Disclaimer: Right…they're not mine. Unfortunately. Well, actually, in this case, I'm not too sorry Bellatrix Black isn't mine, cause I'm none too fond of her. But all the same, J.K. Rowling is the genius behind Harry Potter, and I'm writing this with no intention to infringe on her creations. Oh…also, the title was inspired by something in A Ring of Endless Light, although it's actually from someone else's poem, I think. I haven't read it in a long time, but the poem left kind of a residual image that's been stored away in some corner of my brain all these years and I decided to pull it out and use it for this. Again, not trying to pass off other people's work as my own.
A/N: Sirius fans, don't hate me. I absolutely love Sirius, so please don't think any of these thoughts Bellatrix has mirror my own. This fic just popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Also, it's a bit dark…just a warning. That's the reason for the rating.
Kinslayer.
The word echoes in her mind, but it carries no hint or burden of guilt. She merely muses coldly, distantly, on the fact that the man she just killed was her cousin, her own blood. Not that he was worthy to be so. He defiled the ancient name of Black, the traitor.
Bellatrix looks up through heavy eyelids and realizes, absently, that it is dark. She can't remember when the sun set, exactly, but she doesn't care. The darkness is comforting. She can hide, and disappear, and become a part of the vast nothing that terrifies.
There is a small quantity of light issued from the dying embers of her fireplace, and the last desperate rays cast dancing shadows around the vast room. She is far enough away that only one flickering flame lights her face.
Kinslayer.
A frosty smile pulls at her lips, and she is nothing if not self-indulgent. She allows it to turn into a leering smirk. The image would have been quite frightening, had anyone been there to see it. But she is alone, as she was much of the time. Yes, she thinks, I have strength that others do not. I do not tie myself to anything, or anyone. Nothing but the darkness, deep and dazzling.
She does not stop to consider that the darkness, though intangible, is a concept similarly abstract as love. It is not hatred, for that means a heart that has not been blackened, but one that has been poisoned and festers. What is left for a heart that decayed long ago but the hollow, seductive promise offered by darkness? Darkness inescapable.
Sirius, Sirius, you are a fool. Why join the noble, and the weak, when the Dark Lord shows us the true powers we have access to, that you could not even dream of?
Bellatrix reaches for the vase in the middle of the table that she sits at. It is a hideous, grotesque thing, the design vaguely resembling what muggles label as gargoyles except it is glass, not carved stone or marble. Inside a tangle of thorny flowers entwine in a hopeless mess, as if each competes to thwart all the others and stop them from growing. They are black roses, that might once have been dark blue. However, they have long since taken a much more sinister appearance.
She grabs one of the roses and pulls it loose, not being careful at all. Blood trickles from several small wounds in her hand where she has grasped the flower, dripping to the floor and with the slightest patter. She extends her hand in the darkness and drops the rose carelessly to the floor. Her hand steadies her against the wall, and leaves behind in its wake what looks rather like an obscene finger painting. What child paints with blood?
Caught off guard by the sudden straying of her thoughts, Bellatrix envisions her childhood in brief snippets, images she has thought long since buried.
Narcissa, Andromeda, and herself creeping around someone's house. She couldn't remember who's, but she knew they weren't supposed to be there. "Cissy, Bella, come back!" Andromeda wailed in a loud whisper, "You can't do this!"
"Oh, come on, Andry, it's just a bit of fun. They'll never even know it's missing! Serves him right for thinking he's smarter than us, anyhow," Narcissa whispered back.
"Bella!" Andromeda pleaded.
Bellatrix's glare was cold. "Are you afraid? Are you the weakling he thinks us all?"
The red-haired sister's eyes were downcast. "No," she said meekly. But she walked away and said "And that's why I'm not afraid to tell you you're wrong."
Another time, another day. The memories start to blur together. Christmas gifts fought over, with Bellatrix ending up with more than her share. School, where she uses her reptutation to overshadow her sisters, and frighten the younger students. Those last few years she could do more than frighten, she was involved in some serious dark magic.
The limitless of darkness satisfies her selfish greed, the power intoxicates her, and the strength allows her to go on, survive, when she should have long since perished under the weight of her own guilt and fear and insecurity. But the darkness swallows those up as well.
And though she does not know it, rather than devouring them, allows them to grow and be fed by each evil deed she decrees as done in the Dark Lord's name.
The dazzling darkness only blinds her, and forces her to stumble through a shifty, treacherous maze without knowing what monstrous obstacle she has led herself to next.
Kinslayer, she thinks. And the word does not affect her at all. But somewhere in the darkness, the horror awaits her. When she finds it, it will destroy her. Still she is mesmerized by cold, irrational beauty of the unexplainable.
The last ember dies in the same instant as the sun rises, and the crimson streaks on the wall and floor are at last truly visible. The sight doesn't have the same feel to it in daylight. Bellatrix blinks slowly, letting her eyes adjust. It's just a normal room, that at the moment looks like the site of a grisly murder. But the mysterious, tantalizing presence is gone…She feels hollow, insubstantial, surrounded by the vibrant dawn; and will not feel right again until she is strong, powerful and sure under the wings of darkness.