₊˚⊹♡ 𝓞𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝔂 𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮₊˚⊹♡
Pairing: Harry Potter x Lestrange!reader
Summary: Y/N spent her entire life at beauxbatons. Her whole world turned upside down when her mother she never met escaped Azkaban, forcing her to transfer to Hogwarts in her 5th year for her safety. Harry knows he should stay away. She’s a Lestrange, the daughter of the woman who destroyed part of his world. But the more he sees of Y/N, the harder it becomes to believe that blood decides who we are.
Author’s note: Hey cuties! I wrote this fic in a moment of creativity when I decided I wanted to put my A- levels in english to use. This is kinda different from my usual writing style- it’s more bookish vibes ig. I’m also currently working on the entire story- including Y/n’s point of view- from when she finds out about the transfer to living in Malfoy manor till falling for Harry. Let me know if you guys would be interested in reading that. Happy reading xx.
Update- Wrote a sequel
He noticed her the moment she walked in.
She wore the red and gold like it didn’t quite belong to her yet. Her head was high, her gaze unreadable, but not cold. Observant. Detached. Controlled, almost. She sat at the far end of the table, away from the usual clusters of fifth years. Her plate was untouched.
“Who is that?” Harry asked, squinting slightly. Hermione’s head snapped up like she’d been waiting for the question.
“That,” she said, voice low but intense, “is Y/N Lestrange.”
Harry frowned. “Lestrange?”
“As in Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione hissed, like the name might hex the table. “She transferred from Beauxbatons. A week ago. After her mother escaped. Apparently Dumbledore had to step in personally to get her in. No other school would take her.”
Harry blinked. “She’s in Gryffindor?”
“Yes!” Hermione waved her fork like it was part of the argument. “No one knows how the hat made that decision, but people are saying stuff about her… you tell him Ron.”
Ron leaned in with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Total nutter, mate. Looks normal, but I heard she hexed a portrait on her first night because it looked at her funny.”
“Ron,” Hermione snapped. “That’s a rumor.”
“Still. Her mum tortured Neville’s parents. She’s bound to be a bit cracked.”
Harry didn’t answer. He was still watching her.
She didn’t look like someone dangerous. Or unhinged. She didn’t carry herself like someone craving attention, or trying to prove anything. She just… was. Quiet. She didn’t laugh when the first years made a mess. She didn’t even look uncomfortable sitting alone.
She looked up suddenly- maybe sensing eyes on her and her gaze met his. Harry froze. It wasn’t cold. Or hostile. It wasn’t even particularly curious. It was just… calm. Like she’d already figured something out about him, and wasn’t surprised.
He dropped his gaze first.
He felt Hermione watching him and shook his head. “She doesn’t seem like—”
“She’s her daughter, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “That doesn’t just go away.”
Harry frowned, but said nothing.
Because something told him this girl was nothing like the story they were trying to write for her.And whether he liked it or not, he wanted to know why.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Harry rounded the corner toward the Fat Lady’s portrait and nearly bumped into someone already standing there.
Y/N Lestrange.
Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him, arms folded. “Why won’t she bloody let me in…” She mumbled under her breath.
Harry blinked. “Um… you have to tell her the password.”
“Password?” A puzzled look spread across her face.
“It’s snargaluff root.” Harry said.
The Fat Lady sniffed. “Well finally. I was beginning to think she was just decorating the corridor.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry… first the staircases try to throw me down three times, and now I need to impress a talking portrait to get to bed. What’s next, a hallway that quizzes me on wand theory or eats my shoes if I get it wrong?”
Harry smiled,surprised; he didn’t expect her to be funny.
The portrait swung open with a dramatic sigh. They stepped into the common room together. It was late. The low crackle of the fire filled the room.
Y/N stretched out her hand,
“I’m Y/N.”
“Y/N Lestrange….” Harry continued, shaking her hand.
“Sorry- I’m Harry.”
“Harry Potter.” She finished.
Harry had seen Bellatrix Lestrange’s face before—smeared across wanted posters, screaming from the memory in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, twisted with madness and cruelty. And yet, no matter how much he stared at Y/N, he couldn’t find even a trace of that face in hers. Her features were softer, steadier. Her eyes weren’t wild; they were soft and kind. There was no madness in her smile. No chaos in the way she was. If anything, she carried herself like someone trying not to be noticed.
Harry glanced at her, curious. “So… you settling in alright?”
Y/N gave a small shrug. “As well as someone with a homicidal mother and a French accent can in a room full of people who think I sleep with a dagger under my pillow.”
Harry blinked, caught between concern and trying not to laugh. “Do you?”
She smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He grinned despite himself. “Only a little.”
“Goodnight, Potter,” she said, already halfway to the stairs.
“Night,” he said, still watching her go.
He sat down on the nearest couch and stared into the fire, frowning.
He didn’t know what was happening.
But he was pretty sure it had just started.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The classroom smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and something burning—probably the result of Neville’s most recent attempt at a Shield Charm. Harry slid into his usual seat in the back corner of Charms, only to realize Ron and Hermione were already mid-whispered conversation across the row.
“He’s doing it again,” Ron muttered, eyes flicking toward the door.
“Of course he is,” Hermione said, sighing. “Three months ago, he barely noticed she existed, and now—”
Harry looked up just as Y/N walked in.
She didn’t make a show of anything. She never did. She just nodded to Professor Flitwick, scanned the room, and made her way toward the empty seat next to him without hesitation.
“Potter,” she said, dropping her bag onto the desk with a small smirk.
He grinned. “Lestrange.”
She arched a brow. “Still not scared of me? You’re losing your touch.”
“Terrified, actually. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”
She gave a quiet, sarcastic laugh as she pulled out her wand. Harry caught himself staring again—not at anything in particular, just her. The way her hair fell forward when she leaned over her notes, how her quill moved fast and messy but confident, how she always seemed like she was both in the room and somewhere far away.
Three months ago, she was a stranger with a reputation.
Now, she was… something else.
Class ended too quickly.
As they packed up, Y/N turned to him and said, “Try not to miss me until next period, yeah?”
“You assume I will,” he shot back.
“You always do,” she said with a wink, then disappeared into the hallway crowd.
Harry was still grinning when Ron and Hermione flanked him on both sides.
Hermione didn’t waste time. “You’ve gotten close to her.”
Harry blinked. “Yeah? So?”
Ron frowned. “Mate, we’re not saying you can’t talk to her. Just—don’t forget who her family is.”
“Right,” Hermione added quickly. “We know she’s in Gryffindor, and we’re not saying she’s her mother—but Bellatrix Lestrange isn’t just a name, Harry. She tortured people. She killed people.”
Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know who her mum is. Believe me. But Y/N’s not like her. She’s—”
“What?” Ron asked, folding his arms. “Different? Misunderstood? The ‘funny, cool’ kind of Lestrange?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. The thing was, he didn’t have a clear reason. Just… a feeling. A pull. When he was around her, the world quieted down. She didn’t treat him like the Chosen One. She didn’t flinch at his past or parade hers. She was just real.
“I don’t know what she is,” he said honestly. “But she’s not her mother. And I’m not going to treat her like she is.”
Hermione sighed, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press further.
As they walked to their next class, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that last look Y/N gave him.
The way she smiled—not sweet, not soft, but like she saw him and didn’t care who he was supposed to be.
And maybe that’s what scared him most.
Because every time he looked at her, he felt himself slipping.
And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The library was quiet. A few students sat hunched over textbooks, and Madam Pince watched them all like they might steal the shelves. Harry hadn’t planned on staying long. He came in looking for notes on their DADA essay, but he hadn’t made much progress—mostly because Y/N was sitting across from him.
She was reading, her quill tucked behind her ear, hair falling slightly over one eye as she leaned over her book. She made a face—half confused, half annoyed—and Harry caught himself smiling.Then she looked up.
He dropped his gaze to his own book too quickly. Definitely too obvious.
“You’ve been on the same sentence for twenty minutes,” she said.
Harry looked up slowly. “Just… taking it in.”
She smirked. “That parchment must be very moving.”
He let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. The writer really captured the emotional arc of ‘Wand Movements: A Historical Analysis.’”
Y/N tilted her head. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Harry leaned back in his chair. “And you’re surprisingly good at reading people.”
She looked at him for a second. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. Just… quiet.
“I’ve had practice,” she said softly.
He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but the words came out before he could stop them. “Do you miss it? Beauxbatons?”
Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She looked down at her hands, turning her quill between her fingers.
“Sometimes. It was cold, the rules were insane, and the food was too pretty to eat… but no one looked at me like I was a walking headline.”
Harry nodded slowly. “We’re good at that here.”
“Yeah.” She gave a dry laugh.
Harry’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
She looked up again, and this time, she didn’t look away. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
“You don’t believe I’m like her, do you?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure he could. Because everything in his life- every reason, every scar, every instinct, should’ve told him to run.
But instead, he said, “No. I don’t.”
Something shifted then. Barely a breath. But it was there. It was there in the way her eyes softened with relief. The way her lips parted slightly, like she might say something else, but didn’t.
Harry’s heart was beating faster than it should have been.
She looked away first this time. “Good. Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not afraid I might be.”
“Then I’ll remind you,” he said.
Y/N looked back up at him, startled.
“Whenever you forget who you are,” Harry said, voice low, “I’ll remind you.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Hogsmeade in winter was something out of a postcard—snow lining the rooftops, warm butterbeer fogging up frosted windows, students crunching along the path in thick scarves. For once, Harry wasn’t thinking about the cold, or even the war.
He was thinking about her.
Y/N walked beside him, her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets, cheeks flushed from the wind. She was quiet—but not in the withdrawn way she got around others. It was the kind of quiet that felt easy, like she didn’t need to fill the silence. Like just walking next to him was enough.It was.
They were just passing Honeydukes when the voice came from behind.
“Well, well,” drawled Draco Malfoy. “Didn’t think I’d find a Lestrange slumming it with Potter.”
Y/N stopped, jaw tightening
Draco stepped forward, his smirk already venomous. “Your mum would be so proud. First Gryffindor, now roaming with a half-blood. You’re practically a Weasley in disguise.”
Y/N’s face didn’t move, but her hands curled slightly at her sides.
Draco kept going. “What do you think she’d say if she saw you now? Holding hands with the ‘Chosen one’, cozying up to the very people she wanted dead? Guess blood doesn’t mean much when you’re desperate to belong.”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said sharply.
Draco snorted. “What, going to defend your little project? You think she’s some tragic misunderstood soul? She’s just like the rest of her family. She’ll break the second you trust her.”
Harry didn’t think. He just drew his wand.
A second later, Draco was knocked flat on the icy path, skidding backward like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.
He groaned, sitting up and glaring. “You’re going to regret that—”
“Keep talking and I’ll make sure your tongue sticks to the next stone wall,” Harry snapped.
Draco scrambled to his feet and stalked off, muttering curses and clutching his side.
Harry turned back to Y/N. A single tear trickled down her cheeks
“Hey,” Harry said softly, stepping closer. “He’s wrong. All of it.”
They ended up at the Three Broomsticks, a quiet corner table, where no one could see them. Two mugs of butterbeer sat untouched between them, steam curling in the golden light.
Y/N leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t have to hex him.”
“Felt good though,” he said, and she gave a small laugh. There was a pause. And then,
“Thank you…” Y/N whispered.
They sat in silence for a long moment, the steam from their butterbeer curling between them. Her eyes were still a little glassy, cheeks still flushed from anger, from cold, from everything. Harry couldn’t stop looking at her.
Before he could change his mind, Harry leaned across the table, slow but certain, one hand reaching out to brush her hair gently behind her ear. Her breath caught. Her eyes didn’t leave his.And then, he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. Not completely. It was hungry, like the tension between them had finally snapped and neither of them cared what happened next. Her hand came up to his collar, gripping the edge of his scarf, pulling him closer like she’d been holding that impulse in for weeks. Months. She kissed him like she was daring him to regret it.
And he kissed her like he already knew he never would.
When they broke apart, barely a breath between them, her forehead rested against his, her voice low and unsteady.
“You really are reckless, Potter.”
Harry’s lips brushed a smile against hers. “Takes one to know one.”
She laughed quietly, nervous and thrilled all at once, and Harry realized his heart hadn’t slowed down since the second their lips met.
Then, almost a whisper, he said, “You know… they can say whatever they want. About who you are, who she was. But you’re not her. Not even close.”
He tilted his head, brushing her knuckles with his fingers.
“But I’m still a Lestrange…” Y/N trailed off.
“Only by Name.” Harry smiled, pulling her into a tight embrace.
