Bella screams out and it's no pose, because when she dances she goes and goes. She runs through the night, inhaling ash and screams. It's the heat of summer—two months with the Death Eaters. She's never been so accepted, so perfect, so happy, in her entire life. Maybe she's in too deep, but she's in love, and she won't get hurt.
Her soon-to-be-fiancé seizes her hand, but she spins away from him, walking into a little white house. She walks through, smashing everything in sight. The woman inside is bent in grief, frightened. Bellatrix lifts her wand and breathes a curse, feeling the surge of drugs, alcohol and sadism.
Bellatrix opens her eyes, walking out of Azkaban. She's too thin, too mad, too destroyed to run back into his arms. But she will heed her Mark's sweet call—because she will always hold onto her secrets. There's something burning, surging in her veins. Everything about her has faded, but one thing has been strengthened—her love for the Dark Lord.
She knew he would return.
They're surrounded in empty bottles. She, Lucius, Rodolphus, Avery and her Uncle Rosier. She's giggling, dizzy, worlds away from who she is. In their little bar in Knocturne Alley, they recount escapades—deaths, inside jokes and slurs. She nearly vomits, laughing, free, loose.
They get up, Uncle Rosier helping Bellatrix to her feet. The five of them disapparate and end up on the next site of a massacre. Havoc, sweet havoc.
She arrives at her sister's home, which hasn't changed a bit. Suddenly, her heart is in her throat. She feels ill. Bellatrix used to be so pretty, confident, sure. She's grown up a lot in Azkaban—more than ten years of serving the Dark Lord can mature someone. Maybe she's cleverer now, or maybe she's going to be a complete disgrace.
But she didn't come back to impress people. She returned to put herself in the Dark Lord's arms.
It's like the first time again. Yet, some wounds don't heal easily.
Bellatrix sits on the coffee table, smiling, but she isn't sure why she is. The world is spinning in circles. The Dark Lord is in front of her, appealing, tantalizing. They've just arrived, and she realizes how very alone they are. She gets up slowly, trying to keep steady. He catches her hand and it sends a surge of fire through her blood.
"My lord," she murmurs, stepping closer to him than any servant dares. "Will you…?"
She trails off as he moves even closer to her. She can feel heat rising from his body, sticking to her skin like her own sweat. Instead of speaking any more, she takes his hand in hers and slides it up her, resting it on her breast. He inhales sharply, but she doesn't move.
"Will you…?" Before she can speak any more, he presses his lips against hers. It's fierce, different than the cold caresses that kept her fixated on him. She gasps out, "Will you…?"
He slips his hand behind her back, pressing their hips together. Blood broiling, goosebumps rising on her pale skin. As his cold hand makes its way under her short black dress, her nipples press against her white lace bra, making her blush. His lips stray to her neck, pressing down on her clavicle as she unbuttons the top button of his blood red shirt.
"Yes," he whispers in her ear, running his thumb across her thin lower lip.
He throws her down and tears her apart.
Narcissa finds her first. Hugging her tightly before she can even notice what's going on.
They gave each other up so easily. She's about to be taken in for her hearing, and what they should be hearing is exactly how wrong they are about the Dark Lord. Everyone abandoned him. Everyone but her. She never will.
As a dementor's clammy, rotting hand clasps her handcuffed wrist, someone screams, "Wait!" from down the hall. Bellatrix could recognize the voice anywhere.
"Wait! Please!" Narcissa comes racing into view, standing in front of Bellatrix.
They did not part kindly.
"Bellatrix, Bellatrix, listen to me. Just, please do what I said. Please don't throw your life away from a dead man!"
Bellatrix spits in her face and the dementors drag her away.
"I'm going to clean you up," Narcissa says, as if no rift had ever formed between them.
"Where's—" Her sister drags her away before she can say anything more.
A rush of blood and an overdose of pain. She sits up, sobbing against her will. The Dark Lord looks down at her, then her legs, and then slaps her. She shrieks and flinches.
"You didn't tell me you were a virgin."
"I'm sorry, my lord, I… I…"
He's pulling his clothes on as she pleads with him, begging forgiveness.
"Was I bad?" she whispers finally, giving up.
"No. You were excellent." He pauses, making her stomach twist. "I'm expecting more."
And he's gone.
Bellatrix stands outside of the door, listening to everyone get tortured and punished horribly. She hopes he remembers her. She hopes he remembers her unfaltering service, the countless moonlit nights in his bed that never seemed to end.
The door opens and Wormtail tells her to go in. She walks inside, feeling very cold and very aware of herself.
What she gave is his to keep.
The day of her return ends with her clothes on the floor, and her body beneath her abusive love.
Bloody, sweaty sheets in a lovely white house.