I am Rodolphus Lestrange, and this is my life.

I was born, of course, to my mother and father, but I will not speak much of them, for they were rarely in my life. Father was at Hogwarts the same time as the Dark Lord, which of course caused him to become one of the original Death Eaters. He was frequently gone, and when he was around he had little to say. He was faithful at all times, and he taught us the things we would need to know to also be Death Eaters; he considered that the most important part of being a father. Rabastan was always drunk with this knowledge. He would speak to me about it in excited tones; it was all I heard.

My mother rarely said anything at all, though. I don't know why she married my father. Her eyes always looked dead to me, even when I was a child and shouldn't have been able to recognise such a look. I always thought it was because she once had hopes and dreams, but they were shattered.

It was always horrifying to look at my parents, because I knew those were the two ways my own future could end up. I could be like my father and follow the Dark Lord mindlessly and happily, loving to be ruthless and evil. (Oh, yes, I did consider them evil, but that is another point.) My mother wasn't a Death Eater, but she was a supporter — how could she not be: she was married to my father — but I knew she didn't want to be or believe it.

One of my worst fears was that someday I would look in the mirror and see her eyes shining from my own. Not the colour, but the… quality. The dead look, the look that let everyone who saw them know that she wasn't happy.

Ah, yes, I did think Death Eaters were evil. I never, ever voiced this belief. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself. I've never written or spoken of myself before. That part of the story doesn't come until later.

When I was five years old, I saw our family crest. Not for the first time, of course — since it was on everything — but it was the first time I had seen it up close and had examined it. It had a snake, and it was green. In hindsight, I must admit it wasn't a very original crest at all; it was quite like Slytherin's. The Lestranges, in all honesty, were never the most creative bunch. At the time, though, to me it was revolutionary. I had been to the Blacks', and their crest wasn't a colour, and at the time I asked Rabastan why.

"It’s the colour of purebloods," he answers. "It’s the colour of power and domination and Slytherin."

“Slytherin?" I ask.

"At Hogwarts," he replies. "It’s the House we have to be in, because they’ll teach us the way we have to grow up so that we can be like Father."

I think of my father at the time. I am five, and should worship my father, but I don't. I think he is mean and selfish.

I hated my father, and had no desire to be like him. I wanted a normal Father — one who would teach me Quidditch and stop talking to me about things like blood and loyalty.

My brother loved it. Rabastan was three years older than me, and the favourite. Everyone loved Rabastan. He had a way of making everyone who met him fall for him instantly. Man or woman, everyone liked him. It was almost as if he knew everyone thoroughly the moment he met them, and then he would act like them, not too much, but enough to make them instantly comfortable. My father loved this about him, and through the years he helped him with it, until he said Rabastan would be the perfect killer.

My father told my brother that. My brother was only thirteen years old, and he was pleased. The lop-sided grin reserved only for my father came over his face, and for a moment I almost wished I was him.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, I thought at the time, to not question it? To just believe with all your soul? At the time I would have given anything to be my brother.

Which brings me back to my beliefs. When I was young, I heard over and over that purebloods deserved to control the world, and that everyone of less than pure blood should die for it. I was taught to be proud of this. For a couple years, I did believe this, but I think as early as six I questioned.

I was born. Hadn't everyone else been born the same way? I could have just as easily been born a Muggle, or American, or Chinese, or a female. I was none of those things, of course, but didn't that stand to reason something? Even then I thought that I shouldn't be better because I had been born that way. I had been born a pureblood and a Lestrange. I hadn't asked for it.

At eleven — like all others — I was Sorted.

"You have a complicated mind," it tells me. "You're very conflicted."

"Oh, really?" I tell it sarcastically.

"But you have an undoubtedly brilliant mind. You would be best in Ravenclaw."

"No," I snap. "I have to be in Slytherin."

"Not Ravenclaw?" it asks, ignoring my request. "You also seem to have courage and boldness — very different from your brother. I think Gryffindor may be fitting as well."

"No," I tell it desperately, my heart pounding at the thought of telling my parents I was in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. "Come on, you stupid hat. I'm a Lestrange, okay? I need to be a Slytherin."

"Well, that House doesn't suit you very well…"

I begin to beg and plead with it. I can't be Sorted anywhere but Slytherin, and I know it.

"It's that important?" the Hat questions. I answer affirmatively. "Fine, then: SLYTHERIN!"

I sigh in relief, thinking that just being Sorted there is enough.

To this day I think it was wrong that I was remotely a Gryffindor; if I had been one, I would have been willing to be Sorted there or Ravenclaw and try to change my fate.

I was a brilliant actor without even trying. Soon it became as easy as breathing. I was very intelligent — the Hat was very right about Ravenclaw, actually — and I could fool anyone. My brother always thought I was just as deeply in love with the thought of pureblood supremacy as he, and for a while this amused me. He could never have guessed that his younger brother in whom he had personally instilled every belief was, in fact, not a supporter. Before I was, oh, around fifteen, I found this hilarious. Some days I would just laugh and laugh about it.

I was something of an idealist. I always held onto a hope that maybe — just maybe — someday I wouldn't have to meet my fate. I was smart, you see, and arrogant, and I thought I could do anything. I thought perhaps I would leave the country and go far, far away. I thought that I wouldn't mind running my whole life — it would be better, really, than what I was to become.

My second-greatest fear was murdering. I knew the spells and the curses, but taking someone's life was something I never wanted to do. Even though I had grown up in my past — where murdering was supposed to be not only necessary but fun — I didn't want that. I was a firm believer that no one deserved to die because of blood. I knew that I would never conquer this fear, but that someday I would kill in spite of it.

People don't know what being haunted is until they have thoughts like these.

At fifteen, when Rabastan was in his final year, my father was murdered during service to the Dark Lord.

My mother comes to Hogwarts and tells us the news, and I notice her eyes no longer look dead. I see a sparkle come into them, and the first thing I hear after she tells us the news is a surge of gratitude that something would free my mother.

I look at my brother, and cold rage comes through his eyes. He has always looked vicious, but before his eyes always held excitement as well. Now they only hold the desire for revenge. I know he wants to become a Death Eater more than ever.

I don't realise it at first, but changes me as well. It's the first time I figure out that… I have to.

There was no escaping your fate when you were born a man to the Lestrange, Black or Rosier families. Who had I been trying to fool?

After that I buried myself in a different fantasy world. My only true hobby — if you could call it that — from that moment forth was found in books. They were the only escape that I could allow myself. Nothing felt more wonderful than getting into a book to the extent that I was… somewhere else — anywhere else, really.

I read all kinds of books. My favourites were novels, of course, because they were the only ones that truly took over my mind the way I liked. I could never let anyone see me reading these though, because to them it would have looked frivolous and not at all like me. I had always been excellent at Disillusionment Charms, and most nights I would cast one over myself and sneak into the library to read. Sometimes I took the book back to my dormitory, but most of the time I would stay in that secluded place — that magical place. The library at night became, without a doubt, my favourite spot in the world. It was the only place that I could be myself without fear, and I enjoyed every moment of it. I was careful of it, and no one ever found out.

I was prefect and Head Boy in my time at Hogwarts, but neither of those things truly mattered. I almost felt as though teachers wanted my approval because I had never given it to anything. I was polite and attentive — the very definition of the perfect student — and my teachers believed that was who I really was, just as Rabastan believed I wanted to be a Death Eater.

Some people think acting sounds wonderful and fun, that hiding their true selves just sounds like an excellent adventure. It's not, I promise.

I had one goal in life: to escape. Of course, that was never a realistic goal, and I knew it would never be accomplished, but there it was. At some points I contemplated suicide, but of course that never really crossed my mind in a realistic way.

Instead my goal eventually morphed to a somewhat similar and much more desperate one. I wanted detachment. I wanted to not care when I murdered, to not care that I was a Death Eater, to not care that I was most definitely going to hell the moment death overtook me. This was what I wanted, but everything was too personal to me.

I was never cool and Slytherin the way my brother was. I was emotional, for all the mask I wore. I cared too much about everything.

My brother always tried to make me angry, and he would — so angry I wanted to rip his head off, but I would never show it. I think he eventually figured out that almost nothing in the world caused me to show my feelings.

I had feelings — I just refused to show them.

This was what made me excellent at Occlumency. I think that ability saved my life countless times.

This was my life during most of my time at Hogwarts. During my seventh year, I changed.

I had read countless novels — almost all that I could find at Hogwarts' library. I had read tales of adventure, of war, of life, of poverty, of love. I understood it all, with one exception. Never had I found love.

It sounds pathetic just saying that, but believe me — it's true. I never had it, because it seemed dangerous.

You see, my absolute greatest fear was that someone would know the real me. I hid myself all the time. These are things about myself that I have never told anyone, and never will — except this, of course — because once you know them, you know Rodolphus Lestrange, and I don't want anyone to know that.No one. Sometimes I wish that even I had never discovered myself.

That was why I hid from love, and never searched for it. As it turns out, searching for it was unnecessary, because it found me.

Ah, yes, she was the most perfect being in the world.

Bellatrix Black.

I loved the fact that it was her the moment I realised it was. Because she would make sure I kept my mask on completely and always. In front of her I never, ever would be myself. I even hoped I would become a different person. It meant that I was safe from my greatest fear.

When I was ten I wanted to be Rabastan, but when I was seventeen I wanted to be Bella.

I had thought books were perfect, but they were nothing compared to her.

She was cruel and ruthless; she had a path in life she never desired to stray from; she wanted to be a Death Eater; she would be a wonderful follower; she would never feel remorse; she believed purebloods were the best; she would never desire to hide herself.

She was, in short, the exact opposite of me in nearly every way, and therefore she was everything I should have been.

No one can have any idea what it is to see the exact definition of perfection exist before your eyes. I desired her with every fibre of my being, and I set out to get her.

I don't think she ever wanted me — not really. She accepted me without feeling, but at the time that was enough, because to me she was almost like a prize. For once I was pleased instead of angry with my pure blood, because that was the only reason I got her.

It wasn't just love, I think now — it was an obsession. I don't think ordinary love could have had such a thorough impact on me.

The acting no longer become just acting — it wasn't just life or death anymore, you see. It was more important. It was the difference between remaining unhappy my entire life or finally having happiness.

Sometimes I could almost believe I was the person I had been pretending to be, and as three years passed the line blurred more and more until, when she was eighteen and I was twenty-one, she accepted my marriage proposal, and I was caught. There was no line anymore. I was that person. My past life — my soul — was forgotten for a new one. There was nothing else anymore. She would show me my path.

I got her an engagement ring, a large emerald one, and she seemed to like the appearance of it. I could never tell what she was thinking; she was elusive. It was amusing.

I know now I'm the cause of my own unhappiness. That's not to say that I wasn't unhappy before Bellatrix, but then I had no idea what I was missing. So after I lost her, it was far worse. Suddenly it was a black abyss. The difference was hope.

Again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

See, the problem was that I could never lose her, because I never had her in the first place.

I don't know if I ever thought I did, but there was always that illusion and possibility that maybe, just maybe, under her mask she loved me as well. I wish I weren't an idealist. Being a realist would be so much better in the long run — or perhaps even a pessimist, because then I could never be disappointed. How wonderful that must be…

What did I do?

I did the worst thing possible — I gave her exactly what she wanted. As I knew when I met her, she wanted to be a Death Eater more than anything in the world, and so I gave it to her. You see, I…

I really need to back-track.

Let me go back a few years.

I got out of Hogwarts at eighteen, and I was dating Bellatrix, not in the normal way, but with an understanding of marriage. Most won't comprehend such a thing, but that is the way many pureblood couples have decided the rest of their lives. I wanted her, and she consented. It was simple. Well, that part of it was.

What was less simple was the knowledge that I had to deal with it. Not that I didn't want to deal with it, but I remembered those years when I had wanted to escape.

I didn't want to escape anymore. I wanted her, and that was it. I had a one-track mind. Where I had once been complex, I was simple now. How I had fallen!… Though, of course, at the time I would never have considered it a fall.

When I was born, the plan for me was to be a Slytherin, become a Death Eater, marry a pureblood, and serve the Dark Lord faithfully and most likely die in service to him. I had never accepted this before, but I did when I was eighteen. I took the Mark.

I show the Dark Mark to her, and a fire comes into her black eyes. They seem to be lit with a passion that I've never seen before. I grin in a way that is completely unfamiliar to me, and my heart lurches a little.

She touches my forearm with her long, pale fingers. "It's beautiful," she whispers, her voice surprisingly soft — almost reverent.

My throat is so dry I can't answer.

"I can't wait," she murmurs, and a glint comes into her eyes. "Aren't you so happy?"

I remember the pain and horror of joining the Dark Lord's ranks, and I can't imagine that ever making me happy. But I look into her eyes and some of her mad joy seems to transfer to me.

"Yes," I answer truthfully.

That was when I knew I would always be faithful to the Dark Lord. To see that glint in her eye directed toward me was worth… anything.

This is beginning to sound rather pathetic, and it probably was. But you must see by now, don't you? I never had anything in my life before her, and once I had the opportunity, I pounced and never let go.

I remember my first murder. I had to kill a Muggle family with Evan Rosier, who had been in my year. He reminded me a little of Rabastan. His own father had died with mine, and more than anything he sought revenge. Before his father's death he had never been like that. At times he had seemed unwilling, like me. Now he was violent and ready.

They were a family of five. Three children were sleeping, and the parents were talking as we arrived. I can no longer remember exactly what happened — I've tried too hard to block it from my mind — but I completely remember the feeling of horror when it happened. I was instructed to kill the three children, and I thought that was the worst. I stared at the three little girls, and knew that their future had been so bright, but I was taking it away… The same way they had taken away my future.

I think that if it hadn't been for Bellatrix, I would have left forever at that moment. I lived in a dream-world, and here was nothing but reality. I had to take their lives by my own wand. These girls never deserved to die only because they weren't magical.

I tried to put the mask back on — to stop caring. I tried to believe they deserved it. But I couldn't, because as much as I hated to admit it, that wasn't who I was. I murdered them. I murdered them with a feeling that I was dying myself because of the pain I felt.

After that, I was never the same.

I could have been a famous actor. I put on the facade of being ruthless, but I never murdered if I didn't have to. I hated being a Death Eater more than anything in the world, but I had to.

And yet… sometimes I could be happy, because I loved her, in spite of it all. No matter that I was breaking my soul into small pieces purely because of her — all that mattered was that I was in love with her, more than anything. I tried to be just like her, even though I couldn't.

From the time I was eighteen to twenty-one my life passed both eventfully and predictably. I was a Death Eater, and I performed all the tasks I was asked.

When I was twenty-one, Bella was done with Hogwarts and engaged to me. I was so happy when she accepted — probably happier than I had ever been before or ever would be — that I took her to see someone.

We stand in front of the Dark Lord, and she stares at him. I look only at her, as that glint comes into her eyes again. She drops to her knees and tries to say something, but her eyes just get brighter, almost as though filled with tears.

I am asked to leave so that he may speak with Bella alone, and I agree. I agree unwillingly, but of course I cannot refuse.

You see, at that moment I know that I'm losing her. When she comes out, her eyes are alight with a feeling I will never see again except when she is in his presence. An instant jolt of jealousy overwhelms me.

I later realise that he isn't just her Lord, but her love as well. I was in love with her, she was in love with him, and he loved…

Nothing.

Years passed as they could be expected. We married and I loved her, and we lived and I loved her. It seems pathetic to relate, but that was my life. There was not anything that I could be proud of or take enjoyment from, so my life fell to one thing — her.

You see, she kept me sane while driving me to an obsession. Nothing mattered, not really. Just her and the fact that she was my life.

I could never forget she was in love with him. It haunted me every day of my life.

Then Harry Potter was born, and the small part of me that had survived was glad that there was someone that was supposed to save with wizarding world. You see, that part of me wanted the Dark Lord to be defeated, but the other part did not. Because, understand, if the Dark Lord was defeated, my wife could never have survived. Her life was entwined with his — as mine was with hers. If he were destroyed, I knew she would be as well. So as much as I wanted my wife to be my own, I wanted the Dark Lord to win so that she would always be there. I couldn't wish for her happiness to be taken away.

But Harry Potter did defeat the Dark Lord — the first time — and I needn't go into that history, for it is too well-known. What I must tell is that we searched for him with that other family — the Longbottoms, I have heard since.

I watch out as Bella tortures the male. I can hear his screams echoing loudly — it never seems to end. I rush up as she starts screaming as well, but then I see it is a scream of pleasure, and in spite of myself I smile as well. I know it's disgusting what she is doing to the man; she isn't killing him, but is making him insane. It is far more cruel than death.

But I enjoy seeing her happy — I cannot help it.

Of course, after that I went to Azkaban. Some people think it was terrible, and I agree, I suppose. The dementors didn't affect me as much as they do to other people, apparently. I figure it was because… I know I'm complaining too much, but by now surely you can see that I've had very little happiness?

Fourteen years passed, but I didn't realise it had been that much time until I got out. You see, all sense of day and night is lost while in Azkaban. In the normal world, night means sleep or… many other things. In Azkaban, you sleep when you feel like it, and the world is always dark.

Speaking of which, this writing is turning out quite dark, come to think of it. My autobiography, written from the very place that I was just speaking of.

But again, I'm getting ahead of myself. You shall forgive me… in the end.

After those fourteen years, we escaped. My wife and I and a few others. It was quite the experience. For the first time in years, I saw her happy again. Even though her grin wasn't because of me, it still made me feel light. It wasn't just being away from the dementors.

It was most likely one of the happiest years of her life. Her love, who she had thought to be dead, was proven to be not only alive, but put her by his side.

She was the queen, you see. It was where she belonged, and I couldn't take it away from her.

I was one of the few Death Eaters who escaped from the Department of Mysteries. I was in a different area than the rest, so I remained with the Dark Lord — and Bella, more importantly — while the others went to Azkaban.

I don't want to tell you of the next two years. You see, I had no part. I was merely a servant. I don't think the Dark Lord ever fully realised that I had a brilliant mind — probably more so than the rest. He never used me where he should have, but perhaps I had unconsciously influenced him not to. Of course I'm not complaining that he didn't think to use me. I didn't want him to.

I was at the Final Battle, and of course I had mixed feelings, in case you didn't expect that by now. I wanted Harry Potter to win, because that would be better for the world. Sometimes I couldn't help but care about the world and the good of all. I might never have mentioned it, but sometimes I couldn't help it. At the same time, I didn't want Potter to win, for then Bella would die — perhaps not physically, but I knew she couldn't live without him. Suicide was likely, or maybe insanity.

I prepare to watch the great duel of Harry Potter and the Dark Lord, but as the thought crosses my mind I hear an exhilarated laugh coming from my side. I glance over and see my wife duelling that red-haired woman.

The world seems to stop as a jet of green hits my wife directly in the chest. The spell seems to knock the wind out of me, and I rush to her side. A single tear escapes from my eye as I stare down at her still face.

A few moments later the Dark Lord is defeated as well, and for a moment I know that it is good she died, so that she can be happy and with the one she loved. But wave upon wave of sadness comes over me, because the light in my life has gone out.

I was taken to Azkaban for the second time, but I didn't try to fight it. Instead I wished I were dead as well. Even so, I accepted my sentence without surprise or with any thoughts of suicide. I could only think of the irony that I was sent to prison the moment I was finally free from my fate of serving the Dark Lord.

My future is not important.

The only thing that is important is that you must understand why I did it all. I sit here in Azkaban, and I know I will die here, for that is my sentence. I don't want to be free — I know that I shouldn't be. I wouldn't enjoy being outside any more than I enjoy being here. But I need someone — anyone — to see why I did it all. That is why I write this now — with hope that someone will finally know the real me… even though that still remains my great fear. You see, for my entire life, everyone has seen me and thought, He's a Lestrange, so he must be evil. And, of course, I acted that way. I was a Death Eater, and a seemingly faithful one. But I want someone somewhere to see that in my heart and soul… I always regretted it and never wanted it. I want someone to know that I was the least faithful Death Eater there ever was — more so than Regulus Black or Severus Snape or Draco Malfoy. They wanted power once, and for a time they might have enjoyed it. I never wanted power or enjoyed it. This is important to me, and it should be to others too. I was never evil… so maybe — just maybe — that can bring me forgiveness. I hope so. I would love forgiveness, but I could settle for understanding. Either way, I would have hope.

I said before that the difference was hope, and that is true. There are many things I learned in my life, and that is why I tell my story to you — I want you to learn from it, though I cannot imagine why you would desire to read it in the first place. But there is one thing that matters most of all, and that is hope. You see, if you lose hope, you lose everything. Hope makes you want to live, and if you stop wanting to live…

Well, you don't want that to happen. Just look at my story.