Author's Notes: Written for the first round of The Original Horcrux's Last Ship Standing Competition, with the prompts crushed, sociopath, and "Stop it, please!".
)O(
"Stay, Bellatrix."
It was impossible to tell from the Dark Lord's tone whether Bellatrix was about to be rewarded or punished when he told her to stay after a meeting. She always hoped for rewards – naturally, and who would not, when the rewards were as fine as the ones she received, usually nights in her Master's bed – but she had been trained through much painful experience to expect punishment, especially if she had recently committed some transgression or done something that might call negative attention to herself. But Bellatrix could think of no such thing.
She hesitated by the Dark Lord's seat, nervously clenching and unclenching her fists while the other Death Eaters filed out, and as soon as the two of them were alone, the Dark Lord's wand was out and he was pointing it at her throat.
"My Lord!" Bellatrix cried, gripped by instant horror, and the words were barely at her lips before the Cruciatus curse was on her.
She collapsed, wracked by pain, and she couldn't even draw breath to scream. The Dark Lord lifted the curse momentarily, just long enough for her to cry, "Stop it, please!" and then it was on her again.
He held her under the curse for what felt like an eternity. When he finally lifted it, Bellatrix tried to heave herself back up, for lying at anyone's feet – even her Master's – made her sick with shame, but he flicked his wand again and she was pinned to the floor on her back, arms and legs spread wide, completely immobile.
"What have I done, my Lord?" she asked, trying to keep herself from tears.
"Your thoughts in the meeting today." His response was simple, clinical, and not at all what should have come from the mouth of a man who had just held someone under the Cruciatus curse for so long. Bellatrix said nothing – she could scarcely remember what thoughts she had had during the meeting, and she was sure that they were nothing unusual.
"Do you think I feel for you, Bellatrix?" he asked, and she had never heard so much scorn as that which was in his voice then.
Yes, the most daring part of her wanted to say, and perhaps would have, had she not been on the floor at his mercy. She was sure that on the occasions when took her to his bed, he felt more than lust for her. She had seen the look upon his face when he lay beside her and she was sure that there had been tenderness in it.
But she could not say that.
"No, my Lord. I know you do not," she whispered, ashamed of herself for saying it when she was sure that it was a lie. Her Master had to feel something for her – not love, of course not love, but respect was within reach. Perhaps affection, even…
"You are correct," he told her. "I feel nothing for you. And you are nothing to me – nothing save a servant and a bedmate. Skilled at both, perhaps…" His lips curled and Bellatrix felt that perhaps he was indicating to her that he thought her not skilled at either. "But not more than that. Not a lover, despite what you seem so eager to think."
"Of course you are not, my Lord- never- I would never think that…"
"And yet you do think it." He circled her, looking down at her so that she might see his look of distaste from every angle. "Do not believe that your mind is safe from me, Bellatrix – you may have more skill at Occlumency than your comrades, but it is not enough to match me. I see your thoughts during meetings, feel your lust every time you lay your eyes on me, and know the superiority you feel when I look upon you with anything less than disgust. And yet you do disgust me."
"Do I, my Lord?" Bellatrix was crushed, so heartbroken that she could have cried, but she had learned through many years of training as a lady, and then as a Death Eater, that she could not show such emotion.
"You do. Your desire disgusts me. Your… other feelings…"
Oh, dear God, he knew. He knew how she thought of him in her most private moments. She didn't just crave his approval, his affection, his love – that would have been shameful enough – but she also the love that she felt for him, which was so strong that it dizzied her. She loved him in ways that frightened her, and that she knew must be absolutely abhorrent to him, a man who had gone to such lengths to remove all emotion from his life. What could he possibly think of her for making him the object of such emotions?
"I am sorry, my Lord," she whispered. "I cannot control myself – I am not like you in that way, I can only aspire to be so…"
He stooped beside her and his voice softened slightly, though she could see anger written plainly on his face still.
"And aspire you must, Bellatrix," he told her. "You are useless to me until you can put aside your emotions when you are required to. Thoughts of them should be permitted only in the most leisurely of moments. I cannot have a Death Eater who thinks of romance when she should be thinking of the necessity of our work or how to further our cause. These feelings are a distraction."
"I understand, my Lord, and I shall try–"
"Trying is not enough, Bellatrix," he said sharply, straightening once more. "You must act. You must discipline yourself, and you must do it quickly, for I cannot afford to keep you if you remain such a liability as a Death Eater."
It stung that he should think of her as a liability when she had so clearly proven herself far superior to his other followers, but she said nothing. What could she have said? Anything that she told him now would be used against her, she knew.
"Stand up," he told her with one more wave of his wand and Bellatrix stood with all the dignity that she could muster, which was but little. She bowed to him, and when he indicated with a wave of his hand that she could, she turned and exited the room.
Bellatrix leaned against the wall outside, wiping her brow and then burying her face in her hands and trying to hold back tears. Crying would not help her, no matter how good it might feel to release the anger and shame that she had felt.
She had always known that her Master's mind was not like those of ordinary people. She had seen this always as a good thing: it meant that he was above them, more intelligent and cunning and possessed even of more wisdom than she could ever be. But she had also always known - in a detached sort of way - that there were other ways in which the Dark Lord's mind was not like hers.
She believed that she had heard men like him called sociopaths. People with an inability to comprehend the emotions - even the reality - of other people.
She did not like to think of it. She did not want to think of her master as lacking any ability.
But when he spoke to her so, as if her emotions ruined her and made her weak, the term seemed terribly fitting.
)O(
Fin