Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!
A/N: Another Bellatrix oneshot, for the fruit challenge over at HPFC. The fruit was blackberries. I hope you like it! Reviews are awesome if you have time!
Thank-you's: Nicole (Hallowed Ink) who beta'd this for me. Thank you for all your help!!
Bellatrix pushes through the thick brambles, knocking the branches away before they have the chance to scar her flawless white skin.
She steps lightly, leaving no traces of her presence, her childish form gliding gracefully down her path. Her pretty face wears a scowl, dark eyes constantly on guard. She almost stumbles, but the nature around her seems to shy away and she continues on unshaken.
She doesn't know where she is going. She doesn't care. She is thirteen years old, and her parents are already discussing a match for her. Someone to marry in only five years.
She doesn't want to hear it. Not yet. There will come a time, she suspects, when getting married will not bother her. It will be a necessity, a benefit, something is required of her, by both herself and her parents.
Beside her is a bush, green and alive. It's leaves are sharp, pricking her cheek as she gets too close. A tiny red blot of blood rolls down her cheek, like a teardrop. She catches it with her forefinger, wiping it away. There is no mark scaring her and no more blood dares to fall.
On the bush, blackberries grow in abundance. Their soft, succulent shells bursting with juice. So full of life.
She plucks one from the bush and rolls it lightly between her fingers. She chokes slightly as the sickly sweet taste hits the back of her throat.
She pulls another from the bush. It spills between her fingers, red liquid staining her hand, contrasting with the porcelain smoothness of her palm. It is horrible. It excites her in an unexplainable way.
She grabs more and crushes them in her hand. She squeezes them until they are empty, the sticky juices running down her arm, coating her.
She doesn't know why, but she feels exhilarated, liberated. As the life deserts the blackberries, the life and energy flowing through her veins seems to pump faster.
Suddenly there is a smell coming from the floor where the dead berries rest. The scent of berries is caused by the fermentation. Things are not meant to die so quickly, she knows. Fermentation takes weeks.
She has done it, with some strange untameable magic. She has killed the berries. Cut them off, stopped them from growing.
She bares her teeth as she licks up the disgusting sap.
Because why should she care? They are just fruit. Tiny, insignificant fruits. And it does not matter.
She grasps the handle of the sharp, shiny, silver knife as it plunges deep into worthless flesh. The red liquid races in torrents down her slim, pale arms.
She licks it up. Again it stains her lips and skin, the taste more metallic than sweet, but she savours it all the same.
The years have aged her. Once taut skin is pulled across her bones. She appears gaunt, her eyes even more terrifying. And yet she is beautiful. Azkaban has not been kind to her, however the aristocracy in her blood still shines through as strong as ever.
She tears the knife downwards in a sharp motion, more blood spilling. As the blood flows, she can feel the life returning to her. She is repossessing the life prison stole from her.
The scent of rotting flesh again assaults her. She smiles widely, a maniac grin. This body should be her plaything for days, but it won't even last hours.
She has always had this power, this magic. She kills quickly, causes all things living to simply rot away.
She leans her own slender body over the mutilated one on the table. She breaths in the fowl stench of death. Somehow, it fuels her desire even further.
She bares her teeth as she licks up some of the red nectar, shivering slightly.
Because why should she care? This thing could barely be considered a person. Just a filthy, dirty Mudblood. And it does not matter anyway.