Snowflake, Part One

Author's Notes

Bellatrix's middle name, Aludra, is my own creation; this isn't a canon fact, so don't think you missed anything. Aludra is a star in the Canis Major constellation and means 'the maiden' or 'the virgin' in Arabic. I choose to go with the former interpretation in this story.

Canonically, Tom showed up at Hogwarts only one time after leaving: when he was applying for the job as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in 1957. However, I'm going to be radical and change things around.

What happened to him from 1957 to 1970? Nothing? I am going to infer that Tom came back to Hogwarts at some point in the 1960s...in this case, 1967...in order to scope out possible Death Eater candidates. As of right now, many of his followers are young: Bellatrix and Rodolphus are only sixteen, Lucius is thirteen, and Narcissa is only twelve.

Snowflake, Part One

1967

Slowly, delicately, a snowflake floated softly by a lighted window; its translucent arms, fractured and fissured beneath a thin coating of outer-layer ice, sparkled jewel-like in the yellow sheen thrown from the nearby behemoth building. The lone snowflake scudded closer to the building, bumping insistently against the paned glass as its quivering, fragile body strove to enter. All that existed for the snowflake was the allure of unknown worlds behind the glass pane, yet while it raged its silent battle against the windowpane, countless other restless ice-shapes flitted silently by in the deep blue winter's night, ignoring their companion's soundless struggle. But the snowflake, too, seemed ignorant of the serene passage of its fellows, for it neglected the frozen freedom and peace of the night sky for the mere possibility of beauty beyond the glass.

*

"Bloody bastard!" Bellatrix Aludra Black snarled vehemently as she swept angrily up a flight of slippery stone steps leading to the upper, warmer corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sharp clap of her Oxfords echoed the staccato beat of her incensed heart as her agitation grew. "Bloody, bloody wretch!"

"Now, now," remarked a passing ghost reprovingly as it floated effortlessly down the flight of steps, its nose buried in a transparent book. "Nice girls don't talk that way."

"I am not a nice girl," Bellatrix spat, gritting her teeth in anger as she rushed headlong past the apparition, leaving the dark Slytherin common room far behind her.

A scowl on her elegantly-boned face, Bellatrix fiercely ripped off the dark green cardigan she was wearing. An expression of utter revulsion quickly replaced the sneer on her thin lips as she glanced disdainfully down at the garment. He had touched it. Holding the unfortunate jumper at arm's length, she walked quickly to a small window, and, laying it on the sill, dug into the belted wand-sheath encircling her trim waist.

Peevishly, Bellatrix cursed the impracticality of wearing skirts. It was nearly impossible during the school week for a girl to wear anything other than an A-line skirt under her black robes. If any one of the professors caught a girl wearing trousers, she was assigned detention.

The women professors were the worst about assigning detention ... especially that skag, McGonagall. Bellatrix snorted at the thought of the strict, tartan-wearing professor. She only hates to see girls wearing trousers because she can't.

Secretly, Bellatrix knew that McGonagall was a man; no real woman could live that long without sex and McGonagall was quite possibly the most standoffish "woman" who'd ever lived.

A-line skirts, damn them to Hell, didn't have pockets, so the girls...and only the girls...had to wear scabbards at their waists. Earlier, Bellatrix had been dressed in her school robes, which, mercifully, had one small pocket sewn into the lining, but it was after-hours and robes could get heavy. Besides, wearing shapeless black robes obscured her figure, and Bellatrix was proud of her womanly figure. Of course, it was that same figure that had encouraged his advances in the first place.

Wrinkling her nose at the thought of him, Bellatrix pulled her wand from its scabbard. Rubbing her long, thin fingers possessively up the polished walnut wand's length, a sadistic smile twisted Bellatrix's lips at the thought of punishing him. Surely no human alive could be more deserving of a thoroughly nasty, stern rebuke. But as she lounged by the window imagining, a chill breeze blew through the cracks lining the glass pane and shattered her fantasy. Teeth chattering, she held her wand to the window. "Alohomora!" she whispered, as, with a click, the ancient window mechanism yielded to her ministrations.

Deftly flicking her slim wrist, Bellatrix wrenched the archaic window up, letting in a burst of freezing wind. Shivering violently in the cold, she hugged her arms to her cotton-covered chest and carefully took a deep breath, letting the frigid air pass her blue lips and inflate her lungs with pure, unadulterated winter oxygen. Slowly, she let the breath out, watching as the moisture hung heavily in the night air before being whisked away by a wandering wisp of winter wind. Her wand clenched safely in one hand, Bellatrix carefully poked her head out the window and looked down, taking care to avoid the limp cardigan lying on the sill.

The winter night was crisp and clear, and the south side of Hogwarts commanded an excellent view of the starry night sky reflected in the black lake below. After the initial blast of wind, a very light breeze gently lifted Bellatrix's hair as, squinting her eyes against the cold, she stared down at the glassy waters of the lake.

Pleased with herself for finding such an advantageous spot, Bellatrix withdrew her head and contemptuously poked her wand into the folds of the green cardigan. Scowling, she lifted the article of clothing from the windowsill and, stretching her arm out the window, flipped the sweater off the wand.

Down, down, down it fell, flipping and twisting slowly 'til it landed lightly on the mirroring lake; it floated for a moment, until, saturated with icy water, it was sucked under the smooth surface, its presence shown only by a ring of crystalline ripples, which fanned once and then were no more.

Bellatrix gazed down at the rippling lake, her arms clenched tightly in the cotton broadcloth shirt she wore, as the offending jumper sank from view. When she was sure that the cardigan was forever gone, Bellatrix stepped away from the window and leaned against the stone wall, wishing eternal damnation on the boy who was her constant source of aggravation and discomfort, Rodolphus Lestrange.

Ooh, you idiot, she fumed silently. You think, just because you have my father's blessing, that I'll fall at your feet. Have you got a lot to learn...

*

Bellatrix lay curled on one of the green sofas in the Slytherin common room, her nose buried in The Compendium of Torture (Fully Illustrated) by Vordam Clinxley. She ignored the other Slytherin students, many of whom were engrossed in their homework, while others played quiet games of wizard chess. Off in one corner, several older students were harassing a frightened first year, demanding candy or something, but Bellatrix paid them no mind; it was the normal hazing ritual that every new Slytherin went through at some time during his or her first year. Usually, Bellatrix was with them, but she wasn't in the mood tonight. Besides, Rodolphus Lestrange was with them, and she wasn't in the mood for him tonight, either.

Turning a leaf of yellowed parchment over, Bellatrix's dark eyes lit up in fascination: On the page before her was a sketch of an H-shaped structure with a diagonal blade in its center. The picture bore a caption: "Invented by the French wizard, Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, and sanctioned by the supporters and instigators of the French Revolution."

Murmuring a little sigh of interest, Bellatrix flipped the page, scrunching down further into the sofa in order to be more comfortable. However, as she did, a shadow fell across the sheet of parchment. Another sigh...this one of aggravation...escaped her lips as she shut the book with a snap and jerked her eyes upward to meet his.

"What are you reading?" he purred, quite clearly thinking that the mere sound of his voice was enough to send Bellatrix into an auditory-induced orgasm.

"It's none of your business, Lestrange," Bellatrix snapped, her dark eyes dilating in annoyance. All right, so he was hot and occasionally Bellatrix really did want to fuck him, but most of the time, all she wanted was for him to mysteriously disappear. There were other blokes, after all.

With a small laugh, Rodolphus flipped his dark hair out of his eyes and sat down on the armrest of her sofa. "Oh, I suppose not, love," he said, reaching forward to finger a strand of Bellatrix's dark hair, "unless you and I want to go and conduct some of our own 'business'."

In blistering derision, Bellatrix laughed shortly and wrenched her head away from the boy next to her. "You're pathetic," she sneered.

Rodolphus merely stared at her, his fingers suspended in the air, a shiny strand of dark hair caught between them. Cocking an arched eyebrow at him, Bellatrix opened her book again and proceeded to peruse a purportedly "complete" list of "Madame la Guillotine's" victims. Unfortunately, this indifference was not enough to deter her tormentor.

"Oh, come on, Bella," Rodolphus whined, reaching forward to grasp her by the chin, forcing her to look at him. "Isn't sixteen years long enough for a truce?" He grinned disarmingly, dimples flashing briefly in his pale cheeks.

Closing her eyes, Bellatrix took a deep breath. "Get ... your filthy hands ... off my face!" she hissed. Snapping The Compendium of Torture (Fully Illustrated) firmly shut, Bellatrix reached up and, pushing Rodolphus's hand roughly away, sprang up from her nest on the couch.

A few of the other students in the room glanced at the pair briefly with vaguely curious expressions on their faces, but most of them had seen the two quibble often enough to know this was a regular occurrence. Only two people in the common room seemed truly interested. Lucius Malfoy, a third year, sitting with Bellatrix's younger sister, Narcissa, was watching the argument with a small grin dancing across his chiseled mouth. 'It's obviously foreplay,' his expression seemed to say. And with a chuckle, he turned back to the textbook he was gallantly sharing with Narcissa.

Narcissa, though, was not looking at the textbook; she was watching her older sister and Rodolphus with a worried expression in her large, pale blue eyes.

Bellatrix was practically promised to Rodolphus Lestrange. Seeing her children guaranteed safe and advantageous marriages was one of Narcissa's mother's pet interests, and she wouldn't take kindly to her eldest daughter's blatant disregard of propriety where Rodolphus Lestrange was concerned.

Narcissa bit her lip as Bellatrix glared angrily at Rodolphus. He was a hunk according to Narcissa, although she would never tell this to anyone, and her sister could do much worse. She would have to talk to Bellatrix later on that night, Narcissa thought, as she turned back to Lucius, smiling daintily.

Bellatrix, however, was aware of neither Malfoy's nor her sister's interest in her quarrel: her eyes were locked on Rodolphus's teasing, dancing dark ones, daring him to say one more thing to set her off. She didn't have to wait long.

"I love it when you're mad at me," he purred, reaching out with well-groomed hands to suggestively stroke Bellatrix's cardigan-clad shoulders.

"Mad? MAD!" A heated wash of scarlet flooding her vision, Bellatrix's hand snapped out and slapped Rodolphus across the cheek, leaving a stinging, sanguine splotch marring the ivory perfection. "You bastard," she growled, as she swept by him and stormed out the common room door. Rodolphus, hand pressed to his smarting face, merely stared after her, the warmth in his dancing eyes hardening to black frigidity.

Slowly, he turned to glare menacingly toward the small table where Narcissa and Lucius sat, their eyes wide as saucers. Narcissa's dismayed blue eyes met Rodolphus's angry ones, and without a word, she sprang out of her chair and, darting to the door, slipped quietly by the stern, rigid form of Rodolphus and into the cold of the corridor, her thin, porcelain-skinned arms hugged tightly to her cloth-covered chest.

*

"I don't know why you have come back, Tom." Dumbledore stared gravely over the tops of his thin, crescent moon-shaped glasses at the gaunt...almost to the point of emaciation...pale man before him. His graceful, tapered hand, resting lightly on a stack of parchment on his desk, twitched involuntarily.

The man standing in front of him kept his eyes focused on the aged hand instead of on Professor Dumbledore's eyes. "Affection, perhaps, Dumbledore? Or wasn't that what you always wanted me to possess?"

Sighing, Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly before answering. "It wasn't about me, Tom. It was about you." His own eyes zoned down to his hand, and an impatient expression flitted briefly across Dumbledore's face. Without a word, he sat down in the plush, burgundy chair behind his desk and folded his hands in his lap, leaving Tom staring at the pile of parchment. "Tom. Look at me."

Raising his eyes to the Headmaster's placid, pleasant face, Tom did so. Beneath the dead, black darkness of his eyes, tiny, glittering, red lights danced furiously as Tom folded his bony hands behind his back, assuming a mocking position of youthful diligence.

"There is no rule, Tom" the Headmaster began slowly, as if he was choosing his words very, very carefully, indeed, "that says you cannot be here, but I am Headmaster and, as such, can choose to run my school as I think best."

Tom Riddle sucked in his cheeks soundlessly and bit the tender flesh on the inside of them to keep from cursing the Headmaster where he sat. 'What a fool,' his red-tinged eyes shouted, although he himself said nothing.

"Do you know what I am saying, Tom?" Dumbledore asked; then, without waiting for an answer, continued. "I'm asking you to leave, Tom. Now. There is no reason for you to be here." With that, Dumbledore placed his ancient, blue-veined hands on the arms of his chair, sat up straight and tall, and, with a nod of his dignified head, gestured toward the door.

Eyes sparking, Tom spun around and, with shoulders stiff under the shabby fabric of his dark coat, stalked toward the door. Just as he was opening it, however, a soft voice behind him made him pause.

"Tom," Dumbledore murmured, his voice obscured as though he had placed his hand before his mouth, as though he had not intended to speak the words that he was going to. "I'm glad you came."

Without turning around, without answering, Tom yanked the door fully open and, grabbing his wand from the spelled, wand-holding bay beside the password-protected entrance to Dumbledore's office, clattered angrily down the curving stone staircase. The next time he met that useless old man, he swore to himself, he would kill him.

*

Leaning against the cold stone wall, Bellatrix vigorously rubbed her arms, somewhat regretting her decision to rid herself of the contaminated cardigan. Well, no matter, she decided fiercely, I have more jumpers in my room. Which was all very well and good, but to get to those jumpers, Bellatrix would have to go through the common room ... and she wasn't going anywhere near the common room while Rodolphus was there.

Bellatrix was no coward, but she was ... slightly intimidated by her father, and he was completely, pompously satisfied with the impending marriage negations between the Black and Lestrange families. Oh, yes, Bellatrix knew about her parents' matchmaking schemes; she simply chose to ignore them. But at this moment, even she would not be able to guarantee Rodolphus's safety should he treat her as he had earlier that evening. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it, a very, very little. At this begrudging concession, Bellatrix felt a twinge in her groin and mentally stomped at the undeniably gorgeous image of Rodolphus conjured up by her lustful mind.

Angrily, she tried to concentrate instead on the mocking expression in Rodolphus's dark eyes, the expression that always drove her insane, but instead of causing her lecherous mind to abate, the thought of Rodolphus's eyes gave Bellatrix a prick of intense libido. Oh, God, it was no use!

Grimacing, Bellatrix plopped down on the icy stone floor of the corridor and concentrated fiercely on the freezing cold flagstones beneath her. Okay, she thought, as her body temperature cooled by aching degrees, that's better.

However, just then, she heard the click of men's shoes on the stone hallway and her desire came flooding back with a vengeance. Just trust Rodolphus to come searching for her after she'd made it clear she didn't want anything to do with him. Merlin help the bastard if he comes around that corner, she mused, clenching the material of her skirt in one clammy palm while tightly grasping her wand in the other.

But as the footsteps grew louder, came closer, it became quite evident that it wasn't Rodolphus at all. Rodolphus Lestrange, despite his many and varied faults, did know how to dress properly and was always attired in elegant and, more importantly, expensive clothing. If he hadn't been, he would have brought shame to his wealthy, snooty family. This approaching male, on the other hand, did not know how to dress properly. Bellatrix, having grown up with a fashion-forward mother, could tell almost instantly that his heel, left or right, it didn't matter, was worn with use.

Great, she thought petulantly, another charity-case, Muggle-born fool come to steal my hiding spot. With this impression firmly in mind, she rose swiftly to her feet and brandished her walnut wand, a dangerous sneer flitting across her thin lips. Harassing someone might be just the balm she needed after Rodolphus's... Oh, fuck him! she thought as her body gave another greedy twinge.

Just then, the shabbily-shoed man rounded the corner in the corridor and Bellatrix's wand-clutching arm fell slowly to her side, for, there before her, was the man who had rescued her five years before in Knockturn Alley, albeit several years older and much thinner. But, God, just as gorgeous as he was five years ago.

Forget Rodolphus, Bellatrix's lust-crazed mind crowed as her stomach turned nervous flip-flops of apprehensive delight, this man is so much better.

The man, it seemed, recognized Bellatrix, too, for he froze at the sight of her, and simply stared, the dark smudges under his weary eyes even blacker in the moonlit corridor. With chilling and familiar ease, he held Bellatrix's wide eyes with his own black hollows as, stepping forward, he brought his wand up. "Lumos!" he hissed, sibilantly drawing out the 's' at the end of the incantation.

A bright light flashed before Bellatrix's eyes and her head snapped back reflexively. But as quickly as the spell was uttered, she heard a muttered, "Nox!" and her world returned to the dimly-lit glow of moonlight, although with a certain degree of brightly flashing residue inhabiting it.

Gasping, Bellatrix ducked her head and rubbed her eyes hard, taking great care to avoid poking out her eye with her wand. But she had not completely regained her vision when a cold-as-marble hand, colder, even, than the wintry night outdoors, grasped her by the chin and forced her to look up. Although her eyes were watering profusely, she said not a word, for her gaze was transfixed by the dark, slightly serpentine eyes of the man standing before her.

He's beautiful, her dazed mind sighed, sharing her lusty body's obvious admiration for the tortured-looking man before her, but ... to be honest, her chin was starting to ache from the harsh grip the mans' skeletal fingers had on it. Pulling back, Bellatrix tried to break free from his iron grip, but she had no luck. "Who are you?" she finally gasped, after giving up from sheer exhaustion. Surely there would be red finger marks on her face in the morning.

"I am He," he murmured, his voice slightly amazed, yet at the same time completely assured as, stepping forward, he covered Bellatrix's thin mouth with his own.

At first, Bellatrix was far too surprised to react, but within moments, all of her unfulfilled lust came crashing over her body like a wave and she was tangling her fingers in the jet black locks of the man pressed up against her, was opening her mouth wider in order to provide better access for his insistent tongue, was throwing her head back as he then bit his way down her neck. Bellatrix could hear nothing but the thumping of her heart in her ears as every fantasy she had ever had about this very man was torn away and replaced by a more intense and more wonderful reality.

But as quickly as her passion erupted in a blazing red fire of whorls and licking flames, the man pulled back swiftly and stared over Bellatrix's shoulder. "Who is that?" he demanded, the dispassion in his voice freezing Bellatrix's heart within her chest even as she obediently turned to discover their voyeur.

Oh, no, Bellatrix thought as her frozen heart skipped a beat and then came pounding back with full-force. For there, looking at her with wide, astonished eyes, was her little sister, Narcissa.

"Um..." Bellatrix began, but she was cut off as the man pushed her unceremoniously out of the way, strode rigidly past her little sister who followed him with her wide eyes, and clicked unevenly down the hall, flexing his white hands stiffly. The two sisters, silent as the drifting snow beyond the castle walls, watched as his outline faded from view in the dim corridor.

Finally, Narcissa turned back to her older sister, who had replaced her shock at Narcissa's sudden appearance with a sullen, rebellious expression, and said with a tremor in her high-pitched voice, "Bella, who was that man?" Then she did something that she had not done in years, something that she never did unless she was absolutely terrified or bemused ... or a little bit of both. Narcissa, blue eyes still wide in her elven face, raised her thumb to her mouth and began sucking on it.

Frowning, Bellatrix sprang forward and yanked her sister's thumb from her mouth. "God! How old are you?" she demanded as Narcissa's blue eyes flooded with tears. Rolling her eyes, Bellatrix tugged the little girl to her and awkwardly patted her sister's head. "Look, don't sweat it," she said, gritting her teeth as Narcissa buried her damp, salty face in her older sister's cotton shirt, "he's just a man."

Sniffing snottily, Narcissa looked up, lower lip trembling. "I know," she said, "but we don't know him."

Bellatrix laughed shortly...more of a bark than a laugh...and pushed her sister away from her, holding Narcissa at goose-fleshed arm's length. "And if we did know him, it would be cool?"

"No," Narcissa whispered, clearly amazed at her own daring, "because he's old enough to be our dad."

"He is not!" Bellatrix snapped. Narcissa simply stared back at her older sister, an inscrutable expression settling over her small, pointed face. Bellatrix bit her lip and shivered as a winter zephyr swept madly down the hallway, squirming wickedly through her thin clothes. Her sister never fought back, and, God, it was so annoying! For the one-thousandth time, Bellatrix wished that her sister possessed more backbone, but the little girl was determined to be completely true to her family's decisions and beliefs.

Calling her sister's silent bluff, Bellatrix continued. "You, I suppose, would rather I pay attention to that idiot, Rodolphus, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," replied Narcissa, and as Bellatrix turned away with a snort of disgust, reached out to grab her sister's arm with a tiny, translucent hand. "That's why I'm out here, Bella. You are going to make mum and dad very angry if you're not nice to Rodolphus. He's a nice bloke, Bella, and whether you like it or not, you're going to marry him."

"Marry?" Bellatrix asked incredulously and, at Narcissa's affirmative nod, broke into peals of mirthless laughter. When Narcissa nervously tried to shush her, Bellatrix only shrieked louder; none of the prefects ever roamed these halls anyway; the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff prefects were too scared and the Slytherin ones didn't care what their Slytherin contemporaries did after-hours. "Do you really think that marriage is what it's all about?" she demanded, once she had caused Narcissa sufficient discomfort.

Narcissa nodded quickly and Bellatrix's thin mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Well, let me tell you something, sister," she hissed, leaning down to the girl before her and glaring angrily at her, "it's not. There are other things in life besides a husband, children, and a family. Why don't you figure that out and grow up." With that, Bellatrix pushed past her sister in disgust, heading toward the Slytherin common room, leaving the pale, blonde-haired twelve-year-old biting her pale pink lips in the chill of the moonlit hallway as, outside, the lonely call of a returning post owl, pierced the winter night.