Written for The Unforgivable Competition issued by hillstar.

Disclaimer: I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe, that honor belongs to the brilliant J.K. Rowling. I merely play with the wonderful characters.

Unforgiven

For those who had been fallen victim to the Cruciatus Curse, the pain could be described as a separate entity in itself. It was as if their body had been split in two and while they remained conscious of the dormant piece, the one constructed during those moments that felt like hours of torture was being burned, battered, and broken all while still remaining whole. It was a pain that even the bravest of the brave trembled at the mere thought of. An ordeal that managed to emancipate long kept secrets, confessions, hidden truths, promises, and sworn oaths from steadfast tongues just hoping for the agony to end. But for the one witch who had reveled in its unbridled and indiscriminate use at her leisure, in the very moment where it counted, the pain never came.

Her charcoal gaze meets one of milk chocolate, a dark brow raising in inquiry and expectation as the blunt edges of magically repaired teeth clamp together in a tight jawed grimace. "Do it."

"I can't," the younger brunette announces incredulously, hand springing open to release the vine wood wand that had been pressed into it moments before.

"Yes, you can."

"No."

The quirk of an arched black brow is but a precursor to the impending eruption of volcanic displeasure, "I want you to."

"How can I?"

"Just think of it as casting a Patronus in reverse," a thin fingered hand lifts to tuck an errant black curl behind an ear in a would be casual gesture had the topic of discussion not been so heavily weighted, and a fuse had not been irrevocably lit, "Think of what I've done to you. How I held you down and marked you." All semblance of casualness wanes to be replaced now by an expression that is equal parts anger and sadness, "How I took my dagger and cut that word into your flesh. How I laughed at your pain. Think of how much you hated me in that moment." The even tone looses its balance and is pitched higher, control tapering off, "Think of it and cast."

A hitch of breath and the once assured voice of the younger begins to waver. "I – I don't want to," it takes her two tries to state.

"Do it!" The anger battles the sadness in both tone and expression, fierce and ruthless enough that it manages to make its opponent retreat.

"Bella," the nickname is murmured softly in an attempt to placate, "No."

"Why not !" The exclamation is more screech than anything, shrill enough that would have made anyone but the witch across from her flinch away, "I deserve it. After all the hurt, the death, the destruction I've caused. I deserve it. Punish me. Please!" Shades of an old madness begin to seep through the crevices that control has fled from. Hooded eyes widen so that the whites are most prominent. Yet the dark irises contain a familiar emptiness, an almost tangibly fervent blindness that many have quaked in fear before. That a dead sorcerer once exploited for his own evil deeds, "Punish me, pet."

"But I've already forgiven you."

"I don't deserve your bloody forgiveness, don't you see?" Strains of madness have been transfigured to an equally sightless rage. A bony fist slams down hard upon a wooden table, rattling the dishes that are the sole remnants of what had been a rather peaceful dinner, "Can't you see? Why can't you see? I. Am. A. Monster. Now cast the damned curse!"

Yet she is still met with a stalwart, though almost tearful resistance, "I can't."

"No no no," the black haired witch titters as if in song, waving the words away like one would swat a pestilent insect, "You just won't."

"No. I can't," the threat of tears is suddenly overthrown by fiery determination, burnt sienna brows furrowing over a narrowed glare, "First rule of casting Unforgivables. You have to mean them. You taught me that. And I could never mean to cause you pain. You've suffered enough of it!"

"Stop it!" with aged madness and anger no longer able to hold down the fort, desperation manages to breach the premises within the dark witch. Desperation that adopts the mask of a different sort of madness, the sort that has nothing to do with force fed ideals but of fear, a long repressed fear of being stripped down to well concealed vulnerability, "You stop it. Cast it now or I'll cast it on you."

The unwavering response is most unexpected."Do it if it makes you feel better."

"What?"

"You heard me, Bella," steel figuratively fortifies the words, yet still remains a glimmer of tenderness within warm chocolate orbs, "When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with all of you. All of which makes you who you are. What you are. And if casting that curse helps alleviate whatever suffering you're feeling right now then do it."

But the soft seriousness does nothing to assuage the oath's volatile recipient. "After what I did to you, how can you ask this of me?" The rebuttal colored with disbelief.

A shrug accompanies a learned smirk as the brunette volleys, "The same way you asked it of me."

"You're barking mad," the accusation is whispered, the hushed tone a stark contrast to the harsh cawing preceding it.

Without missing a beat, her lover responds, "I learned from the best."

'Fucking Gryffindors.' The sentiment is an internal one. One that comes unbidden whenever the foolhardy lioness rears its head.

And though silent, a response follows as if the Gryffindor in question had read her other half's mind. "I'm not being brave. I'm doing this because I love you."

"Such pretty things you say," a wicked simper makes full crimson tinted lips curl upward at the edges, their owner grown weary of the back and forth, exhausted from the rapid shift between moods. A crooked wand raises betwixt the two and its after a short exhale that sounds suspiciously like a whimper that the poisonous incantation is finally bellowed. "Crucio!"

And yet again, there are no screams. No writhing. No pain. The bushy haired, brown eyed witch remains unscathed. The walnut wooded wand trembles in a knuckle whitening grip, as the elder bore witness, for the first time, to a curse that had once came as naturally to her as breathing wielded no result or affect.

"You didn't mean it," Hermione does nothing to conceal the relief that laces the words, though accompanying that relief is the realization that she knew this would be the outcome the entire time. She strides forward and cradles Bellatrix's face with one hand, its thumb brushing against the plump though thin skinned lower lip.

"I know," Bellatrix murmurs, opening her mouth to engulf her love's digit between her teeth to a waiting wet tongue, "I couldn't mean it. I couldn't hurt you even if I wanted to. I owe you too much."

"You don't owe me anything. Like I said, I have forgiven you," Hermione repeats, using her free hand to pluck Bellatrix's wand from her still quivering grip. The words are hardly uttered before her lips descend to briefly, though fervidly, reintroduce themselves to their full red counterparts, "Now it's time to forgive yourself."