Okay, so this is my first ever fanfic, and I'm not entirely sure if I'm happy with it. Thank you for taking the time to read it! All reviews are appreciated and I'll gladly take all criticism on board.
There is more to come. I'm know where I'm heading with this, just not entirely sure of the events that lead the way.
I guess this is kinda AU/head canon. Bellatrix/Rodolphus with a touch of Voldemort.
Obviously I neither own nor am I affiliated with the Harry Potter series or JK Rowling.
Responsibility.
"Shit" she cursed under her breath. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" The curses were flowing freely from her mouth now as she paced back and forth. There was a mistake. She had been confused perhaps? Feeling dizzy, she perched on the end of the seat, head in hands. "Now, now. Just calm down. Breathe." But it was no use; her attempts to calm herself down were futile. With each passing second she could feel the anxiety rising from the pit of her stomach, working its way upward. Choking her. Suffocating her. Scrambling back to her feet, Bellatrix resumed pacing the length of the room, counting frantically in her head. Was it possible? Was her math correct? Surely not. It had been weeks, months! She had barely even looked at her husband as of late, being so consumed in her latest project, and approved, of course, by her master. Her most powerful master, what would he have to say about this? No, she had miscalculated somewhere along the lines. But Bellatrix knew her body, and something certainly wasn't right. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, Bellatrix stood a little straighter. This had been the first time in weeks that she had caught sight of her reflection, being too wholly committed to her mission to deviate in thought. Staring back at her from the mirror was the gaunt face of someone seemingly exhausted. Their dark grey eyes, sunken with deep, dark circles resonating beneath them. Their skin pale and dry, stretched tightly over high cheek bones and a strong jawline. Hair that was a curly mane of jet black and looked as though it was once, in better days, luscious and shining. This was not the face of a future mother.
Pulling herself together, gathering what little logic she could muster she decided there was only one thing for it: a trip to the muggle pharmacy. Their anatomy was the same, so in theory their medical practices, although inferior to the magic of healers, would be accurate. Besides, she thought, the fewer magical people who knew of this, the better.
Trudging through the dark, damp alleyways of London, his limbs heavy and his body spattered with blood, Rodolphus Lestrange found himself wondering aimlessly, allowing his feet to take him anywhere; anywhere but home. This is not to say that he does not like the large stately manor that he deems his home. In fact, had someone suggested such in earlier months, Rodolphus would have laughed at the accusation of the Lestrange household bearing no happiness for him. It was, doubtlessly, the stage upon which many of his fondest memories were originally set. However, the general air to the Lestrange manor in the passing month or so has been practically the opposite of what he is used to, with the tension doubling, tripling even, the second he walks through the main gates.
Though he loved his wife with the upmost sincerity, Rodolphus couldn't help but feel that there was, and perhaps always had been, a third person to his marriage. Another creature with which he was to share his wife's attention and affection. Bellatrix was without doubt an indispensible force to the dark Lord Voldemort, a role she took readily and with an eagerness quite unmatched anywhere else. This woman, a most loyal and dedicated servant to a higher power despite the nobility and status of her blood, was both his betrothed and his love. For this precise reason he chose not to interfere with Bella's intentions when she was on a mission. To not so much as suggest that she could give him hints as to what she was doing. Instead, quiet support was to be his role in all of this, of course with a dash of servitude to the Dark Lord added for good measure. All of this had become the norm, as such, over the many years of their marriage. Yet, disturbingly, as of late something was different. Rodolphus speculated to himself that it was maybe just the restless nights that Bellatrix had suffered next to him, tossing and turning for hours on end. Or maybe the dark lord had given his Bella a particularly tricky task to complete and being so proud and dedicated she was struggling but determined to tell no one, feigning a sense of effortlessness. Excuses aside, there were no hiding the fact that Bellatrix had transformed as of late. She was no longer his Bella, the image that sprang to mind upon mention of her name. She had become cold, unpredictable and above all emotional, her feelings changing as often as the wind blew with anger and a despairing sadness recurring the most within the mixture, relentlessly gripping her by the soul. She was losing control of herself and all Rodolphus could do was attempt to hide his wife's downfall from the Dark Lord.