Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of J.K. Rowling's work.
Dark and Dangerous
There was a book in Bellatrix's lap and in it she reveled amongst the spiraled thread of heredity, of the long, ancient history of the Black family and those who had been punished for betraying it. Silence sat uneasily over Malfoy Manor and in the cavernous dining hall, she sighed, listening to the echo as it tangled about the chandelier above.
She was alone and not yet so. Every now and then, she felt the indiscreet probe of the Dark Lord entering her mind, searching for a hint of disloyalty or malaise. But Bellatrix was pleased to open her thoughts to him, holding her undying devotion aloft like laurels for his inspection.
And about her there was naught but the lost whisper of age.
A scream rushed against the ornate walls.
Bellatrix closed the book, one loving finger caressing the binding, bringing dust from the gilded pages. She set it down on the arm of her chair.
The scream dropped into a moan. Bellatrix felt electricity in the air, as when lightening strikes the ground or the Cruciatus Curse is administered by a particularly skillful hand.
She looked over her shoulder, across the vast expanse of serene marble and baroque cherubs peering from their places above the sconces and found the room in which the traitor was kept.
Her blood began to simmer ever so slightly as she envisioned the squat, square witch that had dared feed Muggle sympathy into the young minds of Slytherin's best. Charity Burbage was her name and Bellatrix had captured the woman herself, presenting the prisoner to the Dark Lord like a sleek cat with a mouse.
And although she wasn't outright praised for her catch, Bellatrix felt secure in his approval. Though why he had sent someone else to interrogate the prisoner, she hadn't the slightest idea.
After a time, when all had gone quiet in the room adjoining the hall, Bellatrix felt boredom descend upon her. She rose and paced and waited for the rat to show himself.
A good quarter of an hour passed before the arched door swung open, admitting the faint stench of fired spells and hexes. Bellatrix watched as Severus Snape passed into the hall, unperturbed, pocketing his wand.
His footsteps pulsed against the marble floor.
Bellatrix let a smooth smile curl her thin lips and she regarded him with every ounce of haughtiness she could summon. Once more, she felt the Dark Lord peer into her mind and then leave. Although he detested squabbles amongst his supporters, Bellatrix knew he encouraged competition between them.
And vigilance.
"Is the traitor dead?" she asked, a foul, discontented edge slithering into her voice.
Snape did not slow his steps and Bellatrix noticed the sweat on his brow under the amber candlelight. "That privilege is for the Dark Lord alone."
Bellatrix matched strides with him. "Did she recognize you?"
"I would have been surprised if she didn't."
"Did she ask for mercy?"
"Of course."
In one fluid motion, Bellatrix slipped in front of him. Snape stopped abruptly, his gaze somewhere over her head. On the massive mantle piece, an old clock guarded by carved seraphs and nymphs struck the midnight hour.
"What did she tell you?"
Snape's expression was blank and therefore, treacherous. Bellatrix couldn't read him like the others. And even deftly applied Occlumency was useless against a master such as he.
Dark, her thoughts hissed. Dark and dangerous.
She reached her awareness further, daring to prod past his construed countenance. But, as always, her exploration was cut short.
Snape had fenced his mind with thorns.
Bellatrix recoiled and withdrew.
"I'm afraid," Snape said slowly, "that the Dark Lord alone shall receive what knowledge, if any, I wrested from her."
Oh, he was cunning this one. Bellatrix stepped aside lest she be pushed out of the way. Snape knew that she would not revolt against express orders and interrogation procedures. He knew she was enthralled by their master.
And so he said no more. And so he walked away.
Bellatrix felt her blood rise to a boil, making her heart throb and slam fiercely against her heaving ribcage. With a glance to the right, she took in the discarded book on the arm of the chair and the Black family tree that was now little more than a cold crypt and corpses.
There had been a day, yes, there had been many days when a Black could make any half-blood tremble.
She needed to see fear behind his eyes. She needed to sense his humanity, his imperfections. She needed to know that she was only and always the Dark Lord's servant.
Not him. Not Severus Snape.
"Your circumspection is singular," she said and was pleased when Snape stopped, when he slowed his step and turned to glance at her.
Of course, the potions master thought she was witless. Thought she was mad, thought she was wild and an enemy of reason.
But Bellatrix was so much more than a rabid killer. She was a schemer and a plotter and a queen in her own right. One could not hope to remain at the Dark Lord's side by way of Muggle murders and brutality.
And now she felt that uncommon edge of unease. Insecurity.
It tainted her.
"What's this?" Snape grunted through his aquiline nose. "Your philosophy?"
"No." Bellatrix walked to his side. "My observations. Remember, potions master," she spat out the title, "I was bred to be his servant and born to be his-"
"Whore?" Snape arched a sharp brow.
Even Bellatrix was surprised by his provincial insult.
"We all desire something," she said, "be it power, blood or passion. But never have I known such blank servitude, such indifference. Severus Snape, what is it that you yearn for?"
When he didn't answer directly, Bellatrix knew she was winning. And triumph inspired her, enlightened her and stirred her ambition.
Snape moved away and his shadow slinked over the floor and walls and darkened the dozing portraits in their gilded frames.
Bellatrix threw back her proud head and let her laughter ring amongst the eaves of the ancient manor.
"You're no patrician, Snape, but a plebian. And so was she."
She should have expected his fury. She should have drawn her wand and hexed him before he lashed out.
But ah, she had to commend Snape. He was not without skill.
His body-binding curse struck her square in the chest. In a whirl of ebony robes and three powerful strides, he was standing over her prostrate form, the tip of his wand teasing her breastbone.
He said nothing, but let his thoughts rush against her like some throbbing wave and Bellatrix was loathe to shut her eyes and flinch under the intensity of his agony.
When Snape left the dining hall, his curse lifted. But Bellatrix remained prone, her heart jumping into her mouth and remaining there for a beat or two.
Dark and dangerous, she mused and a shiver rushed up her spine.
Author's Note: Thanks for taking the time to read! Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.