. Malfoy had cried out and an angry hissing from the crowd had been the answer. The situation had been positively dreadful, but not a word had come over Mrs. Lestrange's lips, neither then nor on their journey across the North Atlantic. She was silent still when they were taken up to the entrance of Azkaban Fortress. One by one, they were received and taken inside. The boy was first, and Rabastan Lestrange followed. Rodolphus and Bellatrix let go of each other and shared their last kiss, and then the dementors took hold of him. Just when Amelia started to doubt that they were actually dealing with a human being, the young woman revealed a stir of emotion. "Wait!"

The guard hesitated, but the cry hadn't been for her husband. Quietly she stepped back on the platform and pushed her robe's hood back. She looked up to the heavens, eyes soon fixing on one of the stars. It took Amelia a moment or two to grasp the meaning of this. The Blacks were a family of stargazers. Almost every one of their children was named after a star or a constellation. Before Amelia could remember which one of the cold, shining light-points had to be Bellatrix, Mrs. Lestrange turned around to the fortress.

Amelia didn't plan on accompanying her inside. There were things one should spare oneself if one wanted to return home in a sane state of mind. Mrs. Lestrange passed her by directly, not deigning to look at her. It seemed to Amelia that with every step she would hold up her head a bit higher, tighten her shoulders a bit more and embrace fate a bit more defiantly. Yet Amelia watched her hesitate at the threshold, holding her breath before she set her foot on the stairs.

Step. By step. By step.

~*~

Listen, Bella. I'll tell you a story.

They won't walk away from you, your shining little friends up there. In a thousand years most of them will be here still, smiling down on you every night. Isn't that a consoling thought?

No, stay.

I'm fond of watching you like this, sitting here, and leaning against me. Your hair is like a pillow of black velvet, and when you put your head back and the starlight shimmers on your skin and in your hair, you look like a little girl.

You were a little girl the day we first met. You were a little girl and I an old man. Now you're laughing.

That was the day I found out that I was still able to wonder. It was a good day. You know, you never asked me what I would have done if it hadn't been for you showing up in that exact moment.

It was a decision as wise as was the moment you chose to introduce yourself to me.

That was the first thing you let me know about yourself, using no words, only your wand. It is made of yew and phoenix feather - a different tree, a different bird, but the very same combination that is my own. The curse shot by me; before I could be sure that Moody and I were not alone on this corridor, you appeared. A job well done, you came to my aid, which of course was more surprising to me then than it is now. His leg was cut off in an incision worthy of a great healer. Pain and shock let him fall unconscious, while I curiously turned around to you. You were certainly not what I expected.

You looked at me and lowered your wand. Your face was serious, but in your eyes, smiling sparks were dancing. Without awaiting a word from me, you passed me by and bowed down to Moody to look after his injury. You wanted to make sure that by the time he was given the care of a healer, his maiming would be an unchangeable fact. You knew that those who dared to stand up against your Lord should be taught a lasting lesson.

I could read your fourteen-year-old mind as if it was my own. I saw your desire for power - power to heal and to destroy, power to do harm and to put things right again. I saw your devotion to me. I knew you thought I shouldn't be forced to lift a finger in my own defence. With you by my side, I never had to do so.

I realised at that very moment the two things I most desired: a scholar worthy to learn the Dark Arts from myself - and you, Bellatrix Black, to be that scholar. I would give you what you were searching for and receive your unwavering loyalty. You would grow up to be the first above my followers, my right hand. All the others would look up to you and I would stand there and think of you as my child that I am so proud of.

White as snow, black as ebony, red as blood. My faithful.

We'll never ever cry for us, Bella.