An Epitaph - Bellatrix Black-Lestrange

I don’t miss you, sister. I mourned for you many moons ago, when you descended into insanity. I don’t cry for you, sister, I cry for my daughter, for her husband. I cry for their son, who will never know his mother’s arms, or his father’s weathered brow. I cry for the loss of my husband, the man whom I left our dysfunctional family for. So, sister, you see my heart is too full of pain and woe to feel your loss keenly.

So, sister, why does it hurt? Surely, I am immune to loss by now? Surely I know that this is all your fault? So why is there an ache in my chest, and why is there something stuck in my throat? Is that something pride? The same pride that had you turn away the last time I saw you?

Why am I even here, sister? If you had the choice of people to take my job, I’m sure I would be the farthest person from your mind. Who would you have chosen? Your husband, perhaps? But you never loved him, not like you loved him. Your lord and master, your reason for forsaking love. Maybe Narcissa then. Yes, I am sure of it, she would have been your choice.

Isn’t it funny, the way it all ended? You and Narcissa on one side, me on the other. So different from when we were children. Narcissa wasn’t like us, with her fair hair and blue eyes. We didn’t let her join in with our games - we were the Black sisters, and how could she be a Black if she weren’t even dark?

But of course, we were dark - we could have been twins, sometimes. I remember Mama always making me stand on the right in portraits, so that she would know who was who. Isn’t it funny that they never worried about how you and I would turn out? I suppose we looked the part enough to not matter.

Papa spent lots of time with ‘Cissa. She told me, once, what he said to her. He used to tell her what he’d do to her if she didn’t make a good marriage, make her learn the family tree by heart. By the time she was eight she could name all of her possibilities for marriage. Isn’t it ironic that after all of the time he spent with her, assuming that you and I were the safe ones, the sensible girls who would do as they’re told, isn’t it ironic that we did nothing he told us to do?

What were his rules, his tenets of life? Stay away from Muggles, and Muggle-borns. Don’t get involved in anything big. Do what is best for the family. And we broke them, you and I. I married a Muggle-born, you killed them. You became a Death Eater, I supported the Order of the Phoenix. And both of us, together, we broke the family apart.

It hurt Mama so much when you married, you know? Papa was pleased with you, making a link to the Lestrange family, although I think he would rather that you had set your sights on Rabastan - the inheriting brother. He turned his sights on me, that summer. He even picked out a man that I should think on - Augustus Rookwood, of all people. But it was too late for me then. I’d already met my Ted, and I already knew that I would leave.

It was so hard that summer, to pretend to be this Perfect Pure-blood Princess. You always took that role when you were around, and you just left me. You just left me behind. We planned it when we were young, to have a double wedding, the grooms would be brothers, and we would all see each other for tea every other day, and we would be a real happy family.

Then you took the Dark Mark, and you came home and you sat with me and you told me how amazing your Dark Lord was, and how he couldn’t wait for me to join his ranks, and how you wanted so badly for me to stand next to you in his circle. I think that’s when you started to go crazy. It was almost like love, the way you revered him, but as everything in our family was, it twisted and warped, becoming something darker and darker until it was so dark it looked black.

It wasn’t love though, it was an obsession. He was your life from then on, everything you did revolved around him. I didn’t see you, after that. I went away to Hogwarts, and you didn’t write. But I had Ted, and when your letter finally came in the summer, inviting me to join the Death Eaters, to join you, my mind was made up. I went home, and I took my things, and then I ran away with Ted.

I got one letter from you, asking where I was, telling me to give up the charade of caring for the filthy Mudblood. You said that if I killed him you’d forgive me, that we might even be able to salvage a marriage with the youngest Goyle son. And then I married Ted. I sent you an invitation, you know. Ted found a charm that would conceal the place and date unless you wished us well. You didn’t come.

But that’s not when I stopped caring, sister. I still worried about you, when I read the headlines in the Prophet. Death Eater Captured! They screamed. Sentenced to Azkaban! And my heart skipped a beat until I read on, and realised that it wasn’t you. I still loved you, you were still my sister, even though Mama had blasted me from the tapestry, and even though you had all cut me off.

It wasn’t until I saw you in Diagon Alley, that I stopped caring. We were both in Flourish and Blotts. For a moment, I thought you were going to speak to me. I said you name, held out my hand, and you turned away with a face of stone. I found out later why you had been there. After I’d left, you all attacked Diagon Alley. That’s when I truly lost all hope for you.

I know Narcissa married Lucius Malfoy, but I had to read about it in the society pages of the Prophet. And when the birth announcement of her son came up, I didn’t even shed a tear for the nephew I would never know. I cut you from my life, just like you had cut me from yours. I regret nothing.

I almost didn’t think of you after that, you know? When you were caught, I read about it in the Prophet, and the only thing I felt when you escaped was fear for my daughter, and for her friends who would be fighting you. Would you believe that it almost wasn’t me who was to write your epitaph? They offered it to Molly Weasley before me.

What is Molly Weasley, to you really? A housewife, a mother - the things we were supposed to be. Your murderer, your executioner - the things that you turned into. A pure-blood, a blood traitor. A better woman than you or I. Whatever she is, whatever you thought of her, I am thankful that she has given me this chance to speak to you in a way, sister. I think there is only one thing that I can say to you now, dear one.

I press my wand to your stone, and whisper the words that I have selected. I stand, and move away from the stone. Narcissa edges towards it, and reads the words that I have written. Her face turns to mine, and it is downcast.

“Sister?” she says to me, her voice telling me all that I need to hear. Her pain, her loss, but also her empathy, and her apology, a question of whether I will answer her.

“Sister.” I repeat firmly, my eyes meeting hers. Narcissa moves towards me gracefully, and her hand rests upon mine.

“Thank you,”

Bellatrix Black-Lestrange

Sister, I forgive you.