Well, this is possibly the darkest thing I've ever wrote. I (strangely) quite like it. Hope you will too, Luce, because this is for you, and you wanted Voldemort and Bellatrix. There's not much of the first, but plenty of the second to make up for it.
As always, please review to let me know what you thought of this please.
Word count: 1004
and there is a method (to my madness)
i.
Bellatrix has always been a little twisted inside. It's not her fault, really.
Well, not at first.
(because when the madness becomes the only thing that keeps her sane, why should she resist?)
She's got something missing inside, you see. A broken piece that should have been whole, like a clock you stole one of the smallest gears inside from.
Only thing, this little, little thing was the one that made the clock work, and just like that Bellatrix doesn't know how to feel happy.
painhungersadnesshungertiredness and all that she can feel all too acutely.
But never happiness. Not one time.
It's unfair, she knows, that every time her sisters smile at her, or play with her, that when her parents celebrate her birthday, she has to force a smile out. That she has to fake what comes so naturally to everyone else.
She hates it sometimes (well, most of the time) and she can't help herself but wishing on every shooting star she sees that the whole world could just stop being so happy about everything.
(and maybe then it would stop hurting so much when she pretends she is)
And there's only so much wishing one can do before their hopes get broken, shattered like brittle glass as it crashes to the hard ground of reality.
(and this is how she burns the world to get it right)
ii.
Once she kills a fly and tears off its wings.
She watches it try to escape desperately with a kind of morbid fascination some might have found scary, and she feels an odd kind of glee as she sees it struggle foolishly to live a few seconds longer.
That instinct is admirable, she thinks.
Too bad it won't help them.
(she's not about to let anything escape her grasp, especially not something that can make her feel so good)
That's when she realizes that she doesn't need any star to grant her wish – she just has to find a way to do what she likes.
(and if by her twelfth birthday she moved from flies to cats and dogs and that odd Muggle boy who fell for her charm like a wasp falls for honey, well, no one has to know.
When she thinks of it like that anyway, that boy – the Muggle – wasn't that far off from a fly. But his screams were the most delightful thing she's heard yet.)
Her dreams are full of dying screams and her mind screams for blood all the time.
It seems death is the only thing that can feel the void inside of her – and what a glorious way to do it!
She paints her fingernails with the blood of a small blonde haired Muggle girl she offers sweets to. She tells the girl as she dies that she should feel honored.
(for some reason, it looks like she doesn't. Muggles never knew what were good for them anyway)
Andy says she loves it and Narcissa asks where it comes from, because she has to have the same.
For the first time, she truly laughs. It's a bit hysterical and sound quite a bit unhinged already, but that's how she does it.
Andromeda and Narcissa exchange weird looks and when they leave the room she sucks on her fingers.
(and if her lips are the same shade as her nail varnish the following day, no one says anything)
She'll have to try a witch next time, see if the blood tastes better.
iii.
Joining the Dark Lord is the next logical step after that.
He promises a better world, one where witches and wizards will rule over the unworthy.
Bellatrix's a bit more interested by the promises of bloody battles before they get there, but that goal does sound nice.
Maybe if she's good enough at what she does, He will let her play with the rest of the world once they win over Britain.
That's a future worth looking forward to, she thinks.
('And do you, Bellatrix Black, swear to join me, to follow me in life and in death, to obey my commands and respect my every wishes?'
His fingers trail her bared forearm and she shivers. She's enthralled and he knows it.
'I do my Lord.'
The next word is hissed and she can't understand it. It sounds hot and cold at the same time, like your fingers when you get home after a too long time outside in winter.
Her arm burns, but the pain is glorious.
She holds his red gaze without flinching, and when he lets go, his fingertips are graved in her flesh just beside the new Mark.
'Yes, I believe you will do nicely.')
iv.
She marries Roldolphus Lestrange a year later, and she thinks she might be a little in love with their Lord.
Or she would be if she knew love, at least.
She thinks Rodolphus expected her to stay at home like a proper wife would, but she's never really been one for doing things proper.
He quickly learns who's on top in their Household anyway, and it's not the one he was expecting.
(what can she say? She's always loved the taste of blood, and she won't let herself be fucked if she can't at least get some benefits out of it.
She's rather quick with a wand too, as he soon finds out, and binding spells come just after cutting ones on her list of skills.)
And her Lord is just so much better than her husband.
He lets her play with their prisoners, and he gives her all the freedom she likes to make her crimes as bloody as possible.
(once, she's wearing blood from head to toe – her favorite suit – and she toys with the idea of kissing him.
She doesn't, but she's rather sure his presence is more than enough.
For her, that is. If he were to ask… Well, he is her Lord, and she swore herself to him.)