Bellatrix Lestrange's life had a been a series of contradictions, the most profound incongruity appearing time and time again in the matter of the Dark Lord. Throughout her youth, he was an idol. She followed his actions with a sense of obsession, cutting clippings from the Prophet and papering them along her wall. His eyes would flash cunningly amidst emerald hangings and school awards. She received tokens from other admirers, but their praise was lost in idle fantasies. Long black hair falling into her eyes, she dreamily met his gaze, longing one day to be his most devoted servant.
***
As with all self-respecting purebloods, one duty to society rose above the rest: to continue an honorable line of untainted magical lineage. It was with that mentality that Bellatrix walked to the Altar, head raised high in a symbol of self-sacrificing acceptance. In her own mind, she had elevated herself to a level of ridiculous martyrdom. Those were not flowers she held, but bloody thorns. No, she did not love Roldolphus, but it was her obligation. Even as they exchanged their vows, clasping their lips together in a dignified kiss, she imagined that she was in the arms of another.
***
Bellatrix's eyes were frantic, bloodshot. Robes billowing around her, she resembled a dementor, starving for something intangible. The fabric clung to her bones as though she would soon dissolve into oblivion. Licking her lips neurotically, she raised her wand arm with the severity of a volatile snake.
"Where is the Dark Lord? What do you know, blood traitor!"
Frank Longbottom stared up at her a defiant smile. "Dead. He's dead and you'll never bring him back. You're over, filth."
Crying out like a wounded animal, she screamed, "CRUCIO!" Even as he writhed in pain, she sobbed, a broken, frightened sound.
***
Coldness. Death. Oblivion. Such dismal concepts were a reality in that horrid cell of Azkaban. There was no escape, just bare walls and the terse company of undesirable beings. Every time a dementor drifted past, languid and feline, it would play with her mind, extracting images not of her own demise, but of the demise of her Lord. She saw him vulnerable and alone. The fragmented pictures broke her heart, shattered her mind. Even as her beauty began to fade, she never let go of the certainty in her heart; one day the Dark Lord would learn of her loyalty and come for her.
***
Bellatrix had watched with crazed satisfaction as her cousin fell through the veil. Imposter, she sneered in her mind, watching his body arch gracefully. Charlatan, she repeated with venom, stealing my glory. She had laughed in delight, knowing that in that moment that she was most truly the Dark Lord's most devoted servant.
Two years later, she watched her bright-eyed cousin fall beneath her wand, this time with desperation. She longed to be perfected, redeemed. Even as Nymphadora's body hit the ground with a mind numbing thud, she held her breath, longing for cleansing deliverance with her silly cousin's death.
***
It was with shocked defiance that Bellatrix received death. As it hit her, blossoming out from her chest like a morbid rose, an instantly numbing sensation filled her both with terror and relief. For in those murky moments before she drifted into unknowing, she heard a scream, painful and wretched. Unbelieving and grateful, a feline smile graced her lips as she hit the ground. All of her girlish dreams had been satisfied in those final moments. The pain in his roar confirmed that he must have known it after all. She was the Dark Lord's most devoted servant.
And that was all she ever wanted.