A child walks away from the black-draped crowd of mourners, moving slowly until she reaches the slow-moving river that flows calmly past the funeral proceedings. She cannot bear to stare at the closed coffin for one more second, cannot stand to smell the overwhelming odor of the multitude of dark red roses that decorate the new gravestone. Feet from the sloping bank, she stops and gazes into the distance as far as she can see. There is only fog, for the ocean is just over that hill to the west.
Every breath drawn, she has learned, can be the last, and she fills her lungs completely time and again. A trio of tears traces a delta down her face, but she wipes them away across her sleeve. The time for crying is past, though the old women still sob and wail behind her as they lament their loss. No one has come after her, but that is just as well. The longing she feels cannot be understood by any in the funeral party.
The fog begins to melt away as the sun breaks through the clouds, and she can see where the river crawls to the sea, as if it were a baby returning to a mother’s arms. She envies the river, in a way. It has a true destination, and it always knows where to return home. Its innocence is not wasted in a far-too-adult world.
No one comes after her. If they did, they would see the abnormal awareness in her somber little face, the grown-up slant to her straight black brows, the abstract dream in her hooded eyes. If they spoke to her, they would hear the anger in her answer, the anger that fills her so completely.
For she is angry, more angry than a child can rightly be. She is angry at her mother for leaving so suddenly. She is angry at her father for paying more attention to the distant relatives than to her. She is angry at her sisters for pretending that Mama is just away on holiday. She is angry at her second cousins and great aunts and all the mourners whom she’s never seen before, the sober-faced people much taller than her who murmur sadly and say nothing at all.
And she is angry, enraged, furious at the sub-humans who had killed her mother. She has always been taught that Muggles are of a lower order than wizards, and now she knows the truth. Muggles are the lowest scum of the Earth, lower than a slimy toad in the mud. The girl remembers her father’s face when he got the news; she remembers the burning hatred that replaced his initial shock; she remembers his low, bitter words which he thought no one could hear: “Those goddamn Muggles. Those bloody animals. They’ve taken my Druella from me. Those goddamn Muggles and their goddamn war.”
Her anger is even stronger than her father’s, she thinks. Her mother had been the girl’s whole world; she had held her daughter whenever the girl was ill and feverish; she had taught her daughter how to ride a broomstick when Father had said the girl was too young; she had laughed and clapped with joy when the letter came from Hogwarts, only days before the terrible air raid that had dropped a bomb directly on her and snuffed out her life.
The girl’s anger will never let her go; it is ingrained too deeply; it is a burden that is hers alone. Her two younger sisters don’t care nearly as much, or at least Meda doesn’t. Andromeda doesn’t understand that Muggles are lower than mud, but Narcissa might. The girl thinks fondly of her pale, blonde sister, the beautiful one of the family. At least Sissy shares her loathing of Muggles.
One of the mourners comes up beside her and puts an arm around her hunched shoulders. She looks up to meet the sympathetic eyes of a tall teenaged boy, no doubt a cousin several times removed. He must be related on her father’s side, for he has the dark eyes and handsome face that dominate the features of members of the Black family. The boy does not speak for a moment; he follows her gaze across the river to the opposite bank. The silence, which the girl liked when alone but which is uncomfortable with company, becomes unbearable, and she speaks.
“Do you ever imagine a different world, one that’s just out of sight in the fog?” she asks quietly.
“A world where there is no pain, no death, no sorrow?” he answers, just as softly, although his adolescent voice cracks and soars outside of his control.
“Yes,” she breathes, staring up at him in fascination. How amazing, that another human could have the same thoughts and feelings as she. “A world where everyone has a home.”
“Everyone who deserves a home,” corrects the boy.
“Yes.” A thought occurs to her, and she gives it voice. “Do you mean--Muggles?”
“Of course,” he says, and there is a hard edge to his voice. “They clearly don’t deserve to live in this perfect world that we could make. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” she says, and she takes his hand and squeezes it. She likes that word: “we”. It opens up a door in her mind--perhaps she can be part of the creation of the new world that fills her dreams.
The two children stand silent for a long time, so long that the fog burns away on the opposite bank of the river and the reality comes clear. There is no perfect world over there, only browning grass and the distant skyline of an all-Muggle city. The anger rears up again as the girl is reminded of her loss.
“How can we ever make a perfect world when there are so many unworthy beings still alive?” she asks bitterly.
The boy looks down at her, for she is shaking slightly with rage. Tentatively, he raises his hand and strokes her shining dark hair soothingly, though he also feels the fury in his own heart. Slowly, the girl’s shaking subsides, and she leans her head against the boy’s shoulder. She breathes in, out, in, out, and with each breath the world seems bigger, fuller of possibility.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you at school,” the boy says after a time. “Are you a student at Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” she answers, her head still on his shoulder. “I got the acceptance letter only last week.”
“Oh,” he says. “You’re only a first year.”
“And how old are you?” she asks, a bit of tease in her voice.
“Fourth year,” he says. He is embarrassed to be so affectionate with a girl so much younger than he. Eager to change the subject, he remarks, “I know some people in my year who also want to see a perfect world, one with no Muggles or Mudbloods. You should meet them, they’d like you.” I like you, he almost says, but he resists.
“Muggles and Mudbloods are the reason for the imperfection in the world?” the girl asks. She has never before heard such a thought said out loud, though her father seems to believe it.
“Oh, definitely,” the boy says adamantly. “Don’t you think so?”
She ponders for a moment. By all logic, it makes sense. Her mother had been alive until the Muggles had begun their stupid war. If her mother had not been killed, the girl would not be so lost and confused. All her sadness, and all the grief of her family members, comes from the Muggles. It was their fault. It is their fault.
“Yes,” she whispers, and then “Yes,” she says more clearly. “They are standing in the way of the perfect world for wizardkind.”
“Rodolphus, Bellatrix!” shouts Aunt Walburga. “Come inside now, children.”
They turn away from the river and walk back to the house, where the girl has lived her whole life, where Druella Rosier Black will never live again, and which Bellatrix Black will never think of as home again.
Both Sides of the Story by phoenix_fire
Chapter Notes: I take no credit for anything you might recognize, since it is probably not my original work. As always, I use J.K. Rowling's own characters and move them around the board in my own way.