Authors Note: This is a Bellatrix fic. I do love those. She's just such a great character. Anyway, odd little fic this is! But I do like it, despite it all. Bella's husband Rudolphus is a pub worker in this one because I like him like that. So there.
*
When you were born they grinned. They were usually the type of people who grimaced or nodded but when you were born they grinned. They put on the happy face and they jumped about in their overly fancy dresses and they were quite thrilled. And barely a second later they were done and they looked down on you in your pram.
And they nodded.
And it was the last second in your life when you were to get attention.
You lived in a stiff manor with scary rooms and even scarier ghosts. You remember times of running about the corridors just praying to find your parent's room. But it was dark and you were naught allowed to light a candle. You stormed the corridors in your pale pink nightgown and you never found their room.
Family traditions were upheld in that silly sort of way. And even though you were no more than six you knew 'lame' when you saw it, but you went with it. You played the part; they could say that for you. You dressed up in the gowns that were obnoxious and gaudy, and you used the correct fork and correct spoon. And you grinned, but for the most part held that "hold it together" look.
Perfection was acceptable anything else was not. Your coloring was perfect, your manners were impeccable but you...you had some work to do. And they always said so.
You got accepted to Hogwarts--of course you did. And you went off as your Mother wiped faux tears from her crystal eyes. And you tried hard not to roll your eyes.
But you ended up doing it anyway.
Your Father smiled slightly and said, "love you." And his tone was flat and firm with conviction and tradition...and you couldn't question it.
You nodded. "Love you too...Daddy..." and the words rolled off your tongue...sort of.
It was still unnatural and awkward and totally odd. But it was another social play, he'd say it in front of the other parents or he'd wink at you to make it seem like you two were really close. Like he went to your tea parties, and played with you, and told you stories. Like he actually cared. And he was good at social plays too, better than you, he was older. And your Mother's fake tears, they were to show her attachment to her 'baby.'
And it showed in one of those pathetic sort of ways.
You were young, and you were tiny, but you saw the way they looked at each other. As though to say 'hold it together!' And they did...of course. They didn't disappoint.
You walked onto the apple-red train alone and not as scared as you should've been. They always told you that you were supposed to be nervous and worried and excited and stressed out during things like this. But you weren't. You were calm and cool and collected. Even if you were still on their little stage. And when you accidentally tripped on the stair you were supposed to smile and say in a cold tone: "Thank you for your help, but I'm fine. No sir...no, there's no need to help." Because even if it was a perfectly nice gesture it wasn't a perfectly nice gesture for YOU.
The social plays continued.
You were sorted into Slytherin, and you tried to act tough and you were...in some way of speaking. You did well in classes, you were relatively well liked, you dressed well. You WERE well. You were the epitome of wellness, psychically at least. But your heart was aching and you were never quite sure why. You told your friend one day and he laughed quickly:
"Darlin' ain't nobody making it ache but you."
And you thought about it and thoroughly disagreed. With every fiber of your being.
But the boy was kind about it at least. Well, as kind as a fellow Slytherin could be. And in your third year, his fifth you dated him. He gave you a silver charm bracelet and it was awfully pretty. Daddy once gave you one like that, right after he missed your Quidditch game. And he smiled grimly and said: "This'll make up for it, right Pumpkin?"
And you laughed a silly little laugh and said: "Of course, Daddy. It's very pretty. Did Mummy make you get it for me?"
He didn't respond.
Although you knew.
You and the chocolate haired boy held hands in corridors and smiled at each other. At times even passed notes on ancient parchment and you kissed him at opportune moments...and some not so opportune. And you sat together and lived together, and studied together.
Hogwarts went quickly with him. But it wasn't Heaven or even close.
Right out of Hogwarts the two of you married. A traditional marriage. And once again your Father said something terribly sappy that was the equivalent of nothing and everything and your Mother wiped away false tears. And everyone just about fell for it, except for you.
You were wearing a lacy gown and it was the best that money could buy...and it was a pretty and frivolous buy. But you still liked it. And at times, even now you'd twirl in the mirror with it on.
The marriage was a substandard one. He wasn't as charming as he was when you first met him--tall and lean---but then again, who is? He was about as ambitious as an old toad and about as romantic as one as well. He worked in a silly old pub and told jokes to the House of Commons folk and he was happy and you weren't.
'And you desperately wanted to be rich and special and loved. And not just to be so you wanted to feel so. And you didn't. And you never quite would, either.'
You stayed at home in a silly old shack with silly old windows and pathetic paintings. They were one's by famous painters like Picasso and silly things that made little sense. It was a rich type of thing, and it didn't fit your husband. So one day, he tore it off the wall and ripped it in pieces.
"There!" He said. "I've always hated it."
And secretly...so had you.
The two of you had a son and smiled on the day of his birth. You were both smiling, and your husband would have been too...had he been there. And part of you thought it was the sole most important day in all of your life. And part of you still thought it was the Quidditch game your Daddy missed.
And it was okay, just you and your baby as your husband 'slaved' a way. And it wasn't really slaving either, he enjoyed working at the pub and he talked to all of the pretty ladies and served alcohol--to the already drunk.
And you were at home.
You and your son took long walks across the messy cemetery and it always did strike you as awfully depressing. And you never did quite care. The wind whipped your messy hair and you pulled the maroon shawl tighter around you.
And you always walked there.
When your husband heard about this he chuckled and an entirely non-funny sort of way.
"It's a tad morbid, ain't it?" He said over a supper of chicken broth.
"No!" You said shortly as you stood up from you chair.
"Look darlin' I didn't mean, I mean, you can do whatever-"
"-no," you said bitterly, "-you can do whatever."
He rolled his eyes and chalked this outburst up to you being 'unreasonable.' And that night you slept on the floor even if the cold bit you. Your husband objected in a very ridiculous manner so you threw a pillow at him.
And part of you wanted to just cry your little heart out. And part of you wanted to keep it tighter inside of you.
He gave you a locket one day. It was fake gold and it had his picture and yours from when you were younger. And you must've practically giggled like a schoolgirl and thought yourself quite young and hip. But you weren't hip and you certainly weren't young. And you weren't a schoolgirl either, actually. You were just you. Slightly older with a child and a pub worker husband.
And that was it.
And you weren't young and impressionable anymore you were just bitter and cynical. So you had no excuses, really. You had tripped on your own shoelace and blamed the Minister of Magic...which really wasn't quite fair.
So you were angry.
With no one to be angry at.
Which of course, as always, led to you being even angrier.
So really to put it simply you were alone and angry and hurting.
And no one noticed. Which was quite funny in a sick and twisted sort of way.
Your son went off to Hogwarts in the Fall and he was supposed to be small and weak but really he was strong and tall. He was a big boy who didn't need Mummy's protection but forever would need Mummy's love. You straightened his askew tie for him and he rolled his eyes:
"Mummy," he said, "I could've done that."
You chuckled and wiped a crystal tear from your eye.
He did well in school. Better than you or your husband and better than most. And you were proud of him, but never too proud. He made his Quidditch house team when he was a second year and he played beater. For Slytherin, of course.
"I've got to work, " your husband confessed on the day of the game.
"No way," you said with a shake of your head. "No bloody way. This is his first Quiddtich game and you have to work...?"
"Yes," he said, "is that so hard to believe? I work seven days of week, I serve ale. Fun stuff, huh?"
And his tone was bitter, for he was getting older. And the joy of serving ale was no longer present or amusing or dangerous.
"You be there," you said. "Because you know how bloody important that is to him."
"I know," he sighed, "...but I can't."
"You make it happen."
And you slammed the door and apparated to the Quidditch Pitch a smirk on your upturned face.
And your husband showed up, right before the game start. And he cheered on your son so vigorously you would've thought he was betting on the game (granted he very well may have been.) And you grasped his hand tightly and watched the game, your head resting on his shoulder.
You wore your old silver and green tie, for kicks, you know. And your husband did as well, for 'school pride' or whatever excuse he gave. You'd always loved his ties.
Your son was a fantastic Quidditch player--maybe even the best--but then again, you were quite biased. He was yours.
At the end of the game you two rushed onto the field and you kissed your son's cheek and he replied with a very annoyed:
"Get off Mum!"
"--hey, hey--don't you say that to your Mother!"
"Dad!" He said in an annoyed tone.
"Fantastic flying there, son."
"Thanks Dad."
"Really brilliant."
"Thanks Mum. Can I go off and you know--"
"--party?" Your husband interjected.
"Yeah."
"Drink ale?" You added half mischievously.
"If it comes up," he shrugs.
You laughed and your husband did as well with a quick wink at your son.
And the two of you went home with smiles plastered on your faces.
And it was just like old times. Really old times. Old times that never quite existed
And you slept in the big bed that night with flannel sheets and cups of tea and ancient books at the bedside.
And you thought maybe you could do the whole 'happy family' thing. Maybe you could see all his Quidditch games not walk in cemeteries. And maybe you could hold mercy in your heart and not just in the Bible near your bedside. Maybe you could even be happy being poor and alone.
And then--
And then you thought again.
*
*
When you were born they grinned. They were usually the type of people who grimaced or nodded but when you were born they grinned. They put on the happy face and they jumped about in their overly fancy dresses and they were quite thrilled. And barely a second later they were done and they looked down on you in your pram.
And they nodded.
And it was the last second in your life when you were to get attention.
You lived in a stiff manor with scary rooms and even scarier ghosts. You remember times of running about the corridors just praying to find your parent's room. But it was dark and you were naught allowed to light a candle. You stormed the corridors in your pale pink nightgown and you never found their room.
Family traditions were upheld in that silly sort of way. And even though you were no more than six you knew 'lame' when you saw it, but you went with it. You played the part; they could say that for you. You dressed up in the gowns that were obnoxious and gaudy, and you used the correct fork and correct spoon. And you grinned, but for the most part held that "hold it together" look.
Perfection was acceptable anything else was not. Your coloring was perfect, your manners were impeccable but you...you had some work to do. And they always said so.
You got accepted to Hogwarts--of course you did. And you went off as your Mother wiped faux tears from her crystal eyes. And you tried hard not to roll your eyes.
But you ended up doing it anyway.
Your Father smiled slightly and said, "love you." And his tone was flat and firm with conviction and tradition...and you couldn't question it.
You nodded. "Love you too...Daddy..." and the words rolled off your tongue...sort of.
It was still unnatural and awkward and totally odd. But it was another social play, he'd say it in front of the other parents or he'd wink at you to make it seem like you two were really close. Like he went to your tea parties, and played with you, and told you stories. Like he actually cared. And he was good at social plays too, better than you, he was older. And your Mother's fake tears, they were to show her attachment to her 'baby.'
And it showed in one of those pathetic sort of ways.
You were young, and you were tiny, but you saw the way they looked at each other. As though to say 'hold it together!' And they did...of course. They didn't disappoint.
You walked onto the apple-red train alone and not as scared as you should've been. They always told you that you were supposed to be nervous and worried and excited and stressed out during things like this. But you weren't. You were calm and cool and collected. Even if you were still on their little stage. And when you accidentally tripped on the stair you were supposed to smile and say in a cold tone: "Thank you for your help, but I'm fine. No sir...no, there's no need to help." Because even if it was a perfectly nice gesture it wasn't a perfectly nice gesture for YOU.
The social plays continued.
You were sorted into Slytherin, and you tried to act tough and you were...in some way of speaking. You did well in classes, you were relatively well liked, you dressed well. You WERE well. You were the epitome of wellness, psychically at least. But your heart was aching and you were never quite sure why. You told your friend one day and he laughed quickly:
"Darlin' ain't nobody making it ache but you."
And you thought about it and thoroughly disagreed. With every fiber of your being.
But the boy was kind about it at least. Well, as kind as a fellow Slytherin could be. And in your third year, his fifth you dated him. He gave you a silver charm bracelet and it was awfully pretty. Daddy once gave you one like that, right after he missed your Quidditch game. And he smiled grimly and said: "This'll make up for it, right Pumpkin?"
And you laughed a silly little laugh and said: "Of course, Daddy. It's very pretty. Did Mummy make you get it for me?"
He didn't respond.
Although you knew.
You and the chocolate haired boy held hands in corridors and smiled at each other. At times even passed notes on ancient parchment and you kissed him at opportune moments...and some not so opportune. And you sat together and lived together, and studied together.
Hogwarts went quickly with him. But it wasn't Heaven or even close.
Right out of Hogwarts the two of you married. A traditional marriage. And once again your Father said something terribly sappy that was the equivalent of nothing and everything and your Mother wiped away false tears. And everyone just about fell for it, except for you.
You were wearing a lacy gown and it was the best that money could buy...and it was a pretty and frivolous buy. But you still liked it. And at times, even now you'd twirl in the mirror with it on.
The marriage was a substandard one. He wasn't as charming as he was when you first met him--tall and lean---but then again, who is? He was about as ambitious as an old toad and about as romantic as one as well. He worked in a silly old pub and told jokes to the House of Commons folk and he was happy and you weren't.
'And you desperately wanted to be rich and special and loved. And not just to be so you wanted to feel so. And you didn't. And you never quite would, either.'
You stayed at home in a silly old shack with silly old windows and pathetic paintings. They were one's by famous painters like Picasso and silly things that made little sense. It was a rich type of thing, and it didn't fit your husband. So one day, he tore it off the wall and ripped it in pieces.
"There!" He said. "I've always hated it."
And secretly...so had you.
The two of you had a son and smiled on the day of his birth. You were both smiling, and your husband would have been too...had he been there. And part of you thought it was the sole most important day in all of your life. And part of you still thought it was the Quidditch game your Daddy missed.
And it was okay, just you and your baby as your husband 'slaved' a way. And it wasn't really slaving either, he enjoyed working at the pub and he talked to all of the pretty ladies and served alcohol--to the already drunk.
And you were at home.
You and your son took long walks across the messy cemetery and it always did strike you as awfully depressing. And you never did quite care. The wind whipped your messy hair and you pulled the maroon shawl tighter around you.
And you always walked there.
When your husband heard about this he chuckled and an entirely non-funny sort of way.
"It's a tad morbid, ain't it?" He said over a supper of chicken broth.
"No!" You said shortly as you stood up from you chair.
"Look darlin' I didn't mean, I mean, you can do whatever-"
"-no," you said bitterly, "-you can do whatever."
He rolled his eyes and chalked this outburst up to you being 'unreasonable.' And that night you slept on the floor even if the cold bit you. Your husband objected in a very ridiculous manner so you threw a pillow at him.
And part of you wanted to just cry your little heart out. And part of you wanted to keep it tighter inside of you.
He gave you a locket one day. It was fake gold and it had his picture and yours from when you were younger. And you must've practically giggled like a schoolgirl and thought yourself quite young and hip. But you weren't hip and you certainly weren't young. And you weren't a schoolgirl either, actually. You were just you. Slightly older with a child and a pub worker husband.
And that was it.
And you weren't young and impressionable anymore you were just bitter and cynical. So you had no excuses, really. You had tripped on your own shoelace and blamed the Minister of Magic...which really wasn't quite fair.
So you were angry.
With no one to be angry at.
Which of course, as always, led to you being even angrier.
So really to put it simply you were alone and angry and hurting.
And no one noticed. Which was quite funny in a sick and twisted sort of way.
Your son went off to Hogwarts in the Fall and he was supposed to be small and weak but really he was strong and tall. He was a big boy who didn't need Mummy's protection but forever would need Mummy's love. You straightened his askew tie for him and he rolled his eyes:
"Mummy," he said, "I could've done that."
You chuckled and wiped a crystal tear from your eye.
He did well in school. Better than you or your husband and better than most. And you were proud of him, but never too proud. He made his Quidditch house team when he was a second year and he played beater. For Slytherin, of course.
"I've got to work, " your husband confessed on the day of the game.
"No way," you said with a shake of your head. "No bloody way. This is his first Quiddtich game and you have to work...?"
"Yes," he said, "is that so hard to believe? I work seven days of week, I serve ale. Fun stuff, huh?"
And his tone was bitter, for he was getting older. And the joy of serving ale was no longer present or amusing or dangerous.
"You be there," you said. "Because you know how bloody important that is to him."
"I know," he sighed, "...but I can't."
"You make it happen."
And you slammed the door and apparated to the Quidditch Pitch a smirk on your upturned face.
And your husband showed up, right before the game start. And he cheered on your son so vigorously you would've thought he was betting on the game (granted he very well may have been.) And you grasped his hand tightly and watched the game, your head resting on his shoulder.
You wore your old silver and green tie, for kicks, you know. And your husband did as well, for 'school pride' or whatever excuse he gave. You'd always loved his ties.
Your son was a fantastic Quidditch player--maybe even the best--but then again, you were quite biased. He was yours.
At the end of the game you two rushed onto the field and you kissed your son's cheek and he replied with a very annoyed:
"Get off Mum!"
"--hey, hey--don't you say that to your Mother!"
"Dad!" He said in an annoyed tone.
"Fantastic flying there, son."
"Thanks Dad."
"Really brilliant."
"Thanks Mum. Can I go off and you know--"
"--party?" Your husband interjected.
"Yeah."
"Drink ale?" You added half mischievously.
"If it comes up," he shrugs.
You laughed and your husband did as well with a quick wink at your son.
And the two of you went home with smiles plastered on your faces.
And it was just like old times. Really old times. Old times that never quite existed
And you slept in the big bed that night with flannel sheets and cups of tea and ancient books at the bedside.
And you thought maybe you could do the whole 'happy family' thing. Maybe you could see all his Quidditch games not walk in cemeteries. And maybe you could hold mercy in your heart and not just in the Bible near your bedside. Maybe you could even be happy being poor and alone.
And then--
And then you thought again.
*