Work Text:
The first time she saw her, Arabella was helplessly entranced.
She held in one hand a bottle of elf-wine, the exuberantly expensive sort that she knew with painful certainty was only sold to the major Houses by the case at 300 galleons or more a bottle. She’d already stuck a handkerchief down its neck, and the handkerchief was already lit. Her hair caught in the sunlight, making her seem more of a goddess than a witch, and Arabella knew in an instant that she was in love.
And then her hand cocked back and she threw the bottle, letting out a delighted laugh as a small shed caught fire. Then something inside the shed exploded, and the flames reaching up higher than the trees, lighting some of the nearby underbrush as well.
It was the summer of 1966 and Arcturus Black was triumphant, and wanted to be sure that everyone knew it. He was celebrating the long-awaited marriage of his daughter, Lucretia Black, and threw such a party that would make up for the forty long years she kept him waiting. And oh, what a party it was.
The elf-wine was in abundance, and food as well, from canapes to whole roast hogs and everything in between, with plenty to serve what seemed like every witch and wizard in all of Britain. Hundreds of guests filled the meadow in a crowd she thought she’d only ever seen beat two years prior, at the final game of the 1964 Quidditch World Cup.
The wedding of Orion and Walburga Black certainly hadn’t started with the arrival of the family in a carriage drawn by a string of tamed hippogriffs, nor had they warranted bringing in a juvenile Emerald Forester dragon for the sheer entertainment value. Though the guest list was long, the entirety of the Ministry of Magic had not been invited to that wedding, no matter how grand the photos her sister showed her had looked.
“Hey, who're you?”
Arabella wrenched her attention back from the fire, which had settled somewhat after the last of whatever was exploding inside went off, to the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen.
“Arabella Figg,” she answered, and then continued, knowing exactly how unlikely it was that she'd be recognized by either her own name or that of her family. “My mother's father was brother to Gwendolyn Green, who—”
“—Who married some Black cousin or other more than a century ago,” she finished with a grin. “That's always how these things go, but good on you guys for staying on the invite lists for so long. I hear Wally has been on a bit of a tear recently, declaring everyone blood traitors.”
“Wally?”
“Walburga Black, wife of the current Heir Black and my Aunt. She hates when I call her Wally though , so of course I call her nothing else.”
“Of course.”
“Ugh how rude of me, I haven’t introduced myself. Bellatrix Black, at your service.”
She finished it off with a wobbly curtsy, part mocking and part drunken if Arabella had to guess, though precisely what she was mocking was unclear.
“Hey, so you look like a dependable type, what do you say to busting out of this joint?”
Arabella frowned, unsure how to interpret the strange phrasing. Bellatrix fished something out of her pocket then, and twirled it around her finger in a move that looked like she'd practiced it a few times, or else the ring would have certainly been flung off somewhere or else fumbled to the ground.
“I snagged Father’s secret, unregistered portkey before we left, the one to his favorite brothel we all pretend he doesn't go to. I figured it would be interesting to poke around, maybe see an actual muggle up close and personal. He can't even complain if he notices the portkey missing, not unless he wants to explain himself to a bunch of angry Rosiers. So, you in?”
She hesitated too long, and Bellatrix’s tone turned pleading.
“I stole a bottle of his firewhiskey while in the office as well. Come on, it'll be fun. A quick pop out, and we'll be back before they start the ritual. Nobody will miss us.”
Arabella took a deep breath, and decided she would be brave. Maybe, if she'd been magical enough to be sorted, she would've even been a Gryffindor.
“Alright,” she said shakily. “I'm in.”
***
The summer of 1975 featured one disappointment after another.
Six months ago, she’d lost her position in the Ministry’s Accounts Department, and though they claimed all sorts of reasons for the firing, from new management to more efficient spellwork making her role redundant, she knew the truth: they were getting rid of squibs. Every department, from the janitors up to the Office of the Minister himself saw firings, and those fired where overwhelmingly squibs.
She’d tried to find other work, first in other Ministry departments, and then in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley and so on, but everywhere she looked, nobody wanted to hire a squib.
Her last job, as a mere clerk at the Magical Menagerie, saw her ringing up purchases and dealing with customers each day. But even that was apparently too much for a squib to do, and as soon as they’d found out, the owners had sent her on her way. At this point, she was likely to need to move back in with her parents just to keep a roof over her head, not to mention buying food.
At least she’d found Mr. Tibbles, and at least Mr. Brown took pity on her enough to let her keep him.
So it was with no small amount of trepidation that she dressed herself in her nicest robes for what had to be the sixth major wedding of the summer.
The bride this time was some distant Longbottom cousin, as far removed from the main Black Family line as Arabella was herself, and yet, proprieties must be kept to. Until such a time as she was asked not to show up, or the invitations stopped arriving, she would be polite as her mother taught her and grace the couple with her time and attention, if nothing else.
Tensions were high, as they always seemed to be these days; cousins glaring at cousins, and long-held alliances hanging on by just a thread. Add to that the unrelenting sunshine, the galling lack of any overtly magical animals or amusements to distract the children, and someone’s appalling idea to source cases of muggle ale served lukewarm as a refreshment, rather than a nicely chilled, sparkling wine, and well…
Tensions were high.
An explosion sounded and she startled, turning just in time to see a firework light up the air. Another went off, and then another and another, and right at the center of it all, she saw the culprit. Bella.
She couldn’t help but smile at the sight.
She made her way over to her through the crowd and accepted the flask she was handed without a thought. Just like that, it was though no time had passed between them at all, and once again they were teenagers playing hooky in the West End with her father’s portkey.
“It’s been a while,” Bella said.
“I’ve been around,” she replied. “It feels like I’m at another one of these every other weekend.”
“Don’t remind me,” Bella groaned.
“Surely it isn’t that bad?”
“Surely it is,” she insisted. “If Father has his way, I’ll have one of my own before this time next year.”
“Hmm,” Arabella mused, unsure what to say. “If I know anything about you though, you have a plan.”
“You’re so smart, just as I remember,” Bella said with a smile. “Cissy is of course thrilled for her arrangement, but you know me. I’m a free spirit, I can’t be chained to the house for years, raising some brat to replace my husband when he finally croaks.
“No. I’ve met a man who calls himself Lord Slytherin, and I don’t even think it’s a pseudonym, or not much of one anyways, not with how powerful his magic is. Anyways, he says…”
As Bella laid out her plans, Arabella let out a small smile. She couldn’t do much, but at least she could listen.
“… and I think if I had to choose anyone to live my life with, I’d choose you,” Bella finished quietly.
Arabella choked on air, sure she had heard wrong.
“I mean it,” Bella insisted. “I’ve never met anyone else like you, not before that night and not since. If I had to marry the kind of stuffy old codger my father’s been looking at… but you’re so full of life, so honest. I feel I could just steal a unicorn and run away with you, like we could test out all those potions with the horrible warnings together and see how bad they actually are.”
“I think I’d like to run away with you too,” she whispered.
“Then it’s settled,” Bella said. “We’ll do it. Next summer.”
And that was that.
***
The next time that Arabella saw her, it was as a guest at the wedding of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, bound together forever in Magic and Harmony.
It was alright, she was sure Bellatrix hadn’t meant anything by it. She was sure she’d simply forgotten her promises, forgotten to adjust the invitations which would go out en masse to the entire extended Black family and their allies, simply forgotten what that would still mean for Arabella herself.
She left early, and very firmly set that stage of her life behind her, a childhood that was now very firmly gone.
The next day, she sent a letter to Headmaster Dumbledore, offering what little she could offer to the Order of the Phoenix.
***
Standing alone in the rain, Arabella reminded herself of why she was here.
She was standing here alone, of course, because she was the only one left to mourn.
Bella's husband, her brother-in-law, the other various Lestranges had all died in the battle, or so it was reported. Andromeda hadn't spoken of her sister in decades, and this would be no exception, while Narcissa and her boy were scrupulously doing everything they could to enforce their distance, both publicly and in private.
Of the other Blacks she had known, every single one of them was now dead and buried, or perhaps dead and drowned, as rumor had it was the case with dear Regulus.
The extended networks of Black Family cousins and allies, of vassals and family friends and partnerships built for business and politics were all gone now, every one of them. Potters, Longbottoms, Prewetts, Weasleys, Crouches, and even Figgs, the list went on and on, all names of those who would never think to show up now.
And so, only she and Mr. Tibbles were left to do this, though she would hardly claim she could do it right. She'd never used a wand, for one thing, that most important part of a witch, which most would rather give up a hand or an eye than lose. But more than that, even if she had been a witch, and even if everything had gone differently, still she knew deep in her bones that she wouldn't have been enough to do this alone.
Only the most knowledgeable of wizards, the late Headmaster among them, knew the spells that would form a magical crypt, and only the most powerful could cast them alone. More commonly, a set of six would be chosen from among those closest to the deceased to cast the spells in tandem.
Well, it was no use troubling herself over what she couldn't change.
She cast her gaze back to the freshly turned dirt, with the freshly carved headstone at its peak.
Bellatrix Black Lestrange
April 14, 1951 - May 1, 1998
You were loved.
A muggle sentiment, perhaps, on a muggle headstone in a muggle graveyard, but that was the best she could do.
She would mourn her, even if nobody else would.