Beatrice Lestrange has always been an outsider in her own story. Born into one of the darkest families in the wizarding world, she grew up under the looming shadow of her infamous mother Bellatrix Lestrange.
Despite this, Beatrice is nothing like th...
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Beatrice stepped out of the hospital wing, her legs shaky and unsteady as if the weight of everything that had happened was still pressing down on her. The events of the night felt like a blur, like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. Her mind was still trying to process everything, but one thing was clear: nothing would ever be the same.
As she walked down the corridor, she immediately went to Dumbledore's office, knowing that he was waiting for her as she finally aribbed there, she found herself face-to-face with Professor Dumbledore, his tall, imposing figure waiting for her in his office. His eyes, usually full of wisdom and warmth, were clouded with concern.
—Ah, Beatrice,— Dumbledore began softly, his voice gentle, yet carrying an undeniable weight. —I was hoping we could talk.—
She didn't respond right away. Her chest tightened, and her emotions swirled in a chaotic mix of anger, confusion, and fear. She felt so many things, none of them good.
—Harry already told me about the events in the graveyard,— Dumbledore continued, his eyes steady on hers. —But I would like to hear your side, if you are ready to share it.—
Beatrice took a deep breath, her mind racing with a thousand questions. How could she be ready to share it all? How could she even begin to explain what had happened, what Voldemort had done, what she'd learned about herself, about her family, about the prophecy?
She nodded reluctantly and began speaking, recounting everything: the arrival at the graveyard, Voldemort's resurrection, her and Harry's desperate fight, Voldemort twisted idea of her as his heir. Her voice faltered at times, but she pressed on, determined to tell him everything, despite the exhaustion in her bones.
When she finished, the silence between them stretched long. Beatrice couldn't look at Dumbledore directly anymore. She had to ask the questions that had been gnawing at her since the moment Voldemort mentioned her bloodline.
—Professor,— she began quietly, her voice trembling slightly. —Did you know? Did you know that Voldemort was after me too? That I'm... part of some Prophecy?—
Dumbledore's eyes softened, but his face remained serious. —I had my suspicions, Beatrice,— he admitted gently. —But I could not tell you before. The truth is, there are many things about the prophecy, about the path ahead, that are not yet clear, even to me.—
Beatrice's chest tightened, a sharp sense of betrayal gnawing at her. —Why didn't you tell me? I could've prepared better. I could've...—
—If I had told you everything,— Dumbledore interrupted, his voice calm but firm, —it would have placed an unbearable weight on your shoulders, one you were not yet ready to carry.—
—But I'm carrying it now,— Beatrice shot back, frustration lacing her words. —I'm already in this, Professor. I already have this bloodline, this connection to him. And you didn't warn me! You let me walk blindly into this!—
