Erosia - for sinistrasnape
by firechild (fc//Hufflepuff)
Rated T
Pairing: BellaMort
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: Dark. Because you were really expecting a bellamort to be all sweetness and light, I know. ;)
A/N: Written to order by lj user= sinistrasnape--I know it's not really what you expected, but I tried. *hugs*
Word Count: 544
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Some small part of her, the vestiges of the rational girl everyone had thought her to be and whom she'd almost been at one time, knew that he didn't truly love her, that he wasnt' capable of it, but that part of her was so easily silenced, allowing her fanciful side to reign again. At least she knew that she was his favorite, his chosen one, his pet, for as long as she pleased and amused him; she would just have to ensure that she stayed pleasing and amusing enough to weather his increasingly rapid mood swings.
He wasn't like this before; in her own less manic moments, when Bella receded into the background to play with her mental paper dolls and Trixie surfaced to take care of business, she recalled that during the glory years, despite his marked sociopathy (and wasn't that a fun word to say--Muggles, for all their inferiority, were delightfully creative) had been the cold to her hot, showing little other than amusement or anger and only growing colder in his rage. Since he'd begun to return, though, he'd become more and more mercurial in private, as if along with his loss of power, he'd been stripped of a measure of his control. Sometimes it frightened her, and Trixie did not scare easily.
Still, she thought with both halves of her beautifully fractured mind, he was perfect for her, and she told herself stubbornly that he *did* love her, he must--she could feel his arm, ropey and cold and deliciously not quite human, banded around her as he snatched her from the haven of those pathetic sheep and swept her away to an abandoned hunting shack somewhere in the countryside. They were alone; she was surprised by where he had taken her, surprised that he hadn't summoned his other followers, but pleased--he wanted to be alone with her, with *her,* while he paced and ranted. So there. He *must* love her, and she loved him. Never mind appearances, those silly social conventions about relationships--he was her... well, neither of them was so primitive as to be hampered by a soul, no matter what that fool Dumbledore said, so she supposed that he was her essence-mate. He knew her, inside and out, both sides of her; he knew what she so successfully hid from even the others; he knew how she was divided, he knew how hard she had to fight, not to keep herself together (there was absolutely nothing wrong with who and what she was, after all) but to pretend that she wanted to for the benefit of their supplicants. He had seen instantly both how her devotion to him had only grown and how her true self had grown more textured over the years of his absence, and he seemed to find her more lovely than ever for it.
So she would sit and watch him pace and rant and recount and take stock; she would treat each of his moods, thrilled and enraged alike, as pets, as the children they would someday perhaps physically have together. She would watch his lovely decline, and inside she would laugh, both sides of her mind allured and aroused and abetted by the form of love that only he could give.
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