Written for the 'Cruel and Unusual Pairings' Challenge from Bellatrix Lestrange: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful
235 words
Disclaimer: If I were the wealthiest woman in the UK, I wouldn't live in America, now would I?
Warning: This piece is rather disturbing. Be forewarned.
Picture-Perfect Love
I gently run my cloth over the top and sides of her frame, making sure that no specks of dust remain, then pull out the polish. The frame must be polished at least once a week in order to preserve the luster of the wood.
My fingers fly over the intricate details carved into the frame. I do not want to keep my mistress waiting.
She snaps at me to hurry it up—what are house-elves useful for if they can't clean quickly—and I bow deeply in response. I must keep my mistress happy. She's the only one left.
I begin to clean the portrait itself. As the cloth passes over her back, she shudders. She looks at me with those eyes I know, the eyes that plead.
Mistress is tired of beating around the bush. I run my cloth over her, watching as she shudders again, eyes closing in ecstasy. I continue gently rubbing at the painting—must be careful, wouldn't want to hurt Mistress—and soon she begins to shake, eyes still closed.
When it becomes apparent that she is close, I snap my fingers and step back. The cloth continues its job. I gently close the curtains over Mistress.
Soon after that, the gasping and screaming starts. I snap my fingers again and walk away. Mistress must have her privacy.
As I turn away from her, my chest constricts painfully. This is all I can do for Mistress, anymore.
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