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Alone.
She had been alone from the start, hadn’t she? It was her birthright; it must have been.
Alone.
The orphanage was a dreary place. But it was home.
Alone.
Young skin and dirty clothes, she watched the flames swallow the old building. It was inevitable; she stared with tired eyes. The adults had made too many mistakes to be left alive. They dug their own graves.
She, alone, was the consequence.
What was the old saying? What comes around, goes around.
Yes, that was it.
She did not blame them for their greed, their endless need and want for paper promises of wealth. A dime, a quarter—everything. Silver spoons, gold plates—everything. But she blamed them for doing anything for everything.
Though, she wondered how much she had been worth for them to discard their morals. Morals, the teachings that they preach and teach to others. The beggars, the mothers, the soldiers, the children, her. Yet perhaps… not themselves.
Alone.
She knelt before the unforgiving flames, far enough not to be scorched and close enough to feel the mesmerizing heat. She felt no guilt; there was no use for such a feeling. Yet, like the sinner the adults had warned her of—threatened her with—she knelt before the crackling sea of ash in repentance.
Repentance for what, she did not know.
She knelt with a prayer of none, nonetheless.
And so, alone, she watches from the mud. From the moment the fire was born to the end of its existence. Until she could no longer feel her knees, scraped and bruised, painted in colors meant for pain.
The magic in her veins yearned to burn again, inspired by the destruction before her. She fears she will breathe fire into another, and snuff out their life again. But there was no fitting target, nor did she know how to coax such thrilling sparks from her fingertips again. So it simmered inside her tired spine, stubborn and restless—perhaps behind her burning eyelids and aching throat as well.
Alone, she learned that miracles were real, and few.
Alone, she learned what people dreamed of.
Magic.
Alone, she learned a little more about herself.
Alone, hazy memories returned to her.
Alone.
The lonely girl embarked on a search for her kindred.
A mutt’s smell greeted her—stray dogs and dirty beggars mingled together.
Yet brothers, she thought of them as.
All older, tougher, and far too rude for their own good. And yet, soft in their own ways. They were still young boys, with no true goals and too many dreams. Unlike most of the young and poor, they were born of disease.
A struggle added to an already high pile.
Unfortunate, people called them. Abominations, they shrieked.
But her brothers were no such things. They were gifted—she claimed so, even if no one believed her, not even her unrelated kin. She saw more than what they were: beyond wild, fur-covered frames; beyond frenzied instincts, dangerous maws, monstrous paws. Lycanthropy was a disease—but so was humanity, muggles and wizards alike.
Her brothers had been human and animal and human again. To her, there was no difference.
Alone, they huddled together beneath the empty sky and cold night. She found comfort in musky copper scents, muddied clothes, and uncombed hair.
Children, all of them.
Orphans, they all are.
They were hers, just as she was theirs—siblings beyond blood, bound instead by loyalty willingly bled for family.
She, alone, swore to take care of her little pack.
And yet, an aching emptiness lingered in her chest, a frustrated pounding in the back of her mind.
What was alone missing? She wondered, day and night. Thieving in the morning, she wondered if she could live this way forever.
Still, she distracted their targets while her brothers picked pockets with quick hands.
Running errands later in the day, she wondered if she could endure gang fights and territory wars for another moment.
Still, she hurried on, a heavy crate of illegal ingredients cradled in her thin arms. She had to deliver it quickly and escape the danger zone—or become collateral.
Turning pages late into the night, she wondered if she was fit to learn, or too dim-witted to understand words.
Still, she read the old textbook—stolen from a library, of course. Math and astronomy. Science and charms. Biology and potion-making.
Her hoarded knowledge grew. She suppressed a groan as her empty stomach growled again and again. When she doubled over, panic struck—not for herself, but for the pages. Had she torn one? Had blood stained her notes again?
Alone, she sat in the corner of their hideout. Her brothers knew better than to interrupt her studies, even when they whined like true dogs.
With a terrible headache, she cried—without sadness.
With a nosebleed and too many tears, she wondered why she existed.
With closed eyes and an aching heart, she envied the life that belonged to another.
And with quiet acceptance, she dreamed of childish revenge and selfish destruction.
Alone, she burned.
Alone, she is now.
But in a good way, it seems.
Paperwork piles high on her desk, yet she is in no hurry to finish it—unlike the workaholic she usually is.
Today is sunny, though not bright in the usual sense.
A lazy sun. She watches it through the glass window of her spacious office.
Her brothers must be out with their own families today, enjoying a proper outing. It is summertime, after all. Her children—a dysfunctional lot of young adults, and adults yearning to be young and mothered again—are likely buried in work as well, just like her.
She is craving something sweet today, a secret sweet tooth that few knows about. So, Aleksandr has gone off to get her usual drink order from a muggle shop near the town square.
The eccentric man would be late she bet, as her darling old friend would get distracted by shiny knick-knacks of the various shop displays there and wander off like a boy again, sniffing his way through an endless market. She doesn’t mind the tardiness; she needed some time for herself and her mind after all.
She feels like smiling, though she does not.
Her gaze drifts down to a piece of parchment on her desk, and her mood sours once more.
The Wizarding world is just as human as the Muggle world—only different in population. Both wish for the erasure of what they do not understand, what feels unfamiliar beneath their fingers.
But she is not worried about such threats or prejudices. After all, she has successfully integrated her existence into the foundations of both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. She has connections. She has wealth. And most importantly—
She has power now.
Alone, she took what was due.
The beginning of another war—fought by old men clinging to pride—served her well behind the curtain.
Purebloods who wanted no part in Voldemort’s cause. Muggleborns seeking opportunities beyond blood and birthright. Half-bloods yearning to belong to a world that refused to be only magical or only mundane.
Werewolves—born and infected alike—who wished to live without hiding, and to hold control over themselves. Magical beings of intelligence equal to, or surpassing, humanity—creatures long isolated from civilization—now willing to collaborate, not just with humans, but with other species as well. All through her guiding fingertips.
They all chose her for a better path.
They chose Blanc Enterprise.
They chose Mikhaila B. Blanc.
And for the first time in decades of fighting for scraps and fragile chances, she allowed herself to freely feel. Only for a moment—because that was all she permitted herself.
Alone, she let herself be the clumsy, confused fool of a girl that she was.
Alone, just for a moment.
Alone, that witch is.
Blanc wondered how such a terrifying storm could be contained within a mortal body so… damaged.
Alone, that witch pushes people away for selfish reasons.
She wondered when the woman would finally tire of it all—and drop dead from the loneliness of her own making.
“Lestrange.”
“It’s Black, YOU FILTHY HALFBLOOD!”
Oh, yes.
The venom. The lashing out. The unstable mind—stuffed with incoherent, impulsive thoughts, barely held together by pride alone. Desperation wrapped in violence.
It was obvious Azkaban had taken a severe toll on the witch.
Physically, Bellatrix had recovered enough. Mentally—her prideful façade was beginning to slip. She might think no one noticed. And to an extent, she was right.
No one noticed the way she stifled her gagging, forcing down spoonfuls of food as though each bite were worms and cockroaches masquerading as a meal.
No one noticed the way she shivered at imagined cold, flinching from damp shadows—still haunted by the inevitable kiss of Dementors circling above her thoughts.
No one ever noticed the way pale bony hands clasped together, knuckles whitening as she steadied tremors born deep in the hollows of long-abused bones.
Blanc could have laughed—not cruelly, but encouragingly.
Blanc remembered reading Bellatrix’s trial article, years back. The arrogant, high-nosed composure the pureblood had worn during the trial. Trialed along with Barty Crouch Jr., the Lestrange brothers—she had sat on that rusted chair as if it were a throne despite being looked down upon by the wizards above them.
Oh, how she had made a spectacle of herself, taunting the crowd with the certainty of someone who believed freedom was inevitable for someone like her.
Oh, how arrogantly wrong Bellatrix had been. Commendable, almost.
There is no freedom for people like she, cage or no cage. Bellatrix is never free; she does not have the right to be.
Nor does Bellatrix ever want to be free despite everything.
15 years stuck in a tiny cell, overcrowded but the guards still find ways to cram in more. Not because of the lack of cells, but more from pointed cruelty.
Kissed by Dementors. Beaten by guards. Perhaps even violated by fellow inmates. When one is starved, humiliated, and brutalized on a schedule, it is easy to regress into instinct—to violence as relief, to survival stripped bare.
Blanc wondered how Bellatrix had survived it at all.
Her little survivor.
So eager to endure pain. So willing to bear pressure. Bellatrix would have carried the weight of the world on her back alone if it meant shielding her family from harm.
Like a proper elder sister.
Isn’t that right, little Bella?
Alone, in that cramped damp cell. All the time in the world to ponder, to think, to scheme, and to dream.
Blanc wonders what Bellatrix had conjured in her mind. Occluding reality away until her master broke her out from Azkaban. Like an owner coming back to get his dog from the shelter.
Such blind obedience and unwavering loyalty, Blanc does not want. Riddle can have that part for himself, although it is obvious that he has eyes for more than broken and used up servants—
She already knew what Bellatrix Black was: all sharp edges and exposed nerves. Emotionally driven, emotionally starved. Brimming with life and suffering in equal measure. Crooked and flawed in countless ways—yet perfect, almost pure, in a few that mattered.
It was pathetic to see someone so powerful, so feral, leashed so poorly—broken not by chains or force, but by neglect and misunderstanding.
A waste.
A shame.
Blanc felt herself miss a breath when Bellatrix’s glare snapped toward her.
Like a predator pausing in sync with its prey—reading, mirroring, waiting—she felt no need to breathe or flinch. She simply held still calmly.
Blanc stared into that furious gaze and saw herself reflected there.
Perhaps that was all she needed.
Something vast enough to consume her.
Something alone worthy enough to drown her, completely.
She is still alone.
So is her Bella.
The war is ending. Voldemort—the false man who wished to play God—is dead. His remaining followers are being hunted down and dragged to trial, every last one of them. The Ministry is being rebuilt for glory once more—if there had ever been any to begin with.
The sun shines over magical Britain again. A blessing from Merlin.
Blanc considers ridding herself of Bellatrix now that the war has rendered the witch obsolete.
She almost does.
But when a pair of strong hands tighten themselves around her unassuming neck.
Dark curls spill loose, clinging to her face, blocking her blurred vision from everything except the pale countenance hovering above her.
She sees it.
She sees her.
A desperate beast of a woman—grieving fallen allies, a dead master—now begging for yet another cage to crawl into.
[All alone, have you surrendered yet?]
Long nails dig into her skin, twisting painfully. Blanc gives no outward sign of distress—only a soft, uneven breath slipping through her constricted airway. The mattress dips further as Bellatrix leans in, shifting her weight fully onto the hands wrapped tight around an unmoving throat.
Choking someone in their sleep is a peculiar way of begging, Blanc muses. But Bellatrix has always been unpredictable.
So, she looks past the small mistake. This time, there is no punishment.
[There is no one left at your side, not even your kin wish to be associated with the likes of you.]
Blanc lifts a hand and rests it gently atop the wrists coiled around her neck like living snakes. Soothing. Coaxing.
Then she notices it— Blood and mud smear Bellatrix’s skin and clothes. Still warm. Still wet. The stench clings—foul and unmistakable. It stains the sheets beneath them, and though the loss of her favorite bedding is unfortunate, there are matters far more pressing.
Blanc can’t speak. But she does not need to. There is nothing to say. No truth that would comfort either of them.
[You are alone. Love.]
Bellatrix does not tolerate lies. Blanc sees no reason to offer one.
“Blanc...”
Yes?
“... Filthy. Worthless bastard.”
Yes.
She is filth. Man-made and born of rot.
And so is everyone else. Pureblood. Mudblood. All animals, all tainted. The only purity lies in draining the red from our veins and letting the earth reclaim what it was owed.
Bellatrix should come to terms that she is too, a stain in the world.
[So stubborn.]
Darkness creeps along the edges of Blanc’s vision like circling vultures. She closes her eyes and lets her body go slack, arms falling loose at her sides—a corpse-in-waiting.
But death will have to wait.
For now, she allows the lonely witch to cling to her, to curl against her warmth like a child seeking shelter from a storm.
A slow breath leaves Blanc’s lips.
She indulges her—just for tonight.
When morning comes—though a quiet part of her wishes it would not—she will decide what to do with the witch.
So many things await tomorrow.
The war is over.
Her children are dead.
Her brothers are dead.
All freshly buried, only yesterday.
Alone, again.
Alone, as ever.