It is with honesty and a bit of envy that I report that I do not own any component of this fanfiction or the style of writing I have utilized, but have only twisted the truth as simply as turning on a computer. If you desire to read the truth of this universe, might I suggest picking up a book, and, if you simply prefer the pleasant and fluffy, I strongly advise that you hit the 'back' button and return to whatever you were searching for, because this isn't it. However, if you enjoy stories about complicated relationships, torture curses, stolen artifacts, and cherry pie, do read on, but I can only implore you to not scream at any point.
The story begins as Harry Potter exits the Ministry of Magic after the reading of Sirius Black's will. The reading of a will is often unpleasant, as it reminds the people in attendance that a loved one has died, but it can be made even more unpleasant by the messy handwriting of the deceased. Take, for example, that Harry had been emancipated as an adult, but the handwriting was so incomprehensible that the word 'emancipate' had been mistaken for a variety of grizzly and horrible words, the least grizzly and horrible of which included 'emanciate' and 'casatrate'. Thus, Harry left the Ministry two hours later than schedueled, picked up his broomstick and rode halfheartedly to the house he'd inherited.
A fresh wave of "Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" greeted him as he slowly cracked the door open as to not disturb the portrait of Mrs. Black, but his mind was too occupied to notice the house elf. It was hard for him to believe Sirius was dead, and when he could bring himself to think of it, the result was uncontrollable sobbing. Sitting at the empty kitchen table, with Kreacher still screaming in the background, his thoughts turned to Bellatrix Lestrange. If he would blame someone other than himself for Sirius's death, it would be her, she'd killed him after all. She killed him, he repeated in his head. Her own cousin. The vile woman deserved to be tortured until she was no better off then the Longbottoms, befallen by a fate worse than death, like loss of soul...Harry cringed and shook the disturbing images from his mind. It wasn't like him to harbor a burning hatred, and he wasn't going to start now.
Our world is full of ironic coincidences. They happen all around us, without recieving a second thought, but although they need not always be unpleasant, their unpleasantness knows no bounds. For example, you may have booked plane tickets next to your ex-significant other you were hoping to avoid--and his or her new partner of the same gender. You may be crammed by a school bully into the only locker in school containing a pipe bomb. And, you may find yourself thinking about your godfather's killer, only to have her turn up on your doorstep at that very moment.
Hearing a knock on the door, Harry opened it, thinking it was the Order of the Phoenix, but, to his great shock and displeasure, who should be standing there but Bellatrix. He didn't see her face at first, but from the first 'Crucio' he was sure it was her. He tried to struggle to his feet, but the pain was too much, and all he could manage before falling limp on the floor was, "Wha--what are you--"
"Doing here?" she completed in a menacing tone, reaping every bit of pleasure as she could from Harry's writhing and screaming.. "Isn't it obvious? I'm an escaped convict. I have no where to stay, and Narcissa won't have me in her house...but I doubted even my filthy blood-traitor cousin would leave his estate to the likes of you." She lifted the curse and examined her surroundings with an air of superiority, sitting down on a dusty sofa. "Kreacher," she called, "Would you get me some water and a newspaper?" She magicked the door shut and smiled in a deranged manner.
"Anything for Mistress Bellatrix," Kreacher said gratefully as Harry pulled himself to his feet. "Kreacher has dreamed of the day when he would serve his Mistress once more."
"Kreacher, stay put! That's an order," Harry bellowed, but Kreacher wasn't listening. "I'm not going to let you barge into my house and act like some sort of dictator! Get out now or I'll go down to the Ministry and get the Aurors to eradicate you!" He was breathing quickly, his hand grasped tightly around his wand as if in attempt to suffocate it.
"Oh, is that so?" Bellatrix mocked coldly, smirking at him from across the room. "Humor me. 'Eradicate' me. Just try and beat me at my own games. Go on, torture me." A hush fell over Number 12, Grimmauld Place, in which deadly glares seemed to bounce off every reflective surface. Harry was uttery dumbfounded, a word which here means 'at a loss for words'. "Well, until you grow some backbone, I could use a roof over my head." Finally, he was able to manage a sentence.
"You're...you're not going to kill me?"
"Oh, of course not. It's not as if you're any threat," Bellatrix explained flatly, picking up the copy of the Daily Prophet that Kreacher had just handed her.
Harry was fuming. Had the encounter been an old cartoon, his anger would have set him on fire. "I WILL NOT HAVE DEATH EATERS IN MY HOUSE!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, chucking at her the first thing he could reach, which happened to be a couch cushion, and missed by about three meters.
"Well then, there shouldn't be a problem," she said.
Was there something Harry was missing? "What does that mean?" he asked.
"I've said too much. I can't trust you, so just shut up now."
There was a long pause, in which Bellatrix seemed unsure of whether to scream or laugh. "Because you're Harry Potter!" she exclaimed. "If there's anyone I can't trust, it's you!" She looked away, determined not to make contact with him, aside from an occasional snide remark.
"Fine. Go and get yourself cleaned up then," Harry droned coldly, stalking out of the room. "I won't have you strutting about my house looking all disheveled and smelling of flatulence." She clutched her hair in offense and was silenced for the remainder of the day.