A Hufflepuff heart | Hermione Granger

LXIX

Bea's wrists burned under the weight of thick chains wrapped around them, their cold metal pressing into her skin as they repelled every flicker of magic she tried to summon. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, her body shaking, not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion of everything that had just happened.

Bellatrix walked beside her, her grip unyielding, shoving Bea forward whenever she slowed down. Bea barely registered it. She was crying, she couldn't stop crying. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore had just stood there when she begged for help. She had no idea if her friends were safe. And now, she was here, dragged away like some prize by the very woman who had given birth to her but never once acted like a mother.

Her vision blurred with tears, but she forced herself to focus. She recognized the place almost immediately, the grand, looming corridors of Malfoy Manor. A flicker of hope sparked inside her chest. Cissy. Her Aunt Cissy had raised her, loved her in the way Bellatrix never did. If she saw her like this, shackled and broken, she would do something. She had to.

But the moment that desperate thought took root, it was ripped away just as quickly.

Bellatrix led her through a set of towering doors, and there, waiting for them, was him.

Lord Voldemort.

He stood in the center of the room, his skeletal fingers curled around the armrest of an ornate chair. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as he took in the sight of her, Beatrice Lestrange, bound and helpless before him.

— So, — Voldemort murmured, his voice a soft, eerie whisper that sent a chill down Bea's spine. — You have finally come home. —

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his piercing red eyes studying her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Bea held his gaze, refusing to look away despite the suffocating weight of his presence. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, but she forced herself to stand tall, even as the chains around her wrists felt heavier with each passing second.

— You have your mother's eyes, — he finally said, his voice low and almost contemplative. — And yet... you are very different. So much different. —

Bea swallowed hard, her throat dry, but she didn't speak. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Voldemort's smirk deepened, as if her silence only entertained him further. He leaned forward slightly, his long fingers tapping lazily against the armrest of his chair.

— I have been watching you for quite some time, Beatrice. — His voice was slow, deliberate. — A Lestrange, yet not quite one. A Hufflepuff. — His lips curled with distaste at the word. — But powerful. Oh, yes... very powerful. —

Bellatrix, still gripping her tightly, let out a delighted giggle. — She is, my Lord! She fought like a warrior at the Ministry, using magic even I cannot control! —

— Quiet, Bella. — Voldemort didn't raise his voice, but Bellatrix immediately stiffened, her lips snapping shut as she bowed her head in submission.

He turned his attention back to Bea. — You are gifted in ways that intrigue me, — he mused. — I saw what you did on the cementery, on the ministry. Ancient magic, raw and untamed. Do you even know what it is that flows through your veins? —

Bea clenched her jaw. She knew her magic was different, stronger. She had felt it ever since she was a child, surging through her like something ancient and restless.

Voldemort chuckled at her silence. — No, I suppose you do not. But I do. —He leaned back, his expression shifting into something almost pleased. — You are special, Beatrice. And I do not waste potential. —