Rain beat down on the roof of the manor. Droplets from the onyx sky trickled down the windowpane, glittering from the glow cast in the candlelit room. Rodolphus Lestrange watched them fall, quietly observing the furious storm raging outside. Only a lunatic would be out in this sort of weather. Fittingly, his wife was not yet home.
He poured himself another glass of firewhiskey and downed it in one swift gulp, relishing the burning sensation that crept down his throat. As he drew his gaze back to the window, he thought he saw a pair of gleaming dark eyes reflected beside his own, and he whirled around, expecting to see her—but there was no one behind him. With a sigh, he turned back to face the window, and poured himself another glass for good measure. Instantly, his mind was filled with images of a porcelain-skinned young girl, with sable curls and eyes that bore straight into his soul.
She can kill with a smile
She can wound with her eyes
She'd been mesmerizing from the moment he'd met her—he'd offered his hand and she'd set it on fire. Granted, his eleven-year-old self hadn't found her quite so entrancing as did his sixteen-year-old self. But she'd always been incredible, unpredictable, deliciously wild. He still couldn't believe she was his.
But she wasn't his, was she? If she'd truly been, she wouldn't be out doing—what was it she'd said? Taking Narcissa out for tea? It was nearly two in the morning; did she take him for a fool? No, she knew he'd catch on. She enjoyed the obvious deceit because she knew he wouldn't dispute the matter.
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies
And she only reveals what she wants you to see
He remembered the only time he'd ever seen her close to tears. They'd been trying to get pregnant for some time, and she'd happened to catch a glimpse of her estranged sister in Diagon Alley. She'd sneered and planned to hex her for the hell of it—until she caught sight of the little girl she was toting along behind her. Her face froze and nearly shattered, and Rodolphus thought his heart would, too.
He'd Apparated her away before she could do anything drastic, and that night they tried—harder than ever. When they'd finished, he held her close, and she buried his face in his chest, trembling. But she hadn't cried. To his knowledge, she hadn't ever cried.
She hides like a child,
But she's always a woman to me
More memories of the teenage girl he'd fallen hopelessly in love with crept into his mind. They were dancing at a ball, they were dueling in the corridor; she was kissing him in a broom cupboard, she was hexing him during a Charms lesson. As scattered as the recollections were, they painted an accurate picture of their relationship: she was either screaming at him or snogging him, and he'd spent his life in love with her in between.
She can lead you to love
She can take you or leave you
Once, she thought he'd cheated on her. He'd come close, but he'd been careful about it, and was surprised—impressed, really—that she'd unearthed the true events of the evening he'd spent "Muggle-hunting with Rosier".
She'd beaten his smooth excuses out of him until he was confessing what had almost happened between him and the barmaid. Grudgingly, she'd accepted the admission—but still, rumours abound that Rosmerta's actually missing several toes.
She can ask for the truth
But she'll never believe you
He never thought he'd be the one craving to speak with a lover once the explosive passion had ended, yet in the moments right after, when they were both still breathing heavily, and beads of sweat clung to her forehead and her half-closed eyelids, to the groove above her parted lips, he wanted nothing more than to speak with her, about anything and everything.
But if he reached out to brush the dampened curls from her forehead…sometimes, on the most beautiful nights, she'd let him, and he'd drop another kiss on her lips. And sometimes this would lead to a brief conversation, and maybe she'd even laugh for him. But more often than not, she'd bat his hand away and go off to sleep, and he might as well have spent the night alone.
And she'll take what you give her, as long as it's free
She steals like a thief
But she's always a woman to me
He was surprised when she'd expressed an interest in the Dark Lord. They'd been entwined together next to the Black Lake, her head on his chest, sharing a moment of unusual tenderness. He was murmuring in her ear about the future, about the things he planned to do to change the world…and naturally, she'd decided to do it with him.
She came with him to the next meeting, and was instantly intrigued as much as she was intriguing. She'd been the first woman—and the only one, thus far—who'd expressed an interest in joining His ranks. And she'd been so young. All of them had been, really, but for a sixteen-year-old girl, it was most impressive.
When he'd challenged her to a duel with Dolohov, she'd left him with twelve broken bones and skin that was stung almost as badly as his pride. Few dared cross her after that.
Oh, she takes care of herself
She can wait if she wants
She's ahead of her time
The obsession may have started that night; he couldn't be sure. But it grew steadily in her like a parasite, and when he noticed, he tried to direct her attention back to the last thing she'd been this fixated on: the child.
She'd laughed in his face and told him, sneeringly, that her desire for children had evaporated long before. "They'd be a distraction now, at any rate," she'd said dismissively, "from our service to the Dark Lord." She was completely consumed; there was no turning back.
Oh, and she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind
After his wife had declared herself no longer interested in the trivialities of motherhood, Rodolphus became…frustrated. He couldn't stop his mind from returning to those nights where they had pressed together in perfect union, and she had let slip from her lips how she longed for a child that was theirs. Her desperation to be a mother was always clear—but to hear her say it, to hear her whisper things like, "It'd have wonderful hair" or "I hope it has your eyes." …What he wouldn't give to hear her say those things again.
But those days were long gone, swept away in a vortex of Dark magic. As the eldest Black sister, Bella had inherited a bracelet, an heirloom of sorts, intended to be passed down to her own daughter. Rodolphus didn't know what she'd done with it—perhaps crushed it with her boot or set it aflame or given it to Narcissa—but the Dark Mark now lingered eerily in its place. Though they'd taken the Mark together, he couldn't help but feel as though Bellatrix, by giving up on children, had broken the first vow they'd taken.
And she'll promise you more
Than the Garden of Eden
Then she'll carelessly cut you
And laugh while you're bleeding
She drove him mad, really and truly. Bellatrix, with her wild curls and volcanic temperament, was conspicuously insane. Rodolphus, on the other hand, possessed a more insidious madness, bred by years of neglect and spoiling and darkness and exacerbated by the femme fatale he'd chosen as his counterpart. While Bella brandished her psychosis like a sword and wore it like a shield, daring spectators to tame her, Rodolphus's insanity wound quietly through his veins like a thread, with one end round his spine and the other knotted around one of Bella's long, pale fingers.
Bella's lunacy was perpetual, constantly on display, so much that Rodolphus often questioned how mad she really was. If anything, Rodolphus was the truly mad one, for his feckless rage was built brick by brick with painstaking care, up and up and up until he was roaring, grasping his wife by her frail shoulders and pushing her violently up against a wall, raising his fist and slamming it down again and again and again—
And Bellatrix would never even flinch. She'd laugh in the face of his fury because she knew he'd never hit anything but the wall beside her head.
But she'll bring out the best
And the worst you can be
Blame it all on yourself
Cause she's always a woman to me
The sound of the bedroom door opening roused Rodolphus from his reverie, and he turned torpidly to see his drenched wife dripping in the doorway.
"Evening," she said lewdly, smirking.
"Fancy you turning up," Rodolphus muttered, raising an eyebrow as he took yet another sip of Firewhiskey.
She ambled towards him, shrugging off her soaking cloak and seizing the glass from his hand. "Enjoying yourself?" she asked as she poured herself a generous drink of her own.
"I am now," he said quietly, his dark eyes locking with hers. Bellatrix's smirk widened. She downed the drink in one gulp, slamming the glass decisively down on the tabletop. Winding her hand into his dark, thick hair, she drew his head down toward her and kissed him.
It was gentle at first, so sweet and gentle, before typically morphing into the battle for dominance they so loved. Rodolphus tasted Firewhiskey and Bellatrix and a touch of something entirely foreign, and his heart wrenched at this reminder of her infidelity.
He pulled away, disgusted and repulsed and immediately regretting the loss of her lips against his.
Bellatrix quirked an eyebrow. "What's the matter, love?" she lisped, trailing a hand down the side of his face. He caught it and covered it with his own, interlocking her fingers with his. In the spaces between, he could feel their pulses syncing. His wife allowed the contact for a few moments, and then Rodolphus knew what was going to happen before it did: she tensed for just an instant; he could feel it in her hands. Rigidity slid up her spine and into her jaw. Bellatrix hardened considerably before wrenching her hand away and retreating to the washroom, slamming the door behind her.
She is frequently kind
And she's suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases
She's nobody's fool
She emerged some time later, clad only in a black silk nightgown. His favorite. She was doing it to taunt him, he was sure.
Rodolphus was already in bed, and he made no movement as his wife approached him slowly, languidly, torturously. Rather than climbing into her side of the bed, she stood at his, and ran a hand through his hair for the second time that night. So rare were these displays of affection that Rodolphus felt a need to keep score.
"You're never going to say a thing about it, are you?" she asked quietly, her voice laced with curiosity and a great, great exhaustion.
"No."
Bellatrix was still for a moment. Then she chuckled lasciviously. "Good," she smirked. "Besides, you'd never be able to prove it."
And she can't be convicted
She's earned her degree
She did climb into bed then, and he heard her sigh almost contentedly as she drew the duvet around her shoulders. He turned to look at her, all wrapped up, a chrysalis of chaos. Her hair fanned out around her much as it had when they were younger, and when he felt her cold foot touch his, seeking warmth, Rodolphus couldn't—wouldn't—didn't resist. He moved closer to her, snaking an arm around her middle and pulling her in to his chest.
"Get off," she mumbled irritably, trying to squirm from his touch.
"No."
Her eyes shot up to meet her husband's: he'd never done that before. Bellatrix wasn't fully equipped to handle refusals of her own refusals. How could she spurn advances if her spurning was rejected?
Rodolphus just smirked, and Bellatrix, with reluctant acquiescence, lowered her head to rest on his shoulder.
Though neither spoke, there was a quiet acceptance between them, as well as a silent acknowledgement of the presence of their younger selves—many times had they lain like this together, in this bed and others, and they felt all of their selves in the room that night.
They woke as ghosts do, drifting from themselves again—but they would be back. They always came back.
And the most she will do
Is throw shadows at you
But she's always a woman to me.