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date: 22 december 2030 place: the department of mysteries who: @nsirius

it’s quiet—until it isn’t. bellatrix stumbles forward, instinctively reaching for a wand she doesn’t have, her other hand clutching her chest as though she could hold herself together. the air is colder than she remembers, biting at her skin, and she feels stiff, her breath shallow. there’s something tight and unfamiliar about her own body, as though it doesn’t belong to her. in the darkness she had just left, there was only stillness—an absence of thought, an absence of pain. but now, in this harsh, sterile light, the noise rises. not sound, exactly, but something pressing in her head, too much to ignore. the more people stumble into view, the heavier the tension becomes. fear ripples through the crowd, but no one knows what to do. shouts and frantic cries punctuate the confusion, and the noise slices through her, throwing her fragile grip on reality off-kilter.

bellatrix’s eyes dart around as others emerge from the veil. whispers ripple through the crowd, urgent and electric. "she’s back. could it be? back?" the words hang in the air. back from where? where had she been? a laugh escapes her before she can stop it, high-pitched and jagged, cutting the tension like glass breaking. eyes dart from her to the archway and the figures pouring through it. then her gaze locks onto a familiar face, and her laughter halts. she slips into the shadows, pressing herself against the cold stone wall, her breath catching. her pulse throbs in her ears, and her hand twitches, searching for a wand she no longer has.

sirius stands just within view, his profile achingly familiar but off in a way that unsettles her. he looks almost the same—young, rebellious—but there’s something different, something sharper in him. his jaw is harder, his eyes carrying a weight she hadn’t seen before. time has changed him, and it makes her stomach turn. why doesn’t he look the same? she somehow slips further into the shadows, her movements slow and deliberate, never taking her eyes off him. she draws closer until she can hear the steady rhythm of his breath. her fingers twitch, and a spark of magic pulses through her, sluggish but still there. with a flick of her wrist, she casts a weak, stinging jinx—the same one she taught him when they were children. it’s barely more than a whisper of magic, but it hits, not enough to harm, but enough to catch his attention.

"well, well, well…" her voice slips out, cold and sharp, like a blade. she steps into the light, her eyes fixed on him with a predatory gleam. "looks like i’ve found a filthy little blood traitor." her lips curl into a smile, calculating and cruel, the kind that promises pain. "or have i? you don’t look quite right. pretending to be him, are you? thinking i wouldn’t see through your little trick?"

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EVER WONDER WHAT MY MUSE SAYS ABOUT YOURS?

Send me a symbol.

📖 for what my muse would write about yours in their diary. 📷 for what my muse would say to the paparazzi about yours. 💋 for what my muse would say to the person trying to woo your muse. 🔪 for the eulogy my muse would give for yours. 💌 for a letter my muse would write to yours. 📫 for a letter my muse would write about yours to a third party. 📨 for a text my muse would send to yours. 💬 for a text my muse would send to yours to a third party. 💀 for what my muse would say upon hearing about your muse’s death. 👪 for what my muse would say to your muse’s child about them. 👊 for what my muse would say upon hearing yours has been arrested. 💒 for the toast my muse would give at your muse’s wedding.

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bellatrix lestrange. twenty-eight. resurrected. wraiths. styx

a serpent coiled in the dark, you are poison and hunger, born to devour and be devoured — but there is something hollow beneath the fury, something cold that no inferno can touch. your name is carved into history like a curse, a hymn to destruction sung in whispered tones by the broken and the brave. the ghosts of your bloodline walk beside you, their whispers filling the silence — a mother’s fierce pride, a father’s unyielding will, a legacy that chokes and chains you even as you revel in its weight — they have all made their home in your marrow.

lovingly penned by cee

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Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Images

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Gabrielle Bates, from "Eastern Washington Diptych", Judas Goat

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Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

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Franz Kafka, referring to Milena Jesenská in a letter to Max Brod featured in "Kafka: The Tremendous World I Have Inside my Head,"

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Margaret Qualley as Sue — The Substance (2024) dir. Coralie Fargeat