Written for Challenge 90 of the Bellatrix Lestrange Forum: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful. The theme was a story that showed how the character was before Azkaban, how different their state of mind was.
Disclaimer: Nope, Harry-Potter-Land, or to be more precise Bellatrix-Lestrange-Land, is not mine.
Rated T for a couple of words.
Since this is my first participation in a challenge of this awesome forum, it is only fair to dedicate the piece to the wonderful people I've met there, and the character who insipered it :)
The portrait had been hanging in the empty room for years. Lavishly clad in silver silk and blue velvet, pearls and precious gems shining on her hair almost as much as her eyes, she smiled back lazily, red lips arrogant and shy at the same time, daring the admirer of the work of art to talk to her, challenge her.
The beautiful, young woman never really left her picture, just kept reading the gold-embroidered book her porcelain hands were holding. She seemed... content, self-assured. As if she were the center of the universe, impersonating perfection in every way.
Only this day she looked a bit tense too. And indeed, she had been wondering all morning if her only visitor in years would come to talk to her. Not really being fond of anyone, she wasn't looking forward to it, but it would be an interesting conversation nonetheless.
Bellatrix Lestrange was still very shaken after 14 years in Azkaban and sought herself some company. Even from a portrait. The young woman had been immensely annoyed by the deterioration in mental status and looks of the old mistress of the manor and that was the basic reason she was hoping they would speak for the third time. She was obviously in bad shape and, sometimes, when the nightmares took over, she would pay a visit to her just to see a familiar face.
And this night was no different. Just after one in the morning, the door of the room in which the portrait hang swung open and the emaciated figure dressed in a simple nightgown hurried towards the painted woman.
''Bad dreams?'' she purred.
Anger and humiliation burnt in the sapphire eyes, the only thing that seemed the same in the gaunt face. But in the end she just inclined her head a bit.
''I see. You should really try to sleep. Sleep deprivation can damage your skin, you know'' the young woman drawled.
Bellatrix snarled, catching unwillingly the sarcasm.
''You should know. Sitting for 20 years on the same chair reading the same thing gives you great life experience.''
The portrait let out a delicate, low laugh.
''My book is quite interesting.''
''Is it? Ha! You should see the Dark Lord's new plans. Now that's interesting. This time he'll take down the whole Europe after England, nothing gradual this time. The Mudbloods will be gone with one strike.''
''It sounds fascinating, indeed'' the young woman answered lazily. ''And where will you be?"
"What do you mean?'' Bellatrix snarled. ''I'll be there, of course.''
''Yes, but as a what?"
"As the Dark Lord's most faithful servant, you silly girl.''
''Servant. Seeervant'' the painted lady mused. "It has a funny cling to it, does it not? It means house-elf, right? Slave?''
Bellatrix' pupils almost completely extinguished the dark blue from the irises.
''Shut up! I'll be the most faithful, the most important, the most honoured follower in the entire Empire! Only I will be trusted with all his secrets.''
Her pale lips twitched upwards in an odd imitation of a smile. The portrait on the other hand giggled like a little girl presented with a rare treat, only on her it was ominous.
''Good for you, lieutenant is a vital position. Second best only to being the Empress, running the world, taking decisions by his side. As equals'' she added pointedly.
''The Dark Lord tells me everything. He values my opinion more than any other'' Bellatrix hissed.
''Is that right? Because my information tells me he has sent you away all the times you tried to talk to him about the slimy-boy, Snape''
''How did you even-''
''The dog from the Renoir painting upstairs likes me'' the painted woman deadpanned.
Bellatrix took a few calming breaths.
''If - if the Dark Lord believes him, then he is right and I wrong. He is brilliant, I can never hope to understand how his stunning mind works.''
It was the young woman's turn to look shocked. Her thin eyebrows were lifted a bit and she tilted her head to one side.
''I have an excellent memory, you know'' she stated, addressing her silk gloves.
''I remember'' Bellatrix blurted out, obviously not getting the reason for this sudden change of subject.
''Therefore'' the young woman continued, still more interested in the rings embracing her long, thin fingers than her companion ''I recall vividly the times you would tell him how wrongly he was behaving, how you could analyze situations strategically better than him, because his pathetic OCD wouldn't-''
''Don't you dare talk about him like that, you little slut'' Bellatrix shrieked.
The portrait seemed annoyed by the use of such language, but did not comment, just played with the bracelet around her tiny wrist.
''You just sit there all day and you think -'' Bellatrix tried to continue breathing ''you think you're so much better- no one is-''
''But I am so much better'' the painted woman mused simply. ''Blood-status for one-''
''Shut your mouth! He is the- the point is- is- he is the meaning! He- he-'' She was not coherent anymore. Her mouth opened and closed desperately a few times, chest heaving, in an attempt to both breath and restrain herself. Instead Bellatrix only managed to stop talking.
''You present a pathetic sight'' the young woman said, this time no playful tone in her voice, ''you do whatever Tom says, never question him, never think twice. And what does he do? He ignores you most of the time, lucky are the days he takes the time to belittle you or have sex with you like you are a whore, however he likes it and whenever he likes it only. Has he asked you anything about Azkaban? Has he been worried about your health that looks absolutely horrifying even from my silly little painting? No.''
Bellatrix collapsed on the couch, for the first time not only anger in her eyes, but something close to fear. She muttered though:
"He is too powerful and strong to bother to-''
The portrait's head shot up from her lap and gave an intense look to the fragile body lying in front of her, slowly gaining control of herself. Deep somewhere under the layers of paint the artist had put to express the exact colour of those stunning eyes, something close to pity lit up. She sighed softly, deciding hesitantly to attempt the final blow. If it didn't work, nothing would.
''I also remember this'' she said softly, offering up a single platinum ring with a black, sparkling diamond on it. ''He seemed far from strong that night. Do you have your ring, Bellatrix, or is it just me?''
The sapphire eyes opened widely and so did Bellatrix' mouth in a silent cry of utter horror. She started shaking her head in a slightly spastic manner, as if the painted ring would release an attack. Her right hand was holding her left index that strongly, she could have dislocated the finger.
The portrait snarled delicately in disgust.
''I suppose it is a no then?'' she asked, allowing a sad tone to colour her voice. ''I think you should leave'' she added quietly, obvious sorrow now on her beautiful face.
Bellatrix opened her mouth one more time, but no audible words came out. The painted woman turned her attention back to the book she was doomed to know so well and yet always ache to read again. Only now she wasn't looking at the golden letters.
The sight in front of her was full of misery and despair. A brilliant, beautiful and noble woman throwing everything away for a man who didn't deserve any of it. She searched in the memories she had been given. Had he ever been worthy?
Oh, yes, he had been; back when he would tell her she was the heart of the matter, the beauty of the world. When they would spend hours talking about the future they would create, the young couple ruling the Wizarding World and dominating over the Muggle one. For Bellatrix he was the beauty of the world now.
A soft pop in the distance let her know that Bellatrix had left.
The painted wonam sighed. She couldn't bear to witness a similar scene ever again and that meant only one thing: They would never meet again. Even if it meant cutting ties with the woman she portrayed, the woman she was.
A/N: Thanx for reading. Please let me know what you think.
...Apparently the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC is missing its ''Head of a dog'' from the Renoir collection.