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Bellatrix slid onto a wooden bench, water dripping from her hair and robes, forming a dark halo on the floor. Her hands trembled, clasped tightly together. Sirius lit a few candles with a flick of his wand, their wavering flames painting her face in strange gold shadows.
Without the wild grin and the erratic gleam in her eyes, Bellatrix Lestrange looked… exhausted. Hollow. Young, even. Sirius hated himself for noticing.
He crossed his arms. “Start talking.”
Her breath hitched. She pressed both palms harder to her stomach as if the child inside her might slip away at any moment.
“It’s a boy,” she whispered.
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “And the father?”
She glared at him tiredly. “Don’t insult me. You know precisely who.”
Voldemort.
The name scraped across his mind like broken glass. A child created from that monster’s blood. Yet Bellatrix spoke of him with no reverence—only dread.She took a long, shaky breath. “The moment I felt life inside me, something in my mind… snapped straight. Like a bone set properly after years of being broken.” Her gaze dropped. “But I know it won’t last.”
“How long do you have?”
“Days,” she said.