Disclaimer: I own a Bellatrix costume and a multitude of Harry Potter-related memorabilia, but unfortunately, I do not own the characters and some of the dialogue in this story.
"These violent delights have violent ends." - William Shakespeare
Before the Battle-
His eyes are red, piercing, uninviting. His skin is pale, cold, unfeeling. She knows he is incapable of love, incapable of feeling anything but an appetence for power, and still she waits, she wishes, she hopes.
"Bella," he calls, his voice thick with lust, "come." She willingly obeys as a servant does her master, and crosses the threshold to where he stands. "Tonight," he proclaims, his eyes raking over her frame, "I will kill him. I will win. I will succeed."
She nods, knowing that he will indeed succeed in finally ridding himself of Harry Potter once and for all. "I have no doubt, my Lord," she declares as his hands reach her waist. Her eyes flutter shut as his voice cajoles her.
"Potter," he spits, pulling her closer and causing her eyes to snap open, "has allowed his friends to die for him, rather than face me himself. He is weak, I am strong." His tone is almost primal and Bellatrix knows that he is not reassuring her of his strength; he is reassuring himself.
"He is foolish," she agrees, "to think that he has any chance at all. No one is as strong and as powerful as you, my Lord." She adores him and he knows this; he plays it to his advantage.
"I am happy to hear that you have put your faith in me, Bellatrix." His tone is condescending, but he smirks regardless. His spindly fingers grasp her chin, tilting her face to survey her features. "Beautiful," he murmurs, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
He kisses her then, their tongues dancing a frantic tango, their hands roaming, their minds breaking. She is exhausted, yet at the same time exhilarated. He is frantic, yet at the same time, controlled. She does not think that "lovers" is the correct term to describe their twisted relations, their rabid nights, his coldness, her willingness. They are not something; they are not nothing.
"Bella," he groans into her neck, his teeth grazing her prison number, the mark of her never-ending loyalty.
She beams, and concludes that that they are indeed something. But just as he can be gentle, he can also be cruel and rough. These violent delights have violent ends, she remembers, a line from a play that Narcissa had begged her to come see with her, long ago. And just as if he has read her mind- she suppose he has, for she never closes it to him- he becomes demanding, controlling and tumultuous.
When they are through, they only lie panting a brief moment before he rises, dresses and leaves. She lies there a little longer, tracing the lesions and bruises left on her body, cherishing them like they are marks from God himself. She refuses to heal them; they are a constant reminder of him, of their intertwined bodies, their heated kisses, their something. Later, before she dresses for the battle, she looks at her reflection in the floor mirror across the room. Her body is mangled, a map of bruises and scratches. Blood has congealed, leaving hideous, rust-coloured lines down her back. Bellatrix wouldn't have it any other way.
In the Forbidden Forest-
As soon as his spell hits the Boy Who Lived, she knows that it is over. But as he falls, her master collapses and she rushes to his side.
"My Lord?" she questions, her voice filled with worry, "My Lord?"
His eyes open and the breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding flows from her lungs. She grasps his arms to help him off of the carpet of dirt, but he pushes her aside, his eyes not filled with lust, but with menace. He spits his words as a snake spits venom and she is once again reminded of her unreturned love.
"I do not require assistance," he taunts, as Bellatrix kneels limply beside him.
Flung aside like a piece of meat, she backs away from her master. Her ego bruised, she turns her attention to her sister, who is making her way over to where Harry Potter's body now lies, unmoving.
"Is he dead?" she croaks, moving forward to peek around Voldemort's cloak.
Narcissa kneels and checks for a heartbeat. The air is filled with a thick silence, save the silent sobbing of the grounds keeper, bound a few metres away. After what seems like an eternity, she turns, not daring to meet her older sister's anxious eyes. And then, she speaks the three words that she knows will ruin her sister forever:
"He is dead."
Bellatrix shrieks and twirls. Voldemort grins and throws a Crucio at Harry to prove to his forces that the Boy Who Lived is indeed, dead. The half-breed oaf cries out, his sobs shaking the leaves from the trees surrounding them. Voldemort turns to him, his voice a mix of venom and elation.
"Carry him," he orders, pointing to the limp body of his now-dead mortal enemy.
Hagrid picks up the Boy Who Lived, weeping. Voldemort sneers. Narcissa is quiet. The remaining Death Eaters celebrate.
"We won! We won! We won!" Bellatrix chants, skipping past Hagrid, waving her wand in the air.
She is loud, she is obnoxious, but Voldemort doesn't have the heart to tell her to stop. Her voice makes it all the more real. Harry Potter is dead. They have won.
In the Great Hall-
She doesn't know what she is more furious at; the fact that her sister, her own flesh and blood, had lied to her, to the Dark Lord... or that the boy is indeed alive. She cannot bear to imagine how furious her master must be, how, when they win, he will prune her family tree ever further. And yet, somehow she does not mind how he will punish her sister for her lies; her minds is far too gone, her fire far too fueled. Even as the mudblood and her friends attempt to battle her, her wage does not wean.
She cackles with rage, flinging curses at the three students who dared to think that they had a chance at winning against her. Shooting a killing curse at the red-haired girl who is attempting to jinx her, she is surprised to find that it misses her by inches. Fueled with even more rage, she blindly directs a Cruciatius Curse at the mudblood who had stolen her wand. Silently cursing her present wand for its temporary inaccuracy, she watches from a distance as a plump woman makes her way through the crowd.
"Not my daughter, you bitch!" the woman- who, as she closes in, Bellatrix recognises as Molly Weasley- screams, "Out of my way!" She pushes her way through the anxious students, "No! Get back! Get back! She is mine!"
Molly takes the place of the three girls that Bellatrix had been battling and Bellatrix's smirk flips into a scowl. She easily dodges the housewife's first curse. Laughing at Molly's foolishness, she mocks her:
"What will happen to your children when I've killed you? When mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"she cackles, causing the grieving mother to crack.
She deflects another blanket curse, taunting the other woman even further. Glancing over to her master, she watches as he battles McGonagall, Slughorn and Kingsley. Looking to his face, she is surprised to see his eyes meet hers for a brief second, but the message in which they are trying to convey is unclear, and she is brought back by Molly's screams.
"You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!"
Bellatrix laughs, her cackling filling the Great Hall with the ringing echo of her voice and she looks to her master once again. Molly senses she will do this, seeking the approval of the man that she loves, the man who does not love her back, and she takes the moment to fire a curse at Bellatrix. Whipping her head back, she attempts to deflect the curse, but it is too quick for even Bellatrix Lestrange to combat.
He knows what is going to happen before she does. He watches in horror as the Weasley matriarch's curse hits his most faithful servant, the woman who would do anything to please him, the woman who is wholeheartedly in love with him, square in the chest. His stomach drops. Her eyes bulge. She topples. And Voldemort screams.