My first Bellamort fanfic; a story in which Voldemort deals with the issue of fear and what haunts him at night. Reviews and Criticism are appreciated!
Onyx orbs surveyed a battered, bloodied, albeit beautiful female form with a critical gaze, neither in worry nor care. Severus Snape's eyes trailed from frostbitten feet, to gashes and bruises along would-be shapely legs, and an equally damaged toned abdomen and arms. Only one part of the female's body was left untouched by the magic of Order Members and Aurors like, just as it always was: her face. It wasn't just prodigious skill and lack of a conscience Bellatrix Lestrange was known for. It was also her beauty. And the vanity she possessed that was her elixir for it, holding her looks at whatever cost.
"You truly are a fool, Bellatrix..." Snape spat out, shaking his head at the sight. Bellatrix had decided to go venturing off, late into the night, alone, pitching a duel with a dozen highly skilled Aurors, nearly getting herself killed in the process, with her sole explanation of her dangerous actions being "I was bored.". Still, despite his general dislike of the witch and his annoyance at being in terrupted during a rare night of restful slumber, he began the healing process, summoning an assortment of potions to tend to the witch.
"Hold your tongue, Severus. I asked for healing potions, not an opinion." Bellatrix hissed in reply, taking comfort in the agonizing sting of the administered potions, finding the pain therapeutic.
"It wasn't an opinion I gave. Merely a fact." he sneered in return. "The Dark Lord won't be pleased about this..."
"I brought down half of the aurors and severely injured one who also happened to be a member of the Order. He would not be displeased either. He would be proud..." she replied coolly, with a flip of her hair, a gesture of her trademark arrogance that, just like her faithfulness to the Dark Lord, even fourteen years of Azkaban could not tarnish.
From within the darkened corner of the room, Voldemort stood, observing the two with calculating looks of dark crimson slits. The corners of his smirking expression twitched at the declaration of his female servant. While he was pleased that Bellatrix's ventures had been successful, he saw the logic in Snape's words. While Bellatrix was beyond a doubt, a skilled witch and expert duelist she did overestimate her abilities. And she, unlike him, was a mortal and could very easily perish. And while he would admit it to no one; not his Death Eaters, not Nagini, not even himself, the thought of Bellatrix perishing like a crushed rose within enemy hand's was a sickening thought.
No... for if Bellatrix's fate truly was to die, he would have it so it was his hand that was stained by her precious, pure blood. It was only fitting, he felt, for after controlling Bellatrix's life, it should be he who controls her death, and not some dirty blood traitor. Or worse, a mudblood contaminating her.
Snape paused in his administration of the potions, with an odd look in his eyes that Bellatrix could have sworn was pity, but faded before she could investigate further. "It would still be wise to air on the side of caution and not act like a reckless Gryffindor mudblood. You were lucky this time, and luck, like all else, is a fleeting mistress, just as Death is a vengeful one..." he warned her, finishing the last incantation and returning her form to it's previous state.
A cadence of lunacy escaped Bellatrix as she shook her head, shaking lightly from the laughter which echoed through the cold, barren room. As though she could sense her master's presence in the room, her eyes looked on forward to the corner of the room where the Dark Lord stayed, concealed by his magic as he gazed upon his follower intently. Despite the mocking, lightheartedness of her initial response, she answered with as much conviction as she could and a tone that made Snape wonder if Bellatrix truly was as insane as she led others to believe. "Let her come if she wishes, dance with me as she pleases. I do not fear death..."
Her words echoed loudly, repeating over and over again in the Dark Lord's mind as he stared at her in blank irritation, unable to comprehend her lack of her and annoyed at his inability to understand. A hiss escaped him as he turned and fled, startling the life out of his two followers as he revealed his form, disappearing in a swirl of black sating. Pure, unadulterated fury coursed through him, enough to make his nemesis Harry Potter cringe and writhe upon his own bed, thousands of miles away in agony. He was angry at Bellatrix for her recklessness, angry at Snape for wasting the time and resources to cure her. But most of all, and ultimately, he was jealous; jealous that while Bellatrix could and had stared in the face of death, he cowered beneath it's haunting gaze, killing, desecrating, shredding his soul and turning himself into a monster just so his thread of life would remain whole, untouched by the Fates and never would he have to venture into the unknown, dark, unforgivable abyss.