Darkness Stirs
December 1969
Today, she dreads the prospect of a session with him.
The idea of not looking forward to one of their meetings with the utmost anticipation is almost sacrilegious; no, more than that, it is a crime, a sign of her own wretched ungratefulness. Why does she tremble at the thought of him uncovering her deepest feelings? What is it that so disturbs her about the notion of his presence in her mind?
In her heart of hearts, she knows the answer. There are many, many things she does not want him to see. Her storming out of the Great Hall, clutching father's letter that bore the news of her betrothal to Lestrange. Lashing out at Andy, screaming epithets at her, wild and frantic and desperate and mad. That awful, terrifying, exhilarating sensation of being on the edge of a yawning chasm, about to topple over. And, especially, she does not want him to witness the promise that she and Andy made afterwards. But that is different. It is not something shameful and improper, but a sacred pact, a covenant between the two of them that belongs to them alone.
She feels guilty. Her master is so kind, so merciful, so understanding. He knows how weak and feeble she is, knows that she is subject to human downfalls and failings. She could conceal nothing from him. However deeply embedded a secret may be, he will divine it. He sees right through her.
"You seem ill at ease today," he comments, almost as soon as she enters the room, and once more she is struck by how well he knows her. He is his usual self: tall, graceful, immaculate, condescending, elevated high above her in all her imperfection. The guilt surfaces again.
"It's nothing, my Lord," she replies, a fraction too quickly, her voice too high and too shaky. She averts her eyes from his, knowing she will not survive an onslaught.
"There is no need to lie to me, Bella." He is harder and firmer this time. He will not endure any nonsense from her. As is right and just. "You know you ought not to keep any secrets from me."
"But my Lord, you would be ashamed of me if you knew," she protests, employing the last line of her defences. And, indeed, it is a legitimate one- telling him her worries and concerns would be like asking a king to do one's gardening, they are so absolutely and utterly beneath him.
"Come, come, Bella." He beckons to her. "Sit here, there's a good girl." Immediately she kneels prostrate before him, taking the liberty of kissing the hem of his robes in gratitude. He is too good, shows her mercy when she deserves nothing but his wrath. "Is it about Lestrange? To do with your engagement to him?"
"Yes, my Lord." Tears creep insidiously into her eyes. "You are right. You are always right."
"I see it now. You feel that he is too inferior to you, that he lacks your intellect and ability, your wealth and your name. You believe you will degrade yourself in marrying him. Is that so?"
"Yes," she answers, breathily, in awe of the way he is able to express her thoughts and her feelings better than she can herself.
"You are right to be ashamed of yourself then. The Lestranges are a good family. They are fine and upstanding and pure, even if they do not have the power and prestige of the Blacks. Rodolphus' father has been affiliated with the Cause since its earliest days." His voice takes on a reprimanding, chastening tone. "Yes, you must marry him. It is vital that we continue the old bloodlines, especially in our days, when so many are neglecting their duty."
"You speak the truth, my Lord." She knows he does. She cannot deny that from her childhood upwards she was destined to be a wife and mother, that in the eyes of society it is her sole function and purpose. But still she feels that vicious, searing desire to fight and to conquer, to struggle and to win, above all else. The sedate, humdrum existence of a pureblood matron seems a bleak prospect when she could live and die a warrior. "But if it does—nothing could ever make me give up the Cause! Nothing could ever force me to stop fighting!"
"Calm down, Bella." He smiles- a rare, spontaneous smile, as if he is pleased with his craftsmanship. "I am not asking that you do. That would be a colossal mistake on my part."
"My Lord, you are too good," she sighs in relief. The heavy burden of despair that she has been carrying for the past two or three months eases and lightens. She can see sunshine beyond the shadows.
"After all, what is Rodolphus Lestrange to me? He is just a pawn, another disposable non-entity who has neither skill nor talent. I am no better off with him in my ranks, and no worse without him."
Her heartbeat races. She can feel the veins throbbing underneath her skin. Something grand, some great and terrible realisation, is coming. The clouds start to break.
"But you, you are my queen." He tilts her chin upwards with his hand, so that her eyes meet his. "My Bella. You are invaluable to me."
The revelation hits her, stark and all too obvious, like bright sunlight after a long period in darkness. Of course she loves the Dark Lord! Indeed, she always has loved the Dark Lord. How could she have been so blind, so ignorant? Only now is everything clear. Only now are the dark corners and hidden chambers of her mind illuminated with a brilliant, blazing light. She understands now what he must have understood long ago; that she may marry Lestrange and bear his children, but her heart and soul and being will always belong to him.
At first, she is taken back by the ferocity of her passion, stunned at how violently it has stirred in her after lying dormant for so long beneath the surface. It takes hold of her, burning with the fury of an inferno, unstoppable, unquenchable by the fire or the flood, stronger than death itself. No more does she fear going mad as she stands at the brink of that great abyss. She will follow him into the dark, wherever he chooses to lead her. And if she does fall, there will be no tragedy in falling. What is it but the inevitable end to an inevitable means? Certainly nothing to be afraid of.
She closes her eyes and lets her spirit soar.