Chapter Text
The cold had teeth.
Bellatrix pressed her spine against the stone wall of her cell and felt the damp seep through the thin fabric of her prison robes. Thirteen years, and the cold still bit just as sharp as the first day they’d thrown her in here. Some of the prisoners had stopped feeling it — stopped feeling anything at all. They sat in their own filth, muttering nonsense to the darkness, their minds picked clean by the Dementors until nothing remained but hollow shells.
She wasn’t one of them.
Her mind burnt bright and vicious behind her eyes, fed by memories the Dementors couldn’t touch. They circled outside her door in their rotting cloaks, seeking joy to drain, happiness to devour, but Bellatrix had learnt their weakness years ago: the creatures could not breach her Occlumency shields. Still, they made her feel powerless, so she clung to memories soaked in blood and ecstasy, in the crack of breaking bones and the beautiful arc of green light. The night she’d tortured the Longbottoms until their minds shattered like glass. The weight of her Master’s hand on her face. The taste of power and violence and absolute devotion.
The Dementors hovered near her cell and sensed only darkness that matched their own. They moved on, searching for easier prey.
Bellatrix flexed her fingers, watching the bones press against her skin. She’d been beautiful once. Still was, beneath the grime and the hollow cheeks. Beauty was in the bones, her mother used to say, and the Blacks had always had excellent bones. Even now, wasted and thin, she could feel that truth in the sharp lines of her face, the elegant length of her throat.
Vanity. Yes, but vanity kept her powerful, and she’d been stripped of so much power in this place. Her wand. Her magic, reduced to the bare minimum that kept her alive. Her freedom. Her Master — her Lord, gone, taken from her thirteen years ago by that wretched child. She’d screamed herself hoarse that first month in Azkaban, raging against the walls until her throat bled. How dare they imprison her? How dare they take her from him?
But rage burnt itself out eventually, leaving only ash and the grinding boredom of captivity.
The boredom might actually kill her before the cold did.
Bellatrix shifted on the stone floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Every day the same grey walls. The same rancid gruel shoved through the bars. The same screams echoing from other cells, tapering off one by one as the prisoners lost themselves to madness. Even Rodolphus had stopped screaming months ago. She’d heard his voice change in his cell down the corridor — from defiant roars to confused mumbling to silence.
Her husband. Her loyal, devoted husband.
She closed her eyes and saw his face the last time they’d been in the same room: the courtroom, chained to separate chairs while Barty Crouch Senior sentenced them all to life in this tomb. Rodolphus had looked at her with such desperate hunger, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the jeering crowd.
He had taken curses meant for her more than once, had killed for her, had followed her into darkness without question. The thought should have brought her some satisfaction. Instead it just sat there.
Footsteps in the corridor jerked her from her thoughts.
Not the shambling footsteps of a Dementor — they glided, silent as death. These were human steps, quick and important, accompanied by voices. Bellatrix tilted her head, listening. Her hearing had sharpened in the absence of other stimuli. She could distinguish between Aurors easily now: the heavy tread of Dawlish, the nervous scurrying of the new visitor whose name she’d never learnt, the measured pace of the warden.
But this voice —
‘—perfectly safe, Minister, I assure you. The wards are impenetrable, and the Dementors are under strict control—’
Bellatrix’s breath caught.
Minister.
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the way her head spun from the sudden movement. Her legs shook — she’d been sitting too long — but she locked her knees and pressed her palms against the wall until the dizziness passed. Then she moved to the bars, gripping them, positioning herself where the torchlight would catch her face just right.
The voice grew closer. That pompous, self-important tone she remembered from her first trial, from that ridiculous man who’d stood beside Crouch and preened like a peacock. Cornelius Fudge. He’d been Junior Undersecretary then, barely worth noticing, but she’d heard whispers before her arrest that he’d climbed the ranks, slithered his way into power through careful politics and shameless flattery.
And now he was Minister for Magic.
The memory surfaced sharp and bitter: his last visit to Azkaban. Years ago now — six? Seven? Time blurred in this place. He’d walked past her cell during an inspection, and she’d been too raw still, too consumed by rage at her imprisonment. He’d looked at her through the bars, and something in his expression had made her lip curl with pure contempt.
‘Enjoy the view, do you?’ she’d hissed at him. ‘Get a good look at what your precious Ministry does to the noble families?’
He’d flushed red, stammering something about justice and consequences, but his eyes had lingered on her face even as he’d hurried past, and in that moment — that single, crystalline moment — she’d seen it: desire, fascination, the particular hunger of a mediocre man faced with something magnificent.
She’d laughed at him. Mocking, dismissive. Watched him scurry away like a rat.
The regret had come later, gnawing at her in the endless dark hours. She’d had an opportunity and thrown it away because of her pride, her inability to pretend, her constitutional inability to play the weak maiden. Even now, years later, the memory made her want to snarl. She was a Black, born to one of the oldest Pureblood families in Britain, wife to a Lestrange, most devoted servant of the Dark Lord —
Most imprisoned servant of the Dark Lord.
She forced her breathing to slow. This was her second chance. She wouldn’t waste it because her pride stung and her skin itched to curse anyone who looked at her wrong. She’d spent thirteen years in this tomb. She’d endure anything — anything — to get out.
The torchlight brightened. Footsteps stopped outside her cell.
Bellatrix looked up.
Cornelius Fudge stood on the other side of the bars, flanked by a nervous-looking guard. He was older than she remembered — greying at the temples, lines around his eyes, a certain softness to his jaw that spoke of comfortable living. He wore expensive robes in a shade of forest green that clashed slightly with his complexion, a clear attempt at looking authoritative that fell just short. The guard beside him clutched his wand, ready to cast protective charms at the first sign of danger.
But Fudge’s eyes — those went straight to her face, widening in what might have been shock or recognition or something else entirely.
‘You,’ he said, his voice less steady than it had been in the corridor. ‘You’re…’
Bellatrix inclined her head slowly, calling on every scrap of breeding her mother had beaten into her bones. Even filthy, even starved, she was still a Black. ‘Minister Fudge.’ Her voice came out hoarse — she so rarely used it these days — but clear. ‘How kind of you to visit.’
The guard shifted, clearly uncomfortable with a prisoner who could still form coherent sentences. Fudge himself seemed caught between surprise and something else, his gaze sweeping over her face, her hollow cheeks, the dark fall of her matted hair.
‘Bellatrix Lestrange,’ Fudge said, recovering some of his ministerial bearing. He tugged at the hem of his robes. ‘I’m conducting a routine inspection of the facility. Ensuring the prisoners are being…held appropriately.’
‘Held.’ The word tasted bitter on her tongue. Bellatrix tightened her grip on the bars, felt the cold metal bite into her palms. Every instinct screamed at her to rage, to spit in his face, to tell him exactly what she thought of him and his Ministry and his ridiculous self-importance, but she’d survived thirteen years by clinging to memories of her Master, and her Master had always valued cunning alongside cruelty.
She needed this man.
The thought made her stomach turn, but she swallowed the revulsion and made herself hold his gaze. ‘You look well, Minister. Power suits you.’
Fudge blinked, clearly not expecting civility, or perhaps not expecting her to be capable of it. Most of the prisoners in Azkaban could barely remember their own names, let alone observe social pleasantries.
‘I — yes, well.’ He cleared his throat, tugging at his robes again. A nervous gesture. Good. ‘The position comes with certain…responsibilities.’
‘Of course it does.’ Bellatrix shifted her weight, angling herself so the torchlight caught her face more fully. She’d lost weight, yes, and her skin had gone sallow from lack of sun, but the bones were still there. She watched Fudge’s eyes track the movement, saw his throat work as he swallowed. ‘I’m sure you carry them admirably. The Ministry is fortunate to have someone of your…calibre.’
God, the words nearly choked her. Fudge was a bureaucratic worm, all pompous self-importance and no spine, but she forced warmth into her tone, made her lips curve upwards in something approximating a smile.
The guard shot her a suspicious look, but Fudge — Fudge was leaning slightly closer to the bars, his expression almost confused, like he couldn’t quite reconcile the woman before him with the screaming, wild-eyed prisoner from years ago.
‘You seem…’ Fudge paused, choosing his words carefully. His fingers drummed against his thigh. ‘Different. More composed than the others I’ve seen today.’
‘The others have given themselves to madness.’ Bellatrix allowed bitterness to colour her voice — real bitterness, easy to access. Her jaw clenched despite her best efforts, rage threatening to spill over at the thought of those empty shells in the cells around her. She was not like them. Would never be like them. ‘I haven’t that luxury. I remember everything.’
‘Everything?’ Fudge’s voice had dropped lower, taking on an almost intimate quality despite the guard’s presence.
Bellatrix’s hands trembled on the bars. Not from fear or grief — from fury at herself, at this humiliating charade, at having to play weak when every fibre of her being screamed to stand proud, but Fudge would interpret it however he wanted. That was the only advantage to her inability to dissemble properly: her genuine emotions were so strong they could be read multiple ways. The rage that made her shake could look like fear. The hatred in her eyes could pass for haunted memory.
‘Everything I’ve done,’ she said, her voice rougher now. She couldn’t smooth it out, couldn’t make herself sound gentle. The words came sharp-edged and raw. ‘Everything that was done to me.’
Fudge went very still. ‘What do you mean by that, Mrs Lestrange?’
Mrs Lestrange. The name sat like poison on her tongue. She’d been joyful once, marrying into the Lestrange family, binding herself to Rodolphus who’d seemed powerful and devoted and exactly the sort of Pureblood her family expected, and he’d been devoted — too devoted, following her into darkness not because he believed as fiercely as she did, but because he loved her with desperate, jealous intensity.
She couldn’t think about that now.
‘My husband,’ she said, and the word came out strangled despite her efforts. She saw Fudge lean even closer, saw his eyes widen slightly. ‘Rodolphus was…’ How did weak women speak? How did victims tell their stories? Bellatrix had never been weak, never been a victim, and the lies fought her every breath. ‘He was consumed by the Dark Lord’s cause. Utterly devoted to…You-Know-Who.’
Fudge flinched at the name, even spoken indirectly. Pathetic.
‘And you?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now. The guard had taken a step back, perhaps sensing he was witnessing something inappropriate. ‘Were you equally devoted?’
Yes, and more than just to the cause — to the man. To the Dark Lord himself, to his power and his vision and everything they had. Bellatrix felt her face flush, felt heat rush through her at the memory of kneeling before him, of his cold fingers lifting her chin, of his voice wrapping around her.
She couldn’t let Fudge see that. Couldn’t let him glimpse even a fraction of the truth.
‘I was young,’ she said instead, forcing the words out past the rage in her throat. ‘So young. Barely nineteen when—’ She stopped, shook her head. Her hair fell across her face, greasy and tangled, and she let it hide her expression for a moment while she fought for control. ‘I thought I knew what I wanted. Thought I understood what marriage meant.’
‘But you didn’t?’ Fudge pressed. He was gripping the bars now too, his pudgy fingers just inches from hers.
‘I thought I loved him. Rodolphus was powerful. Connected to people I’d been raised to admire. When he said we were going to find the Dark Lord’s location from the Longbottoms—’ She stopped again, and this time the tremor in her voice was genuine fury at having to debase herself like this. ‘When he told me it was my duty as his wife to help, I didn’t — I couldn’t—’
‘You were frightened,’ Fudge said, and there was something almost eager in his tone now, like he wanted to believe this narrative, wanted to cast himself as the clever one who’d seen through the lies.
Bellatrix lifted her gaze to his and knew she had to be careful here. She’d never been good at lying, at pretending to be something she wasn’t. Her emotions burnt too bright, too obvious. Even now she could feel them threatening to explode — rage at the humiliation, desperation for freedom, hatred of this prison and this pathetic man and herself for having to grovel, but she could aim those emotions, direct them, let Fudge interpret them through his own delusions.
‘I was terrified,’ she said, and let her voice shake, let Fudge see the fever brightness in her eyes, the wild edge that came from thirteen years of hell, for he’d read it as fear when really it was fury, ‘of the Longbottoms, of what we were about to do, but more—’ She stopped, bit her lip hard enough to hurt. The pain helped centre her. ‘More terrified of him. Of Rodolphus. Of disappointing him. Of what he’d do if I refused.’
Fudge made a soft sound of horror. ‘Did he hurt you?’
The question was so absurd that Bellatrix nearly laughed. Rodolphus had worshipped her, but she couldn’t say that.
‘He didn’t need to,’ she said instead, her voice dropping lower and more intimate. ‘He just had to remind me what happened to wives who disobeyed their husbands. What the Dark Lord did to followers who disappointed him.’ She paused, then added with vicious honesty, ‘I saw what the Cruciatus Curse could do to a person. Saw it before that night at the Longbottoms’. I knew—’ Her voice broke, and this time it was because she was remembering the ecstasy of casting that curse herself, the savage joy of watching someone writhe and scream. She couldn’t let Fudge see that satisfaction, so she turned it into something else, something that looked like horror. ‘I knew what would happen if I said no. If I tried to leave.’
‘God,’ Fudge breathed. His face had gone pale, but his eyes — his eyes were fever-bright, drinking in every word. ‘That’s…that’s monstrous, and no one knew? No one helped you?’
‘Who would believe me?’ Bellatrix lifted her hands from the bars, held them out so Fudge could see how thin she’d become, how the bones pressed against her skin. ‘I was Bellatrix Lestrange, devoted Death Eater, married to Rodolphus. At the trial, when Crouch sentenced us—’ She stopped, swallowed hard. ‘I thought about speaking. Thought about telling them the truth, but Rodolphus was right there, and he looked at me, and I knew—’ Her voice went even rougher, scraping out of her throat. ‘He told me before the trial that if I spoke against him, if I tried to save myself, he’d make certain my younger sister paid the price. Narcissa. She had a young child then, barely a year old. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t let him hurt her.’
That, at least, had the ring of truth to it. Even now, thinking of Narcissa married to Lucius, raising Draco in that cold manor, made something twist in Bellatrix’s chest.
She hadn’t stayed silent for Narcissa. She’d stayed silent because she’d been proud, because even in chains she’d been defiant, because she’d looked up at Crouch and his council of fools and thought I regret nothing.
The lies kept coming, each one scraping her throat raw. ‘So I said nothing. Let them sentence me. Let everyone think I was just as guilty as Rodolphus, just as devoted to You-Know-Who’s cause, and I’ve been here ever since, thirteen years, remembering everything.’ She lifted her gaze back to Fudge’s face, let him see the desperate hunger there. ‘Thinking about what I did. What I was forced to do. What I could have done differently if I’d been braver.’
Fudge was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling rapidly. ‘Why tell me this? Why now?’
Because you’re weak and vain and I need you, Bellatrix thought viciously. Because you’re my only chance at freedom, and I’ll say anything, do anything, endure anything to get out of this tomb.
But aloud she just said, very softly, ‘Because you’re here. Because you’re the Minister, and maybe—’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘No. It’s foolish. Never mind.’
‘Tell me,’ Fudge said urgently. ‘Please. I want to understand.’
The ‘please’ was what convinced her the hook had sunk deep. Men like Fudge didn’t beg unless they were already halfway to believing whatever fantasy they’d constructed.
‘Because you seem kind,’ Bellatrix said, forcing the words out even as her pride screamed in protest. ‘Because maybe, just maybe, someone with power would actually listen. Would see past the propaganda and the lies and the assumptions everyone made about me.’ She paused, then added with savage sincerity, ‘I have nothing to gain from telling you this. I’m already here. Already sentenced to rot until I die. I just—’ Her voice broke again, and this time she couldn’t tell if it was from rage or desperation or something else entirely. ‘I wanted someone to know the truth. Even if it changes nothing.’
Fudge stared at her for a long moment, his face cycling through several expressions — shock, sympathy, fascination, and underneath it all, that same hunger she’d seen years ago. The guard shifted uncomfortably behind him, clearly wanting to move on, but Fudge waved him off without looking.
‘I spoke to Sirius Black earlier today,’ Fudge said abruptly, his voice rough. ‘During my inspection. He seemed…remarkably sane, considering. The Dementors barely touch him. Almost like they can’t find purchase in his mind.’
Bellatrix’s heart lurched — Sirius, that blood traitor, that disgrace to the Black name. Her cousin, the boy who’d grown into a man who spat on everything their family stood for, but she kept her face still, tilted her head slightly. Curious, not hostile. ‘My cousin.’
‘Yes. He mentioned you, actually.’ Fudge watched her face carefully. ‘Said you were always the clever one. The one who knew what she wanted. The one who was never confused about anything.’ He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘That doesn’t sound like someone who was coerced.’
Clever, clever Sirius. Even in Azkaban, even mad with grief over the Potters and his own betrayal, he still saw through her. Bellatrix felt a strange twist of something like respect beneath her contempt for his life choices, but she couldn’t afford to let Fudge see that. Couldn’t afford to slip now.
‘Sirius left the family when he was still at Hogwarts,’ she said carefully, keeping her voice level despite the rage that wanted to spill out. ‘He thought he knew me. Thought he understood what I wanted, what I believed.’ She paused, then continued with perfect honesty, ‘But people change, Minister. Especially when they’re married to someone who…who breaks them down piece by piece until they don’t recognise themselves anymore.’
That wasn’t true — Rodolphus had never broken her, could never have broken her — but Fudge would hear what he wanted to hear.
‘Rodolphus was very good at breaking things,’ she added softly, and that was true in its own way. Rodolphus could break curses, break wards, break bones with elegant viciousness. What he’d never been good at was breaking her.
‘And you never fought back?’ Fudge asked, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. ‘Never tried to resist?’
‘Once.’ The word came out before Bellatrix could stop it, carried on a wave of genuine emotion. Not memory of resisting Rodolphus — that had never happened — but memory of a time she’d questioned the Dark Lord’s strategy, suggested a different approach during a raid. He’d looked at her with those red eyes, and for a moment she’d thought he’d curse her. Instead he’d listened, considered, and then told her why her idea wouldn’t work. The memory made her flush even now, made her breath catch at how he’d listened to her, taken her seriously —
She couldn’t let Fudge see that. Quickly she turned the memory into something else, something useful. ‘I tried to refuse. To tell Rodolphus I wouldn’t help with the Longbottoms, and he—’ She stopped, her whole body going tense. This part was harder, forcing herself to describe violence that had never happened. ‘He made certain I understood the consequences of disobedience.’
Fudge’s face had gone white. ‘He used the Cruciatus Curse on you?’
No. Never. Rodolphus had cast that curse on others at her side, with her, for her — but never on her, but Bellatrix let her silence stretch, let Fudge draw his own conclusions. Let him see her tense shoulders, her clenched jaw, the tremor in her hands that was really fury.
‘I learnt not to resist,’ she said finally, and that at least was close to truth. She’d learnt early that resistance to the Dark Lord was futile — but she’d never wanted to resist him anyway. Only to serve him, to please him.
‘That’s—’ Fudge stopped, seemed to struggle with himself. ‘That’s appalling. If what you’re saying is true, if Rodolphus truly coerced you—’
‘Why would I lie?’ Bellatrix interrupted, and almost laughed at the irony. She was lying with every breath, twisting her past into something unrecognisable, betraying her own truth for this pathetic chance at freedom, but she held Fudge’s gaze and let him see the desperation that was absolutely real even if its source was not what he imagined. ‘What do I gain from this? I’m already here. Already sentenced. Already forgotten by everyone who ever knew me. I’m telling you because—’ She stopped, bit her lip again. ‘Because maybe someone should know the truth. Even if that someone is you, even if you do nothing with the information, at least I’ll have said it aloud. At least someone will know I wasn’t—’ Her voice cracked. ‘That I wasn’t the monster everyone thinks I am.’
But she was a monster. She knew it, embraced it, gloried in it. The things she’d done to the Longbottoms — she’d do them again in a heartbeat. Would do worse if her Master commanded it.
Fudge was practically pressed against the bars now, his eyes wide and dark in the torchlight. ‘You’re not a monster,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You’re a victim. A victim of your husband’s cruelty and the Dark Lord’s evil—’
‘Don’t call him that,’ Bellatrix snapped before she could stop herself.
The words hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. Fudge recoiled slightly, and Bellatrix cursed herself for the slip. Too genuine. Too revealing. She couldn’t afford to show her true feelings about the Dark Lord, couldn’t let Fudge see the devotion that still burnt hot and fierce in her chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, dropping her gaze. ‘I just — it’s hard to hear. Even his name. Even after everything.’ She forced a tremor into her voice, made herself small, vulnerable. ‘It brings back too many memories. Too much fear.’
Fudge’s expression softened, the suspicion fading. Good. He wanted to believe her, wanted to be the clever one who saw past the lies everyone else believed. ‘Of course. I understand. It must be difficult—’
‘You can’t possibly understand,’ Bellatrix said, and for once she wasn’t lying. Fudge couldn’t understand what it was like to worship someone with every fibre of your being, to feel complete only when lying beside them. He couldn’t understand devotion that deep, that consuming. ‘You have a good marriage, don’t you? A wife who loves you? A normal life?’
Fudge’s face did something complicated. ‘I — yes. Amelia and I have been married for…’ He trailed off, his expression going distant. ‘Twenty-seven years.’
‘Twenty-seven years of partnership,’ Bellatrix said softly, watching his face. ‘Of respect and trust and—’ She stopped, let her voice break. ‘I had eleven years of marriage before we were arrested. Eleven years of pretending everything was normal while Rodolphus dragged me deeper into darkness, and now thirteen years of this place, remembering everything, unable to forget or move on or—’ She lifted her gaze back to his face, let him see the wild desperation there. ‘Do you know what it’s like, Minister? To be trapped with your memories? To relive your worst moments over and over because there’s nothing else to think about?’
‘The Dementors—’ Fudge started.
‘The Dementors barely touch me,’ Bellatrix interrupted. ‘Because the worst moments of my life weren’t happy. They were terrifying, and terror isn’t what the Dementors want.’ She paused, then added with vicious honesty, ‘So I remember everything. Every curse, every scream, every moment of horror. While the others around me forget themselves into madness, I stay sharp. Stay aware. Stay trapped in this body, in this cell, with nothing but my guilt and my regrets.’
Fudge was staring at her with something like awe now. ‘How are you even still sane?’
‘I’m not sure I am,’ Bellatrix said quietly. ‘Sometimes I think I died in the courtroom and this is just hell, stretching on forever. Other times I think I died during the Longbottom attack and everything since has been punishment. The Dementors, the cold, the endless grey—’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘But then you came, and for the first time in thirteen years, someone actually looked at me. Saw me as more than just another Death Eater to be forgotten.’
Fudge’s breathing had gone ragged. ‘I see you,’ he said, and his voice was strange, thick with emotion Bellatrix couldn’t quite identify. ‘I see…’ He stopped, seemed to struggle with himself. ‘Such beauty shouldn’t be wasted here. It’s criminal.’
There — that flash in his eyes. The same one from years ago when he’d walked past her cell. Want and fascination. The dangerous combination of desire and delusion that made mediocre men think they were heroes.
Bellatrix forced herself to soften her expression, to let some vulnerability show through the cracks. It wasn’t hard; she was vulnerable here, stripped of everything that mattered. She just had to aim that vulnerability at him like a weapon. ‘Beauty fades, Minister. In a place like this, it fades faster than you’d think.’ She lifted one hand to her face, touched her hollow cheek. ‘I was considered quite beautiful once. Before Azkaban. Before—’ She stopped, dropped her hand. ‘Now I’m just…this.’
‘You’re still beautiful,’ Fudge said urgently, and took a half-step closer to the bars. The guard made a small sound of warning, but Fudge ignored him. ‘Even here, even like this — you’re extraordinary.’
Bellatrix felt her face flush, and not from pleasure. The compliment made her skin crawl, made her want to snarl at him that she didn’t need his praise, didn’t want his pitying desire, but she swallowed the rage and made herself hold his gaze. ‘You’re kind to say so.’
‘I’m not being kind,’ Fudge said, and his voice had gone rough, intimate. ‘I’m being honest. When I saw you years ago, during my last inspection — I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what a waste it was, someone like you locked away here. Someone so young, so—’ He stopped himself, cleared his throat. ‘I should have asked more questions then. Should have looked into your case more carefully.’
‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ Bellatrix said softly. ‘I was convicted. Sentenced. Everyone believed I was guilty—’
‘But if you weren’t,’ Fudge interrupted. ‘If Rodolphus coerced you, if you were forced into those actions—’ He leant even closer, his face now just inches from the bars. ‘The Ministry values mercy, Mrs Lestrange. Justice. If there was even a possibility that you were wrongly convicted—’
‘There’s no evidence,’ Bellatrix said quickly, because she needed to seem realistic, needed to make him work for this. ‘No proof. Just my word against—’ She stopped, swallowed. ‘Against everything. The trial testimony. The public opinion. The assumption that anyone married to Lestrange must be just as guilty.’
‘Your word matters,’ Fudge said fiercely. ‘You’re a woman, not just a criminal. You deserve to be heard. To have your story told.’
God, he actually believed it. Actually thought himself the hero of this narrative, the clever Minister who’d seen past the lies to the truth beneath. Bellatrix wanted to laugh and scream in equal measure.
Instead she just said, very quietly, ‘What would you have me do, Minister? I’m trapped here. Voiceless. Even if I shouted my innocence from the rooftops, who would listen?’
‘I would,’ Fudge said. ‘I am listening. Right now.’
Bellatrix stared at him, let the moment stretch, let him see her measuring him, considering him, weighing whether to trust him. Finally she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘If you truly wanted to help me — if you really believed what I’ve told you — what could you even do? The law is clear. My sentence is final. There’s no appeal process for Death Eaters, no chance at parole or review.’ She paused, then added with perfect despair, ‘I’ll die here. That’s always been the plan. I’ll grow old and grey in this cell, surrounded by madness, until one day my heart simply stops.’
‘No,’ Fudge said sharply. ‘That’s not—’ He stopped, glanced at the guard who was watching them with increasing unease. ‘That doesn’t have to be your future.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Bellatrix challenged. ‘The only way I leave this place is dead. Unless—’ She stopped herself deliberately, looked away.
‘Unless what?’ Fudge pressed.
‘Nothing. It’s impossible.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
Bellatrix met his eyes again and knew this was the moment. Everything hinged on how she played this. She couldn’t push too hard or he’d suspect manipulation. Couldn’t pull back too much or he’d lose interest. She needed to dangle the possibility without seeming to reach for it herself.
‘Unless someone with authority decided my case deserved review,’ she said slowly. ‘Someone powerful enough to look past public opinion and political pressure. Someone brave enough to risk their reputation on the possibility that I’m telling the truth.’ She paused, then added with bitter certainty, ‘But no one like that exists. Everyone’s too concerned with appearances, with maintaining the status quo. With being seen as tough on Death Eaters, even the ones who—’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘Never mind. It’s a fantasy. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘I could do it,’ Fudge said suddenly, and Bellatrix’s heart leapt even as she kept her face blank. ‘I’m the Minister. I have the authority to review cases, to order re-examination of evidence—’
‘You’d never,’ Bellatrix interrupted. ‘The political cost would be enormous. Releasing a convicted Death Eater? The public would crucify you. Your career would be over.’ She paused, then added more softly, ‘I couldn’t ask that of you. Couldn’t let you sacrifice everything for someone you barely know.’
‘You’re not asking,’ Fudge said. ‘I’m offering. If what you’ve told me is true—’
‘It is,’ Bellatrix said fiercely, and that intensity, at least, was genuine. Everything she felt was genuine — the desperation, the hunger for freedom, the wild hope rising in her chest. She just let Fudge misinterpret the source of those feelings. ‘Every word. I swear it on my magic, on my family name, on everything I am.’
Fudge stared at her for a long moment, his face cycling through several expressions. Then he glanced at the guard again. ‘Leave us. Wait at the end of the corridor.’
The guard’s eyes widened. ‘Minister, I don’t think that’s wise—’
‘That wasn’t a request,’ Fudge said sharply, and for a moment Bellatrix glimpsed the political cunning that had got him this far. ‘Go. Now.’
The guard hesitated, then turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Fudge waited until the sound faded completely before speaking again.
‘I need to know something,’ he said quietly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. ‘And I need you to answer honestly. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ Bellatrix said immediately.
‘If I helped you — if I found a way to get you out of here — what would you do? Where would you go?’
The question was loaded with implications Bellatrix didn’t fully understand yet, but she knew what answer he wanted, what fantasy he was constructing in his mind. So she gave it to him.
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, because she truly didn’t know where the Dark Lord was, if he was even still out there. ‘I have no home anymore. Rodolphus’s parents are dead, and so are mine. The rest of my family—’ She stopped, swallowed. ‘Narcissa has her own life now. Her husband, her son. I couldn’t burden her with my presence, and Andromeda—’ The name came out bitter. ‘She left the family years ago. Married a Mudblood. She wouldn’t take me in even if I begged.’
‘So you’d be alone,’ Fudge said softly. ‘Completely alone. No support, no protection, no resources.’
‘Yes.’ Bellatrix met his eyes, let him see the desperation there. ‘But I’d be free, and that would be enough. Even if I had to live as a beggar, even if I had to hide for the rest of my life — at least I’d be out of this place. At least I’d be able to feel the sun on my face again, to breathe air that doesn’t taste of decay.’ Her voice cracked. ‘At least I’d have a chance to be something other than a prisoner.’
Fudge was breathing heavily again, his hands gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had gone white. ‘I could help you,’ he said. ‘Not just with getting out — with everything after. A place to stay while you recovered from…’ He gestured vaguely at her emaciated form. ‘From this.’
Bellatrix’s pulse quickened. This was it — the offer she’d been angling for without seeming to angle, but she had to play this carefully. Had to seem reluctant, uncertain. ‘I couldn’t accept that. It wouldn’t be right. You’re married, you have a position to protect—’
‘I have resources my wife doesn’t know about,’ Fudge interrupted, and something in his voice made Bellatrix’s skin crawl. ‘Properties registered under other names. Gold in private vaults. Ways of moving about undetected.’ He paused, seemed to realise how that sounded. ‘For security purposes, you understand. The Minister has enemies. I need places I can go if there’s an emergency.’
‘Of course,’ Bellatrix said, keeping her voice neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in her head. Fudge was already planning this, already constructing the logistics of keeping her hidden. The hook had sunk deeper than she’d realised.
‘I could arrange for your release,’ Fudge continued, his words coming faster now. ‘Quietly. Without public record. No one would need to know you’d left Azkaban — I could spread word that you’d died, that your body was disposed of according to protocol, and then—’ He stopped, his face flushing. ‘Then I could take you somewhere safe. Help you recover. Give you a chance to—’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but Bellatrix could see it in his eyes: a chance to be grateful, to be indebted, to him.
The realisation made her stomach turn, but she kept her expression carefully hopeful. ‘You’d do that for me? Risk everything for someone you barely know?’
‘I know enough,’ Fudge said hoarsely. ‘I know you were wronged. I know you deserve better than this, and I—’ He stopped himself, cleared his throat. ‘The Ministry failed you. I failed you, when I walked past your cell years ago and did nothing. Let me make that right.’
Bellatrix stared at him, let the moment stretch until it was almost unbearable. Then, slowly, she lifted one hand from the bars and reached towards him through the gap. Her fingers trembled — not from fear, but from the effort of not grabbing his throat and squeezing — but Fudge would interpret it as hope, as trust.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what else to say. Just…thank you.’
Fudge’s hand came up to meet hers, his soft fingers closing around her skeletal ones. His touch made her skin crawl, but she forced herself not to flinch, forced herself to let him hold her hand like they were conspirators, like they were something more than captor and prisoner.
‘I’ll need time to arrange everything,’ Fudge said quietly. ‘To set up the safe house, to falsify the records, to ensure no one questions your absence. A few weeks, perhaps a month—’
‘I’ve waited thirteen years,’ Bellatrix said. ‘I can wait a few more weeks.’ She paused, then squeezed his hand gently. ‘As long as I know there’s hope. As long as I know someone sees me as more than just a number in a cell.’
‘I see you,’ Fudge said again, and his voice had gone thick with emotion. ‘I promise you, Bellatrix — may I call you Bellatrix?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out before she could stop it, carried on a wave of desperate need to make this work. She was so close now. So close to freedom.
‘Bellatrix.’ He said her name like a prayer, like something precious. ‘I promise you won’t die here. I’ll get you out, and then—’ He stopped, seemed to struggle with himself. ‘And then we’ll see. We’ll see what comes next.’
Bellatrix knew exactly what he thought would come next. Could see it written clear across his face: gratitude that would turn into dependence that would turn into something else, something that made her want to curse him until he screamed, but she just nodded, kept her expression soft and hopeful and grateful.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness—’
‘You deserve everything,’ Fudge interrupted fiercely. ‘You deserve to be happy, to be safe, to be—’ He stopped himself again, but not before Bellatrix saw the hunger flash through his eyes. ‘I’ll make this right. I swear it.’
He released her hand finally, stepped back from the bars. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven. The guard was calling from down the corridor, asking if everything was all right.
‘Yes,’ Fudge called back, not taking his eyes off Bellatrix. ‘Everything’s fine. We’re finished here.’
But as he turned to leave, he looked back one more time, and in that moment, Bellatrix saw everything she needed to see: desire and the particular brand of arrogant pity that made weak men dangerous.
‘Soon,’ he mouthed at her.
Bellatrix nodded, let her lips curve into something approximating a smile. She watched him disappear down the corridor, his footsteps quick and purposeful.
Then she sank to the floor, pressed her forehead against the cold bars, and let the mask drop completely.
Her whole body was shaking now — reaction, rage, the desperate, clawing need to survive overwhelming everything else. She’d done it. She’d actually done it. Played the victim, the coerced wife, the broken beauty. Everything she despised, everything that went against her nature. The lies had scraped her throat raw. The guilt over Rodolphus sat like lead in her stomach — he’d been nothing but loyal, nothing but devoted, and she’d just thrown him to the wolves to save herself.
But she’d done it.
And Fudge would come back. He would arrange her release, take her somewhere safe, give her the resources she needed to find her Master.
Bellatrix closed her eyes and reached for the only memory that could calm the storm inside her: the Dark Lord’s face, his red eyes gleaming in firelight, his cold voice wrapping around her like silk. My dear Bella..
She’d find him again. Somehow, somewhere, he was still out there — scattered, weakened, but not destroyed. She knew it in her bones, in her magic, in the fierce certainty that had sustained her through thirteen years of hell. The Dark Lord could not die. Not permanently. Not when he’d taken such steps to ensure his immortality.
And when she found him — when, not if — she’d tell him everything she’d done to return to him. Every lie. Every moment of playing weak when all she wanted was to burn this prison down and dance in the ashes.
He’d understand. He’d always understood her better than anyone else.
Bellatrix opened her eyes and looked at the grey walls of her cell. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of cold and damp and endless, grinding boredom, but maybe — maybe — not much longer.
She’d endured torture. She’d endured Azkaban. She could endure Cornelius Fudge.
The thought made her laugh, high and wild and sharp. The sound bounced off the walls, making the Dementors outside her door pause, but they didn’t enter. They never did, not when her laughter held that particular quality.
Bellatrix Lestrange had just played the weakest, most pathetic version of herself that she could stomach. She had grovelled and lied and twisted everything she believed into something palatable for a Ministry bureaucrat who thought himself important.
Inside, she was still herself. Still fierce. Still devoted. Still burning with the need to find her Master and resume her rightful place at his side.
Cornelius Fudge thought he’d seen a broken woman begging for mercy, but he had no idea what was really waiting for him.
Bellatrix rested her head against the bars and smiled into the darkness, sharp and vicious and full of wild, desperate hope.
Soon.