Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.
Chapter 11
~ Harry Potter ~
The descent into the bowels of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was a journey through the layers of a dark and twisted history of the House of Black. The air grew heavier with each step Harry took down the stone spiral staircase, the temperature dropping until his breath plumed in white mists before him. The magical ambient light of the upper floors, warm and golden from the sconces Narcissa had restored, did not reach this deep. Here, the shadows were not merely an absent, it was almost as if they were living things, ancient and predatory, moving along the walls like moss.
Harry Potter, Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter and Black by inheritance, walked with a heavy burden weighing down on him. The leather soles of his dragon-hide boots struck the stone with a rhythmic, echoing finality. He was no longer the scrawny boy who had lived in a cupboard. The war, the Horcrux hunt, and the recent integration of the Black family magic had forged him into something harder, sharper. He felt the wards of the house humming against his skin, a constant, low-grade vibration of loyalty and power.
But tonight, his mind was not on his power. It was on his loss.
He reached the heavy iron door of the lowest dungeon cell. It was a door designed to hold things that should never see the light of day. The metal was cold to the touch, seemingly absorbing the heat from his fingertips. Harry placed his palm against the centre of the door. The wards tasted his magical signature, verified his magic and intent, and with a groan of protesting metal, the locking mechanism disengaged.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the gloom.
The cell was circular and, in the centre, illuminated by a single, hovering sphere of cold blue witch-light, was a chair. And chained to that chair, slumped forward with her chin resting on her chest, was Bellatrix Lestrange.
Harry stood there, the door clicking shut behind him, and just breathed.
He breathed in the scent of damp stone, of rust, and the metallic tang of dried blood that still lingered on her robes from the battle at the Tonks residence. But mostly, he breathed in the hate.
It was a volatile, corrosive thing, this hatred. It burned in his gut, hotter than Fiendfyre. He looked at her—the wild, matted curls of dark hair, the gaunt, aristocratic features that mirrored Sirius's so painfully—and his vision blurred.
"I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!"
The memory of her voice, that high, mocking baby-voice and mad cackling she used to taunt him in the Department of Mysteries, echoed in the silent cell. He saw the veil fluttering. He saw the look of surprise on his godfather's face as he fell backward, disappearing from the world forever. The laugh. That Merlin-damned laugh.
Harry's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. The magic within him flared, responding to his emotional state. The blue witch-light flickered in accordance, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. The air pressure in the room dropped, the stone floor trembling slightly.
He wanted to wake her up. He wanted to hear her scream. He wanted to tear her apart, piece by piece, until the debt of Sirius's life was paid in full. He took a step forward, his hand twitching toward his wand holster. The urge to cast Crucio was so strong it tasted like copper on his tongue.
"She is sleeping deeply, Master Harry."
The croaking voice broke Harry's trance. He spun around, wand in hand before he even registered the movement.
Kreacher stood in the corner of the cell, practically blending into the gloom. The ancient house-elf was staring at Bellatrix with huge, watery eyes. His ears were drooping low, and his hands were wringing a dirty rag, though he was dressed in a clean new towel bearing the Black crest—a sign of Narcissa's influence.
Harry exhaled, lowering his wand but not holstering it. "Kreacher. I didn't hear you pop in."
"Kreacher has been here, watching," the elf murmured, his gaze never leaving the unconscious woman. "Kreacher is ensuring the prisoner does not wake. Kreacher is ensuring the bindings hold."
Harry turned back to Bellatrix. "They hold. Black family spells are impeccable."
"Master Harry is powerful," Kreacher agreed, a note of reverence in his voice. "But... there is something wrong."
Harry frowned, stepping closer to the elf. The rage was still simmering, but the instinct of constantly battling Voldemort all these years took over. "Wrong? Has she woken up? Has she tried to break the wards?"
"No, Master," Kreacher shook his head, his large ears flapping. He took a hesitant step toward the chair, extending a long, knobby finger toward Bellatrix but not touching her. "Kreacher feels... the magic. The magic in her blood. The magic in her soul."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "She's a dark witch, Kreacher. Of course, her magic feels foul."
"No!" Kreacher croaked, more forcefully than usual. He looked up at Harry, his eyes wide with a specific kind of terror that Harry had only seen once before. "Not just dark, Master. Not just the Black madness. It is... tainted."
Kreacher shivered, a full-body tremor. "It tastes like the locket, Master. Like Master Regulus's locket. It feels like... like the scar on Master Harry's head."
Harry's blood ran cold. The rage evaporated instantly, replaced by a yawning pit of dread in his stomach. The silence in the dungeon suddenly felt deafening.
"What did you say?" Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.
"The taint," Kreacher whispered back. "It is inside her. It is... Him."
Harry stumbled back a step; his eyes fixed on Bellatrix's sleeping form. A Horcrux.
The thought was impossible. Voldemort used objects. Priceless, historical artifacts. He used a snake. He used... Harry himself, but that was an accident. But Bellatrix? A living, breathing human being? It made no sense.
"Dobby!" Harry shouted, the sound cracking against the stone walls. "Winky!"
Two loud cracks split the air. Dobby appeared, looking alert and militant in his mismatched socks, while Winky popped in beside him, looking slightly less dishevelled than usual, though still anxious.
"Master Harry calls?" Dobby squeaked.
"Winky is here, Master Harry," Winky curtsied, her eyes darting nervously to Bellatrix.
"I need you to look at her," Harry commanded, pointing a shivering finger at Bellatrix. "Use your magic. Look at her aura, like you examined my scar. Tell me what you feel."
The two elves stepped forward. Dobby narrowed his tennis-ball eyes, tilting his head. Winky followed beside him, both snapping their fingers as magic pulsed out of them.
They stood in silence for a long moment. Then, Winky let out a small whimper and backed away.
"Bad magic," Winky squealed. "Very bad magic. It is... sticky. Black tar on the soul."
Dobby looked up at Harry, his expression grave. "It is the same, Master Harry Potter sir. It is the same shadow that Dobby felt in the diary of Tom Riddle. It is the same shadow that was in the Great Harry Potter's scar."
Harry felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.
Voldemort hadn't just recruited Bellatrix. He hadn't just taught her dark arts. He had put a piece of himself inside her. She wasn't just his lieutenant; she was his puppet.
"Watch her," Harry ordered, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Do not let anyone near her. Do not let her wake."
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Harry spun on his heel and sprinted for the door.
He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The cold of the dungeon was replaced by the warmth of the ground floor, then the plush carpet of the first-floor landing, but Harry felt none of it. He was cold, frozen from the inside out.
He had promised Narcissa. He had promised Andromeda. He had promised to save them. But how could he save someone who carried a piece of the devil's soul? To kill the Horcrux... you had to destroy the vessel.
He needed to speak to them. See if the goblins can do what they did for him.
He reached the door to the guest suite. He didn't bother knocking. He slammed it open, breathless, sweat beading on his forehead, his chest heaving.
"She's a Horcrux!"
~ Narcissa Malfoy ~
The sudden intrusion shattered the delicate peace of the room like a hammer striking glass.
Narcissa had been in the middle of a sentence, a soft reminiscing about the summer they had spent in France when they were barely teenagers. Andromeda, propped up against the pillows, had been smiling—a genuine, albeit weak, smile that had taken years off her face. The air between them had been warm, filled with the scent of lavender tea and the unspoken healing of old wounds.
When the door slammed open, Narcissa was on her feet instantly, her wand sliding into her hand from her sleeve with a practiced fluidity. Andromeda let out a sharp gasp, clutching her chest, her eyes wide with sudden panic.
Harry stood in the doorway. He looked wild. His hair was in disarray, his chest was heaving, and his skin was a sickly shade of pale that made his green eyes burn with an intense, frantic light. He looked less like the confident Lord who had claimed her two nights ago and more like the boy who had seen too much war.
"She's a Horcrux!"
The words hung in the air, heavy and nonsensical to the uninitiated, but terrifyingly clear to those who knew the darkest of arts.
Narcissa froze. Her blood seemed to stop in her veins. The wand in her hand trembled slightly. She stared at Harry, her mind struggling to process the accusation.
"What?" she breathed, the single syllable barely escaping her lips.
Andromeda pushed herself up, wincing as the movement pulled at her healing ribs. "Harry? What are you talking about? What is a... Horcrux?"
Harry stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He paced to the foot of the bed, his hands running through his hair. "Bellatrix. I went down to check on her. Kreacher... he felt it. The elves confirmed it. Her magic is tainted. It feels like the locket. Like my scar."
He looked up at Narcissa, his eyes pleading for her to understand the gravity of this. "She's carrying a piece of his soul, Cissy. He made her into a Horcrux."
Narcissa swayed. She reached out, gripping the back of the emerald chair to steady herself. The room seemed to tilt.
A Horcrux. The vilest of all magic. To tear the soul... that was an abomination. But to place it inside a living being? To use a human—her sister—as a container?
"That... that isn't possible," Narcissa whispered, though the horror dawning in her gut told her otherwise. "Living vessels are unstable. The possession... it would consume the host's mind. It would..."
She stopped. Her grey eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.
The madness. The fanatical devotion. The way Bellatrix had changed, gradually at first, and then all at once after she joined the Death Eaters. The Bellatrix of their youth had been fierce, yes, and proud, but she had possessed a brilliant, sharp mind. She had been capable of love. The creature that had come out of Voldemort's training, the woman who had terrorized the wizarding world, was nothing but a bastardized version of her former self.
"He consumed her," Narcissa whispered, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "He didn't just mark her. He hollowed her out."
Andromeda looked between them, her confusion morphing into terror. "What does it mean? Tell me! What has who done to Bellatrix?"
Harry looked at Andromeda, his face grim. "A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark Wizard hides a fragment of his soul to attain immortality. As long as the Horcrux exists, the wizard cannot die."
Andromeda's face went white. "And you're saying... Bellatrix is..."
"She is Voldemort's," Harry said, his voice cracking. "If she is a Horcrux... then to kill him... we have to..."
He couldn't finish the sentence.
"We have to kill her," Narcissa finished for him, her voice devoid of emotion, hollowed out by shock.
Silence descended on the room. It was a thick, suffocating blanket. Andromeda stared at her hands, tears silently streaming down her face. Narcissa looked at the wall, seeing nothing. The reunion they had just begun to celebrate was crumbling into ash.
"Unless the Goblins can perform what they did for me, I highly doubt they will since Bellatrix's vault housed the Horcrux, we have no other choice," Harry finished, his mind thinking of all possibilities.
"What do you mean? We cannot just kill her!" Andromeda refuted, catching Narcissa and Harry by surprise. Yes, Ted Tonks was just killed by Bellatrix. But if she has not been Bellatrix since they were teenagers, how can she fault her sister for that. A sister who never had the chance to make her own life decisions like she did.
"She's a monster, Andromeda!" Harry snapped, the stress causing him to lash out. "She killed Sirius! She killed Tonks—no, wait, she tried to kill Tonks. She tortured Neville's parents! And she killed your husband! And if she has Voldemort's soul inside her, she isn't even Bellatrix anymore!"
"She is still blood!" Andromeda shouted back, finding a reserve of strength in her anger.
"We might not have a choice!" Harry roared.
"THERE IS ALWAYS A CHOICE!"
The sudden shouting match had been interrupted by a loud pop, silencing the room as all occupants turned towards the source.
CRACK.
Kreacher appeared in the centre of the room. But he was not alone. He was levitating a large, heavy frame covered in a velvet curtain. With a snap of his fingers, the curtain fell away.
It was the portrait of Walburga Black.
Usually, the portrait was a screaming banshee, hurling insults at anyone who dared walk the halls of her home. But tonight, the painted woman was silent. She sat in her painted chair, her expression haughty, severe, but lucid. Her eyes, painted with uncanny realism, swept over the room, landing on Harry, then Andromeda, and finally settling on Narcissa.
"Aunty," Narcissa whispered, reflexively straightening her posture.
"Silence, girl," Walburga commanded, though her tone lacked its usual vitriol. It was grim, heavy with the weight of ancient secrets. "The elf tells me you have discovered the stain on my niece."
Harry stepped forward, his wand still in his hand. "You knew? You knew she was a Horcrux?"
"Do not use that filth's terminology in my presence, half-blood," Walburga sneered, though the insult felt perfunctory. She looked at Harry with a strange mixture of disdain and begrudging respect, her eyes flickering to the rings on his fingers. Potter and Black.
"She is not a Horcrux. Not in the way you think."
"Explain," Harry demanded, his voice hard. "Kreacher said her magic is tainted. The elves confirmed it feels like the soul-shard I carried."
Walburga sighed, a sound that seemed to rustle the painted canvas. She smoothed the skirts of her painted dress. "My brother-in-law Cygnus... he was a weak man. Ambitious, but weak. And Druella... she was desperate for power."
Narcissa and Andromeda exchanged a look. They had rarely heard their aunt speak of their parents with anything other than blind loyalty to the bloodline.
"Bellatrix was the eldest," Walburga continued, her eyes looking into the past. "She was the strongest of you three. The most magically gifted. She was the crown jewel of the House of Black's next generation. But she was... wilful."
Narcissa let out a small, dry laugh. "She was stubborn."
"She refused the betrothal," Walburga stated. "Rodolphus Lestrange was a suitable match. Pure blood, old money. It would have elevated their standing in our faction. But Bellatrix found him dull. She found him beneath her. She refused to marry him. She threatened to run away, much like you did, Andromeda."
Andromeda flinched.
"The Dark Lord was rising," Walburga said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The family needed to secure its position. We needed to show absolute loyalty. Cygnus could not control his daughter. So, he offered her to the Dark Lord. Not just as a follower. But as a... devotee."
Narcissa felt bile rise in her throat. "What did they do?"
Walburga's painted face twisted in a grimace of distaste. "It was the Vinculum Animae. The Soul Bond. It is an ancient rite, forbidden even by our standards. It does not split the soul like a Horcrux. It acts as a... graft."
She looked directly at Harry. "The Dark Lord did not hide his soul in her to stay alive. He forced a piece of his essence into her to enslave her."
The room was deathly silent.
"They put her under the Imperius Curse," Walburga revealed, her voice devoid of pity, stating facts. "For three hours. They broke her mind. And while she was defenceless, the Dark Lord performed the ritual. He poured his magic, his will, his very nature into her core. He bonded her magic to his."
"It is a parasitic bond," Walburga explained. "She feels what he feels. She desires what he desires. Her will was submerged beneath his. The madness... is the result of her soul trying to reject the parasite and failing. She screams because she is burning from the inside out, every second of every day."
Narcissa collapsed into the chair Harry had vacated. She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Bella..."
"She isn't evil?" Harry asked, his voice quiet, stripped of the anger. "She... she didn't choose this?"
"She was proud. She was unnecessarily brutal, perhaps, as all Blacks are," Walburga said haughtily. "But she was not a slave. She was made into a puppet. Every curse she cast, every life she took... it was his will acting through her hands. The Bellatrix you know died twenty years ago on an altar in the drawing room of Lestrange Manor."
Walburga looked at her nieces. "She is not a Horcrux. She is a prisoner in her own body. The shard of his soul acts as the jailer."
Harry felt sick. He felt physically ill. The rage he had felt in the dungeon, the desire to torture her... it felt monstrous now. He had wanted to punish a woman who had been undergoing a continuous torture for two decades.
He looked at Andromeda. Her face was a mask of agony. She was weeping openly now, rocking back and forth. "She didn't choose it. She didn't leave us. She was taken."
"So," Harry said, his voice raspy. "If we kill him... if we destroy the main piece of soul... what happens to her?"
"If the master dies, the parasite dies," Walburga said. "But the shock... it might kill her. Or it might leave her a husk. The bond is deep."
"Is there a way to remove it?" Narcissa asked, looking up, her eyes fierce through her tears. "Can we cut it out?"
"The Vinculum is permanent," Walburga said. "Unless the caster removes it, or the caster is destroyed. However..." She paused. "There are cleansing rituals. Extremely dangerous. They require a wizard of immense power to enter her mind and physically battle the parasite while the body is purged."
Walburga's painted eyes locked onto Harry.
Harry stared back. He felt the weight of his wand, the powers he had inherited from the family magic, thrumming in his veins. He thought of Snape entering his mind. He thought of the connection he already shared with Voldemort.
"I can do it," Harry said. The words were out before he even thought it through.
"You would risk your mind?" Walburga asked skeptically. "To save a woman who has hunted you since birth? Who has brought more loss to you and your friends other than the Dark Lord?"
Harry looked at Narcissa. He saw the desperate hope blooming in her eyes. He looked at Andromeda, who was looking at him, assessing him for all his worth.
"I'm not doing it for her," Harry said firmly. "I'm doing it for them."
He walked over to Narcissa, reaching out to take her hands. They were ice cold. "I won't kill her, Cissy. I promise."
Narcissa gripped his hands so tight her nails dug into his skin. "Thank you. Harry, thank you."
Harry turned to Andromeda. "We have a decision to make. We can leave her in the dungeon, bound and asleep, until the war is over. If I kill Voldemort, she might die from the shock, or she might wake up broken. Or..."
He took a deep breath. "Or we try to save her now. We try to purge the parasite. It will be dangerous. It will hurt her. And if I fail... she dies. And I might be damaged too."
He stepped back, looking at the two sisters. The last of the House of Black.
"It's your choice," Harry said. "She is your sister. You decide her fate. Do we punish her for the things her hands did? Or do we risk everything to save the woman she used to be?"
The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the fire and Andromeda's uneven breathing.
Narcissa stood up slowly. She walked over to the bed and sat down next to Andromeda. The two sisters, separated by years and ideology, now united by a tragedy so profound it defied words.
Narcissa took Andromeda's hand. They looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between them—memories of a girl with wild black hair who used to chase them through the gardens shooting stinging hexes, who used to braid their hair, who used to protect them from the world until the world broke her.
Andromeda squeezed Narcissa's hand. She looked at Harry, her eyes swimming with tears but her jaw set with the determination of a Black.
"We are the House of Black," Andromeda whispered, her voice gaining strength. "And she has always been the best House Black has to offer."
Narcissa turned to Harry, her grey eyes steel. "Save her, Harry. Save our sister."
Harry nodded. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, steely resolve. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was a Lord protecting his house.
"Kreacher," Harry said, his voice commanding. "Prepare the ritual room. Tell Dobby and Winky I need the strongest purging potions we have. Get Appoline and Fleur too, we'll need their help."
He looked back at the sisters.
"Tonight," Harry said, "we take back what he stole."
As he turned to leave, his mind already racing through the spells he would need, he felt a strange sensation. The rage was gone, yes, but in its place was something more dangerous.
Voldemort had taken a girl almost his age, tortured her, and turned her into a weapon against her own family. He had perverted the sanctity of her soul.
Harry Potter had fought for the world. He had fought for his friends. And he would do it again. And again. And again.
He wasn't just going to defeat Voldemort. He was going to obliterate him.
He wanted every single taint of the nose-less bastard wiped clean off their world.
He walked out of the room, his magic bellowing out of him, the shadows of Grimmauld Place parting to let the Lord Black pass.
Down in the dungeon, in the dark and the damp, Bellatrix Lestrange slept on. But for the first time in twenty years, she was not alone.
Her family was coming for her.
Author's Note
Short scene on Bellatrix's fate. She will join the harem too. The next chapter will be Bellatrix's rescue and her obsession with Harry shall begin. Let me know your thoughts down below, motivation really helps with writing more often.
See you soon.