Author's Note: Angst. That's about all it is. Um, yeah. Oh, and if you don't like Blackcest, don't read, kthnx.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Don't sue—don't have much money, sorry.
Summary: Bellatrix reflects on Sirius' death. There is much angst to be had—partake! Partake!
His hands ran through her hair, fingers brushing and parting the black sheet like the wind, pulling her head forward as he pressed onto her scalp—her eyes closed. His fingernails dug into her skin, as his hands gripped her neck, her lips pressing against his skin—she felt the warmth from his body radiate around her, enclosing her in a globe of peace—a glass sphere that kept her from those around them—a sheet of unbreakable strength that she, alone, took shelter in—that she, alone, resided inside—a glass ball, an ornament, that still hung upon her Black tree, even though it had been removed from her Aunt's so many Christmas' ago. She thought of him as family—he knew she did. He was her blood—he understood her, and she him. It was a bond—it had always been a bond—this seal, a blot of wax pressed onto so many love letters, she'd lost count years ago. And, again, she'd taken advantage of his puppy-like adoration, his innocent grasp upon her personage, and, though she couldn't readily deny she felt similar feelings, she enjoyed the fact that she, alone, could twirl his emotions—spin his senses with such force, he couldn't see anything but her shrinking silhouette in the distance. And, she got an egotistical high when she, alone, could make him beg. But, she was the one that couldn't escape.
Bound and gagged, she was the one that couldn't move—that couldn't relinquish her grasp on him, her hold on his soul—the fact that she wanted him, she always had, and always would. No matter what he'd done to her, she was the one that couldn't forget—he had claimed the capability to always hold a grudge. To never be able to forget… she knew that it was only time, time before she was lost to him—swept away, blown miles down a dirt road, across the countryside—kilometers away from him, out of his mind, out of his heart. She was a stone-faced slut—a Pureblood whore… They claimed her inability to love—her passion was found in the thrill of the romp—they were wrong. Oh, how wrong they were. She couldn't love, because she was so far, so deeply twisted, wrapped, enthralled within the dance, the tango, the waltz that was her cousin—they were meant to be together—they should have always been together. Her brown eyes fluttered open as she leaned back, feeling his warm fingers tug at her corset, locating the ribbons that held the fabric around her torso and chest… Chills ran up her spine, and she closed her eyes again, leaning over him, her hair sliding over her bare shoulders to curtain around their faces—she looked into those eyes, the ones that resembled her own…
And they peered back out of a mirror—oval, high, aristocratic arching brows. So tired, so sleep deprived, that swirls of purple and blue brushed on the pale skin around her gaze—it appeared as if someone had hit her, struck her twice. It would be a lie—though, at this time in her life, this point, she didn't care what they thought, what they believed. Let them twist up gossip about Rodolphus—spreading fickle tales of a marriage gone sour in their insanity… nothing no longer mattered to her—not her appearance, not her social status, not her beauty… not her name… She was only here, leaning over the cold sink in her sister's manor because she had walked away from the Department of Mysteries somewhat unscathed. She was only letting the water run to give Narcissa the idea that she was brushing up—refreshing herself. She couldn't move, in reality. She felt stiff—her breathing was so shallow, her chest didn't move. Her eyes stared into her reflection's—accusing herself—pressuring herself. Her fingers curled around the porcelain sink, and she finally lowered her gaze. Black lashes curved against her bony face—the skin that had once been so supple and cared for, now resembled that of a corpse, than of a lady—this was a fact she knew… Rodolphus made fun of her every night—calling her a 'hag'… a living ghost… a dead man's princess. She liked to think her beauty was still there, hidden below the surface—but she did not see it. She never would.
She felt her breath catch in her throat—she'd never live those moments over again. Where she was youthful, and he was alive—he was alive… She looked back up into her reflection, her lips curved, and she felt her eyes grow warm. She blinked—her brows lowered, and pulled together, and her emotionless expression, that stoic mask she'd become a master at using, broke… Her chest heaved, and she leaned forward over the sink, her black hair—ragged and knotted—fell around her face as she peered down at the swirling water. The circular motion of the liquid occasionally breaking with the warm tear that fell from the end of her nose. And she breathed—she felt weak. A piece of her was missing—she'd killed not just a past lover—a "reformed" criminal… she'd killed a piece of her heart, of her family, of her blood… She reached down, picking up from the shelf, a warm, cotton washcloth. With the flick of her wrist, she flipped the stream from cold to warm—she placed it under the faucet. The warmth spread from her fingers, lacing up her hands, branching out around her arms, holding her—soothing her… her sobs stopped—and she run the rag, putting it against her eyes…
Sirius pulled away from her—and her gaze was unhindered by his palm—her brows arched in childlike glee, her lips curving into a broad smile. There, in the tall green grass, was something that only they, alone, could find an equal amount of unstressed, angelic pleasure—he'd gotten the puppy for his birthday, she was sure. But, nevertheless, she hadn't attended the party—she was out of town—and so, her mother brought her by today to present her wishes, and the small card she had drawn. He'd taken her by her hand, and had pulled her through the house—running with her to the backyard, tugging her after him to show her the small animal that was now rolling in the garden. It's nose was wet and warm as it's paws reached towards the sky, snuffling and yapping, it's tail wagging fast-paced and steady—the long black fur caught the loose blades of grass, and as it sneezed when one happened to fall from it's paw onto it's muzzle, Sirius snorted, her eyes left the animal to look at him. His face, oval and handsome—elegant and rustic—innocent and wise, glowed with a mixture of pride and love at this moment in time—she wanted it to last forever. Just to be able to stare in his eyes, to watch him smile—she'd been born for him—she'd come into the world for him… that was when she knew she was in love with him.
Both were thirteen. He'd been sorted into Gryffindor—he'd become friends with that James Potter—but he still had enough elegance and majesty at home to keep her entranced. She'd always known there was something about him she'd loved—but she hadn't known until this moment that it was just that… him. She thought it had been a level of his personality—the ability he had to come off with such smart replies—the fact he was adventurous to the core—that he could have easily been a knight… Strong and faithful, he could have come to her rescue, knowingly—there were so many times where he had picked her up without realizing it, she was sure that he couldn't have known… he would have rubbed it in. His grey eyes looked over at her—his lips curving from a genuine smile to a smirk. That heroic gaze was framed by black lashes that matched the curls in his black hair—grey eyes as dark and as deep as the clouds above. It was a moment's decision—she had always been like that—a flip of a coin, and she'd act. She leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. Nothing more than a soft brush against his skin—but it was enough to make his brows arch, and he leaned over to her… It was a decision—they were both mature enough to make it—they'd both been through so much, enough to make them so mentally mature that they could have been dubbed wise enough to be in their twenties.
He pushed her down in the grass, and the white lace of her dress flared out around her legs—curving around her slender figure like a rose—the black of his own casual suit clashing with the snow-like fabric. Her eyes looked up at the grey clouds—the rumble of thunder shook the ground as lightening forked out kilometers away—another crush, and a small sprinkle was unleashed. Cold droplets fell over the ground, hitting her face with ice-like butterfly kisses, running over her cheeks like his fingers danced over her arms… And his lips brushed against her neck—soft skin against her own—silken kisses that pushed…
Against her collarbone, she pressed the washcloth. She stared into the mirror—though, her own reflection was nonexistent to the woman. She saw the face of her cousin—dark hair falling around his face, dark eyes looking out at her with that stormy streak of rebellion that her aunt, his mother, had hated… his angelically carved features that had always made women sigh—she pressed the cotton against her skin, and she felt the hot tears run down her cheeks once more—sliding down her chin, along her jaw, and down her slender neck. She pressed it harder against the porcelain skin—she was washing away the kisses… the years of him pressing his lips against her. Her skin was burning under the constant scrub—but she felt it not—instead?—she could only feel his hands, pressing into stomach, his hair brushing against her chest. And she sobbed—her shoulders jerked with the shakes that twisted her would-be elegantly stoic features. She moved her second hand atop the first—and applied more pressure. She fell down to the ground, crossing her legs over the tile, her head raised to look up at the mirror—from which, she still saw his face smirking down at her.
She cotton burned as it curled back a layer of her skin—blood blossomed under the woven fabric, staining the pure white a rosy pink, and then a deep, dark red. It ran down her skin, over her chest, staining the white of her Victorian corset, to pool on her black skirt. She continued to scrub—away went the memories. With each push into her flesh, each rip of her skin, he vanished from her memory. His face in the mirror became more and more transparent—she moved the washcloth. Her fingers fumbled with the ribbons on her corset—she removed the lacy garment, and began to pass the washcloth over her stomach—rubbing, her eyes locked up on the mirror. Her face was twisted into sobs—she begged, she was crying to him—to help her—to be her knight… to come and save her from this hell, this pure insanity—she'd become what Rodolphus had always called her—
"—a twisted, depressing, treacherous snake! The nerve of that man—I swear, I'll have his head—and if he dares to look at Narcissa that way again, I'll"—she stopped, a brow quirking as Sirius, seated across the chessboard, began to laugh. His fingers curved around his Knight, and he shook his head—black curls bouncing, eyebrows arching in that cocky smirk he'd thrown at her more times than she could ever count. "What's so funny?"
"You," it was simple—he cleared his throat, his eyes leaving hers to look back at the board. A move, he'd taken her pawn. She, however, didn't look away from him—he could feel her eyes upon his face, and he kept his gaze lowered, feigning contemplation as he looked over the display of pieces scattered over the checkerboard… "Worried about a Frenchman. We all know what they do—shag while listening to pop, and the foreplay is nothing more than bubbly champagne and rose petals. Bloody poofs, the lot of them—and here you are, nagging. You'll make a right-good wife, you do realize—that is all wives do… nag. Sex stops after the honeymoon."
Her face fell—and with a scowl, she leaned across the board, fingers curving over her Queen. A small smirk twitched at the corner of her red lips, and she, with an innocent tilt of her head, took his King, "Check. You're loosing your"—
Touching the cloth against her side, a final push, and she felt one more layer of skin pull away from her body—she stood. Bare feet padded over the tile—and she threw the cloth into the skin. Her blood was pulled from the fabric by the running water, staining the clear liquid pink, veining through the whirlpool silently, branching like a tree… She walked across the marble—her arms hugging her bare body as she stepped into the shower—she closed her eyes, and one trembling hand pulled the tassel that let loose the torrents of cold water. It fell atop her head—slicking down the sheet of black, running along her curves—stinging in the open wounds… She opened her mouth, taking in deep breaths—her arms falling to her sides, and then raising up, cupped towards the nozzle. Droplets cascaded over her washing away the clotted blood that had already began to cling to the outer rims of the circular wounds—like a spring storm, the water washed away the remnants of winter. The debris, the dreary weather, the old, soft-spoken midwinter masks… it all went down in a stream of cold, fresh water, curling away into darkness, away from her, forever.
Past memories—past loves—past lovers… those days spent lounging in the sun, or twirling in the rain—they were gone. His face had vanished from the mirror—and her arms reached upwards, skywards, hands curving towards the heavens, her lips curved into a broad smile—white teeth glittering just as they did the day she was sentenced. She was a gypsy—she left her lovers at the door—this was no different. She had finally gotten rid of him—she was invulnerable. Powerful, beautiful, elegant, rich—she was unstoppable. She'd forsaken the days of family parties, kissing under the mistletoe, for a life of stoic ease—the easy route. She was no longer human… she was a goddess—nothing could harm her—nothing could touch her—let the Ministry come after… she was perfect. She was everything everyone wished to be, but they were too scared to do what she had done to become what she is. She was brave—they were not—let them come. She had no weakness anymore. The one thing that could hamper her judgment?—it had been placed high upon a shelf in a black abyss, under a glass dome. And she?—she had made sure she would never be able to see it again. She had placed a cloth over the glass—a black…
Silken sheets flared out in her hands as she ran after her younger cousin—the two seven year olds raced through the grounds that stretched out around her homestead. Their high-pitched giggling rang free and innocently over the grassy field as their mothers sat up on the porch sipping tea—Narcissa and Andromeda were in the house… the blonde reading, the ladder of the two baking. But the two that were high strung? They ran free—her heels sank into the damp earth, but she didn't care. His dress shoes slid over the wet grass—he had so many stains on his knees from falling, and the palms of his hands were green. She sprinted after him, holding the sheet high over her head—the silk flaring out behind her, waving in the wind like a flag—a cape. And as she gained on him, the sky rumbled, shaking the earth, and spooking the horses that grazed in the distance. He stumbled—and she tackled. The sky swirled—and rain fell in torrents, blanketing the grounds in a sea of grey—like his eyes. She brought the silk up over her head, and he reached up to help her hold it—and they laughed. Kneeling in the grass, they watched out from under the silk—the women were squealing, clearing the table, and running inside—but they stayed. Laughing and joking, wet and young—soft and innocent, they watched the rain fall around them… Blanketing them, holding them in a cold hug that they'd never again escape.