Disenchanted Fairytales

Prologue

Images swirled and blended into one another in front of the eyes of Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. He poked at the distorted shapes: prodding one here, probing one there; sifting through time, space and memories, searching for her. He was proud to say that he remembered every student who passed through those imposing doors into the great castle. He knew the face of every timid eleven year old and had watched as each one grew and was weathered by age and worry. Each had left his protection; some had flourished, some had faded into obscurity, and some had perished tragically; cut short so brutally that he regretted his own longevity, for nobody should bury their child, and in his own way had he not parented every one of them? He was a wise man, of course not infinitely so, but certainly wise enough to admit his own fallibility; and staring into the depths of his pensieve he had to wonder if there was anything that could have saved her?

The Warrioress.

The Torturess.

It had hurt to lose her to Tom, to see her plunge herself so passionately into the very depths of hell, but it pained him more that he had allowed her to wrench from him that boy. That shy and pallid boy: so miserable and quiet, yet so talented and powerful. To see the ugly black mark seared onto his student's limbs, to know that they had been burnt, that their young skin had blistered under an angry wand...what more punishment could there be for an old man's failures? Yes that certainly was a victory for Tom, to send a sixteen year old brazenly back to her school proudly baring his mark, hiding it from nobody's gaze. She had paraded it wantonly, after accepting the mark she had only lasted an hour at Hogwarts before leaving in a blaze of fury. He had lasted longer; already clever enough to conceal the terrible truth...at least he thought so. Of course Dumbledore knew it was there, he could clearly envision it beneath the heavy black school robes, yet he had hoped that the boy had been scared by what he had seen; that the girl had overestimated him and he would abandon her. She was already a murderess by then, blood on her hands and her soul. Yet somehow he had been foolish enough to think that the sad little boy he had so keenly observed for five years would not be tempted by her. For the snakes are as brave as the lions when they want to be. No...the image of the mark on that boy's skinny arm was not what he wanted to see. He dug deeper.

Dumbledore's wand casually brushed aside an image of his over abundant sock drawer to finally reveal a small girl. Perhaps four years old. In dark purple robes that dwarfed her skinny figure she stared back from the pensieve. Her hair was braided into two thick plaits, one of which she chewed nonchalantly between her teeth. In her hands was a tiny creature; a pygmy puff with violently purple fur. There was no discarded wand but he knew her robes had been transfigured purple from the pale pink they were when the house elves first dressed her. He remembered the look of consternation on her young face, her eyes wide and frightened, her lower lip trembling as she implored, 'Please Mister Dum'ledore, make it pink before Mummy comes back.' He had been newly appointed Headmaster then, barely two weeks into the job before he realised that the fate of three young women rested in his hands. He had smiled and waved his wand, and was rewarded with her gap toothed grin, even then it was clear that one day she would be dangerously beautiful.

Cygnus and Druella Black lived in an imposing house. Although in the centre of the bustling capital all that could be seen from their house for miles was forest and woodland; dark and haunting. Enchantments and charms that were probably older than he was wound themselves around the ancient wizarding property; it was completely invisible to the muggle eye, the very dimensions of space were distorted to levels rarely seen in the modern magical world. Yet that surely summed up the very essence of the Blacks: ancient and powerful, as old as Merlin and nearly as revered in some circles. Dark circles. Cygnus had decided that the 'muggle-loving fool of a new headmaster' (how he had chuckled when he heard this description of himself) was not a suitable teacher for his children. Andromeda was due to start her formal magical education this September and rumour on the floo was that she was booked on the next portkey to Durmstrang.

Dumbledore had succeeded in his mission; the Blacks were persuaded that to break with the tradition of a Hogwarts education for all members of their family was not necessary, after all, his own talent (as he modestly acknowledged) was now near legendary, and besides, they were sure that they had distilled enough pure-blood pride into their daughters to ensure the upkeep of family standards, even in a school that would soon be over run with mudbloods and muggle lovers. Yet despite his success he left the Black household that day feeling slightly sick. Over a calming cup of tea in The Leaky Cauldron he reflected on the youngest girl. The little girl who had accidentally transfigured her dress, something many fourteen year old students of his would struggle with. A tiny bubble of magic had burst forth from her, unbid. Perhaps she had admired her pet's pretty colour and wished she had a robe that shade, or perhaps she didn't think of it at all and was as surprised as he was when her robes spontaneously changed. She was precocious, that much was clear.

He felt a small thrill of anticipation at the idea of teaching her in a few short years, of seeing what she could do when she channelled her energy, but then came a small twinge of dread. Power. Raw, untarnished power left to flourish in the dank and sordid atmosphere of the Black family. Of course there was no way to storm in and take the child away from her parents, it was unthinkable, but looking back into that pensieve with sad blue eyes, Dumbledore wondered perhaps if he had gathered that little girl into his arms and taken her away from all that was black, he might never have seen her thrown into Azkaban, raging and defiant, those many bloodstained years later.

But now he could see that she was key to the triumph of light, a Warrioress was needed: it was time for Bellatrix to hear the phoenix song.