I
stumble through the wreckage, rusted from the rain
there's
nothing left to salvage, no one left to blame
among
the broken mirrors, I don't look the same
I'm
rusted from the rain, I'm rusted from the rain
Rodolphus staggered away from the Death Eaters, and the Aurors rounding them up – the final task – although he knew attempting to run would be foolish. They'd find him, eventually.
He was injured, and limped slightly as he walked through the bodies; some still sprawled across the floor, forgotten. He spotted a few of his old comrades; fellow Death Eaters. But no one cared for them anymore. There was no one who would smuggle their bodies from the Hogwarts castle and bury them privately, even in an unmarked grave. Should he save Bellatrix? Ah, but she was already lost. No doubt Potter would burn her body with the rest; with her beloved Master. He thought of Bellatrix. She was always too wild for him, and there had been the grudging admiration at first, then slight fear, of course. Now, just bitterness and humourless irony.
Dissect
me till my blood runs down into the drain
My
bitter heart is pumping oil into my veins
I'm
nothing but a tin man, I don't feel any pain
I
don't feel any pain, I'm rusted from the rain
Numbness. The worst of the blend of pointless human emotion. The fight was lost – he had never really expected them to finally succeed. For some, this was the final victory, a time for rejoicing, mourning the losses, but the dawn of a bright future. For the Death Eaters who had survived... it was the beginning of the end of their lives. A life in Azkaban and the Dementors kiss, no doubt. Bellatrix could never have survived that. She liked to be in control – the root of her mindless sadism. Bellatrix wanted control over people's minds so much; she lost control of her own. He was her victim if no one else was there for her to torture.
Go
on...crush me like a flower, rusted from the rain
Come
on...Strip me of my powers, beat me with your chains
And
if...I'm the king of cowards, you're the queen of pain
I'm
rusted from the rain, I'm rusted from the rain
Yes, his Bellatrix. She didn't feel like his – she had made it clear she did not want to be a trophy wife like her sister, Narcissa. She never acted as though they were married, but she still felt like his. He clung to the fragile threads of attachment that tied them together. Not emotional ties, of course – their love had never been guaranteed, never expected, never existing, considering their marriage was already being planned from the moment of Bellatrix's birth.
There had been moments, of course, when she had mattered, and he had mattered to her. Moments when they had clung to each other in the darkness, united by bland desire to cling to anything, when it had all become too hard to bear. Of course, Azkaban changed Bellatrix. She did not need to cling to anything – she did not need comforts like a small child. She needed her Master, firstly and absolutely.
You
hung me like a picture, now I'm just a frame
I
used to be your lap dog, now I'm just a stray
Shackled
in a graveyard, left here to decay
Left
here to decay, I'm rusted from the rain
When the Dementors kiss finally came, he did not care. It made no difference - Bellatrix's own, affectionless kiss had claimed his soul years before.