Chapter Text
Only a few heartbeats were needed—no more than a breath stolen from time—for Bellatrix to understand the truth.
Her Lord had left her behind.
He had fled the Ministry like an ancient god who, seeing his altar crumble, chooses to abandon his priestess beneath the ruins. Voldemort had seen it. Bellatrix knew it with the bitter certainty of betrayed faith: he had seen Dumbledore hurl the statue onto her, had seen marble and magic close over her like an improvised tomb. And still, he did not return.
He did not keep his promise.
He escaped, followed by those who survived the crossfire, by the cowards who managed to flee the judgment of that night.
Among them, Lucius.
Something inside Bellatrix shattered without a sound, like a prayer that goes unanswered.
Her Lord.
Her savior.
Her god.
He had abandoned her without hesitation, without looking back, as if her devotion—years of blood, screams, and whispered prayers—had meant nothing.
Only seconds were enough for Bellatrix Lestrange to cease being a Death Eater and become a woman alone, crushed beneath the weight of her broken faith.
Her breathing grew erratic, disordered, like a creed being recited backward. Her magic trembled, convulsed along with her body. She clawed at the ground, at the dream, at reality itself, trying to reach her wand.
The last thing she could still call her own.
Her nails split against the marble as she dragged herself forward, as she tried to escape from beneath the statue that now felt like divine punishment. Her heart hammered like a war drum, sweat soaked her brow, and her thoughts tangled together, unrecognizable, blasphemous.
She heard footsteps.
Her mind screamed danger, but her body knew the truth: she could not flee. Any movement could mean Azkaban again. The cold, endless hell.
The footsteps drew closer. Bellatrix refused to lift her gaze.
When a pair of sneakers entered her field of vision, a shiver ran down her spine. One of the children. One of those who had fought in the Department of Mysteries.
Perhaps Potter—the orphan who had lost the only family he ever had by her hand. Or Longbottom, seeking vengeance for the parents she had broken with patience and delight.
She did not care.
Nothing they could do to her frightened her. She had endured far worse at the hands of the Dark Lord.
She looked up.
And understood how wrong she had been.
It was not Potter.
It was not Longbottom.
The air lodged in her lungs as she met the face before her.
Somehow, the ceiling of the Ministry had been torn open, allowing light to descend like an unearned blessing. It illuminated the brown curls of the witch watching her, drawing an imperfect halo around her head.
A crown of light.
Bellatrix knew instantly who she was.
The Mudblood.
Hermione Granger.
The only one foolish enough—or perhaps pure enough—to approach a Death Eater infamous for her hatred and cruelty.
But that was not what undid her.
It was the hand extended toward her.
It did not tremble. It did not hesitate. There was no hatred in her eyes. Only an unbearable calm, like that of saints in Muggle stained glass. She simply offered her hand.
And in that moment, Bellatrix knew that something irrevocable had shifted inside her.
No one knew.
No one knew the true reason for Bellatrix Lestrange’s fanatical loyalty to Voldemort.
Not even she allowed herself to speak it aloud.
It was faith.
She did not know how much time had passed. The world seemed suspended, held in a single act of mercy. The girl’s hand remained there, unmoving, as though she had all eternity to wait.
Bellatrix had never been pragmatic, despite what many believed. She had always been a woman starved for faith, desperate to believe in something greater than herself. Since childhood. And more than one person had known how to use that against her.
And there was Granger.
Looking at her with kindness.
Not withdrawing her hand.
Bellatrix wanted to cry.
Was this what Muggles called God?
She remembered the first Muggle she had killed. She remembered how that woman had prayed as she died. Bellatrix had mocked her then, but the woman’s words now returned, ringing like a bell in her mind.
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not. He is my God, and He will take care of my soul when the time comes.”
What had terrified her was not the prayer, but the peace.
The woman had not been afraid.
She trusted.
Bellatrix wanted to understand. She investigated. She read. She searched. She discovered a God divided into three: Father, Son, and Spirit. She could not comprehend how a father could send his son to die for others—nor how the son accepted the sacrifice with love.
The Son suffered.
The Father forgave.
And all that was asked was sincere repentance and the will to do good.
Nothing more.
It was so simple it hurt.
Bellatrix blinked and returned to the present. She looked at the girl before her and knew, with the certainty of revelation, what she had to do.
When she took her hand, the first thing she noticed was how soft her skin was. The calluses on her fingertips from holding her wand incorrectly.
The second was her smile. Small. Human.
Her eyes, alive.
Then she saw the trembling.
The blood.
For the first time in a long while, Bellatrix was afraid.
She did not care about the crash behind her, nor the chaos. Only one truth existed: she could not lose her.
She tried to stand. Failed.
Hermione collapsed in front of her.
Bellatrix crawled forward, ignoring her nearby wand, ignoring the wands aimed at her, ignoring the entire world.
Dumbledore ordered everyone to lower their wands, watching with something like reverence what was unfolding.
Bellatrix placed her hand over the young witch’s chest, feeling her heart race. Without hesitation, she poured her magic out to counter the curse.
She did not know if it would be enough.
She did not know if she would survive.
She only knew she had to do it.
Her loyalty no longer belonged to a false god.
It belonged to someone who, in mere minutes, had shown her more mercy than Voldemort had in thirty years.
Darkness closed in as she collapsed over the girl’s body, her magic humming around them, like a prayer finally answered.