To Be Worthy

To Be Worthy-

The house of Bellatrix's childhood stands before her.

She has visited this place many times; it is the house she grew up in, the house that she had to flee from. 12 Grimmauld Place lies empty now; years have passed since it last felt the press of human feet on its rotting floors. The rooms have doors that were left open, they bear witness to the hasty retreat of those who suddenly found themselves in a borrowed home and she scowls at the traces of infestation they left behind.

The air smells of that old dirt of years ago, of the halfbloods who dared to live and the traitors who are all but gone now. It reeks of children, sired in bad blood, and of the darkness of the moon.

But Bellatrix does not care for this.

Her feet are loud on the stairs, and her steps are slow. She has only returned for one reason, and that is her glory. She seeks out the room that she remembers; she wanders the dusty house, peering in through the doors that lead to silence. Each step brings her closer to that which she seeks; when she finds it, she smiles, and pushes open the creaking door leading to the large family room, dubbed 'La Chambre des Noirs'- The Room of the Blacks.

She walks over the floor, leaving footprints in the shallow dust that covers the wood. The drawn curtains hang limply from their railings. She glances at them, closing her eyes and imagining the room in the harsh light of the sun of a day, a very long time ago. In her mind's eye, she can see each crack on the wall, each little place where the paint is flaking away. She can see the tapestry, looming before her on the wall, and next to it, the two parallel sets of lines, marking the rising heights of the boys who were meant to rule but now are no more than dust themselves.

When she opens them, however, Bellatrix sees nothing but the dust. Dust, dust, everywhere. A ray of sunlight filters in through a small chink in the curtains, and she watches the dust patterns as they swirl around like so many tiny fairy dancers.

She takes a deep breath. The smell of the house fills her lungs, the smell of old loyalties, of the ancient magic rituals that this place has held. The room holds the scent of youthful excitement and yes... she can sense the bitter tang of betrayal on her very tongue, so strong, especially in this room...

Her feet echo as she walks, each footstep sounding as steady and as sure as she is. She is right in front of the old tapestry; she can see each fine gold thread that runs through the old material. The names glare down at her, centuries of old Black wizards and witches all linked by the shimmering gold, all sharing the same Black blood that bubbles through her own veins.

Bellatrix smiles, reaching out for it. She runs a skeletal finger along the gold line that runs from each name, savoring the feel of each as it drops from her lips. She shivers as she speaks, her voice no more than a reverent, ecstatic whisper.

'Arachne LeNoir.'

A woman of great beauty, and great blood; her fiery French passions are legendary, and the story of her seduction of her cousin, Orion Black, is one that all the Black girls have been told.

'Nymphadora Nigellus.'

One of the most powerful witches ever. Her magic was supposedly so strong that she never needed a wand to focus her energy; she could kill someone by thinking about it.

'Adonis Black.'

A wizard who was known well for his prowess at Dark magic, and known even better for his stunning appearance. He could captivate even the strongest will with his voice, and many an unsuspecting Muggle girl was lured to her death, following after him.

'Bellatrix Meliflua.'

She smiles as she says the name, for it is one that she deems great. She has been named after this particular star of the family for a reason, and she lets her fingers wander over the letters embroidered into the tapestry as if she is trying to siphon power from them. Bellatrix Meliflua may have not had the fame her cousins were graced with, but within their small family circle, she is revered, as is a goddess. The right hand of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, she fought by him in many battles against those who sought to threaten their world... and she ruthlessly put paid to those who were found guilty of betraying their blood. It was by her hand that the great traitor Aschere fell, thus securing purity for the line of Blacks for centuries to come.

But even as she revels in the history of this woman for whom she has been named, Bellatrix frowns. Here and there, dotting the tapestry, are the ugly burn marks of the few who betrayed their family. Even these are names like the others, great names, but now she says each with disdain, with a smirk on her lips as she brushes her fingers over the charred circles. There are no letters for her to touch, no trace of the traitors, but she still knows them; their betrayal hangs heavily over her like the dust that covers everything in the room.

'Alphard Black.'

Fool. He was too softhearted to be a true Black; tainted blood ran in his veins and made him the Muggle-loving idiot that her father hated. But even that was not taken seriously enough, not until he died, and left his share of the fortune granted to him to one who was even worse a traitor than himself.

'Andromeda...'

And she cannot say the name her sister has adopted; she cannot besmirch her pure lips with even the mention of the filthy Mudblood who has polluted the Black gene pool. Bellatrix ponders the tapestry at this point, her finger resting on the scar that mars the gold line of her generation. Her own name shines out defiantly to one side; Narcissa's beauty glitters at the other but between them there is nothing save the black, charred hole.

But even the feeling of rough, burnt threads against her fingertips is enough to send her reeling as memory after memory invades her mind against her will. In the dim light, she sees a girl with long black hair, laughing, and Bellatrix scowls heavily as a man appears, unbidden, into the scene she is trying not to remember. She never allowed herself to look at him but in her memory she can clearly recall his face, the blond hair that swept into his eyes and his hand, slipping so easily into that of her sister...

The picture dissolves into dust as Bellatrix bites down heavily on her lip. The blood flows over her lower lip, small streams trickling inwards, and the sharp and coppery taste on her tongue is a welcome jolt back into reality. She takes in a deep breath to cleanse herself, shaking her head to remove any remnants of treachery that still remain.

No, Bellatrix will not even let the memory of such traitors foul her mind.

Instead, she turns to the line that is spent, tracing gold back up and down until it stops again at another scar. She is tempted to move it away, to move sharply to the side where a name sits, untouched, but there is a thrill that comes from touching the spot where the heir to the Blacks was once placed.

'And Sirius Black,' she whispers, aware that she is breathing heavily now, aware that her hand shakes and her skin is cold. The greatest traitor of them all once sat here in this room, and watched as his name was traced onto the tapestry, as royalty was etched into history, but nothing remains of him. Nothing remains, nothing at all, except a burn mark on an old tapestry in a house no one wants.

He shunned the nobility of the line, the worst crime possible against one's own blood. This time, Bellatrix is unable to stop the flood that takes over her mind; try as she might, the images come, one by one. The young boy sitting and watching as a house-elf was beheaded in the garden, trying his best not to throw up, but only succeeding in spattering vomit all over his breeches. The dark hair falls over his forehead then as he retches on the ground, his eyes wide and his whole body shuddering. Bellatrix watches him in curiosity, because her sisters clap politely in the background in appreciation of the show, but Sirius cannot handle it.

The scene swirls away and Bellatrix closes her eyes tightly to try and stop it. Useless, completely and utterly useless as she is left with nothing to focus on and the next picture is one that makes her hold her breath, for she can see him, she can see Sirius stumbling forward onto the stool at the front of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Even in her memory she feels the tension, the tautness of her muscles as she clasps her hands under the table, the bitter taste of shock deluging her mouth and traveling down into her frozen body as the old hat on his head cries 'GRYFFINDOR!' She sees his expression then, dismayed, upset, and frightened; she hears the silence that greets this announcement as it envelopes her whole being.

She struggles to breathe; the onslaught of thoughts is suffocating her, and yet, she cannot make it cease. A voice calls out of the silence and she strains to hear it, even if it is only imagined; she hears the pattering of feet as they run to her and another dark-haired boy throws open the door to a room that looks vaguely familiar. He has Sirius's handsome features, but they lie awkwardly in his face; his lips tremble and his eyes are narrowed in disgust.

'Potter and a Mudblood!' he screeches at her, his fists clenched. 'He walks around with that Muggle-loving twit, Potter! How can he do this? How? he demands insistently, and Bellatrix reaches out to the boy, still feeling the soft strands of his hair slipping through her fingers after all this time.

'Regulus,' she says, and she is only too aware of how her voice shakes in the mists of afterthought. 'Regulus... your brother has betrayed us all,' she says, and she watches as his eyes begin to water, but he does not cry because he is too proud for that. Instead, he curls his small hands into the front of her robe and holds on; Bellatrix can feel his shoulders shaking with fury as she strokes his hair.

'I will never be like him,' he vows in his small voice. 'I won't let you be ashamed of me,' he whispers, but even as she runs her fingers through his hair it dissolves, slipping from her hands like drops of mercury. The silver fades into a room, into this room, but this is another picture from her past she cannot forget; her aunt is screaming and Sirius stands in the middle of the room, his chin up, his expression defiant.

When he speaks, it is all Bellatrix can do not to let out a shriek of her own; she is aware that it is not real, that nothing she is seeing is real, but these ghosts have been suppressed for so long that she is astounded she remembers. His voice is clear and sharp; his whole body is still and hatred burns in his eyes beyond the blue.

'I've had enough of this, Mother,' he says loudly, 'so don't try to stop me.'

'You are an abomination, Sirius!' Bellatrix hears her aunt screech. 'You are an embarrassment to the name of Black, but instead of trying to mend your ways, you choose to betray your family? To deny your blood?'

Sirius raises his head and Bellatrix shudders; she sees the spark in his eyes and she knows what he is going to do but she cannot tear herself from the scene. In his right hand he wields a knife, and raising his left arm he slashes at the skin. The blood spatters on the carpet and on his robes but he simply glances at the trickles that spill over his skin and laughs.

'Yes,' he says, his voice low. 'I deny it all... I deny you all. I deny my blood, my position as heir... I deny the name of Black!' he yells, his voice rising with every word and she actually covers her ears because she cannot stand his laughter even if it is only in her head.

When the next memory comes, Bellatrix doesn't even try to stop it... she just watches as it unfolds, placing herself as a spectator in her own mind. A smoky corridor looms in front of her, and from it, bolts of colored lightning erupt. She is breathing fast again; a body falls behind her but she does not care to look. She darts through the smoke and her left arm burns; He, her Lord, is calling for her.

Someone rushes out of the shadows and the spell is on her even before she cares to notice; she ducks but her eyes fly towards the sound of the strangled cry that cursed her. Sirius glares at her, his expression almost murderous.

'Give it up, Bella!' he shouts, lobbing another curse at her, but she is Bellatrix and she will not be bested by this lowly traitor. She can smell his treacherous blood, she can see his form and her own hate burns brightly as she darts to the side and then fires off her own hex at him. They battle furiously; Bellatrix cannot even see her own wand, but instead watches the play of light that erupts from it, each beam hot in her hatred.

The corridor disappears and she is lower than he is now; the steps of the Death Chamber surround her. Cries fill the air, curses that bounce off the stone walls and hexes that narrowly miss their targets. She jumps down one, and Sirius follows. He is so old now, no more a boy, but his treachery is still unaccounted for. She sends a furious strike at him and he jumps to the side; she leaps to the floor, chasing after him and hearing the stone crack as his spell grazes her side and then hits the step behind her.

She is powerful, oh, she is powerful, Bellatrix is, but Sirius, the blood-traitor Sirius, is no weakling himself. The air around her crackles with each spell and his energy forms a scorching shield around him; she is not surprised, since 'scorching' is what his name means. But even he must burn out some time, even he must make a mistake, for he is not superhuman, he is simply a man...

'Come on, you can do better than that!' he cries, and in that moment, Bellatrix fells him, Bellatrix screeches her vengeance for all he has done. She watches her spell hit his chest, and she feels the shield of fire that seems to surround him break, no, shatter into tiny splinters as her spell knocks him off his feet, as it grips his heart. The light in his eyes is already dimming as he falls, as his body soars, dips and disappears into a veil of silver...

And the spell of memories is broken as Bellatrix screams with laughter, dropping to her knees, her fingers scrabbling at the tapestry desperately.

Bellatrix raises her head and breathes again. She reaches up and places one finger on the scorched tapestry where Sirius should be. Her other hand rests over the letters of her own name, over the bonds of gold that link her with that other Bellatrix, and all those others of old she shares a name with. She can feel their approval, pulsing through the generations and glittering in her veins; now, she can be sure that their blood, her blood will always run pure.

And she smiles, for she has proved that she is worthy of the name she has been granted.

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fin

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