Hey :) This story is back. It has been amended and edited and re-read, i am happier now than i was with it before, but i always think my work could be better so i dunno :S I am very dissapointed in myself with the amount of errors i found in my own story despite proof reading. I have ensured a much more thorough check this time.
I cannot remember my original notes for this chapter, but if i think some up they will be duely noted, any questions, ask away and i shall do my best to answer them.
I do not own Harry Potter or its characters, all belong to Mrs Rowling.
Bellatrix.
For the only one she ever truly loved; Voldermort.
The one she needed.
As her crushed lungs expanded to allow oxygen to pass through them, and the pressure upon her body subsided, Bellatrix's feet did not make contact with the ground as she had expected. Instead she felt herself being repelled backwards, the vice like grip releasing her arm. Her body coursing through the air until it came into contact with something solid, unmovable. For a moment, there was no pain, but when the slightly liquefied feeling that sometimes accompanied side-along apperation wore off, it came in sickening waves as constant as the ocean.
Voldermort stood mere feet away from her, his red slit like eyes roaming around the room but never falling upon his most doting servant. He whipped around, his long black robes sweeping across the cold granite floor, disturbing the dust that had settled there. In a misted cloud the colour of sand it blew backwards finally coming to rest again, like a concealing blanket, upon Bellatrix; who still did not get up.
All around master and servant, the room was full of small pops, followed shortly afterwards by the appearances of other hooded and cloaked wizards.
Death eaters that had either fled upon the arrival of Dumbledore, or had successfully evaded capture by The Order and The Minestry; all returned to their master now. Eyes searched for mirrored pairs, each shining with uncertainty like betraying beacons in the blackness and cloaks rustled with skittish movements that were neither advances nor retreats. Not one of them however, dared to approach him.
Never once did the Dark Lord turn to regard his followers assembled behind him, or give any indication of acknowledgment towards their presence. When his steps halted and the hem of his cloak came to rest completely still on the marble floor, he finally addressed them;
"Leave us. Your incompetence is embarrassing to me." His voice was nothing more than a hiss said around barred teeth.
The room cleared almost momentarily, a collective pop announced five plus simultaneous disapperations. Others fled through the doors, on parallel sides of the room, their ability to apperate clearly forgotten in their hurry to escape the Dark Lords wrath. One burly figure however, stayed. His stance brave, even if his voice were not when he spoke;
"Master -"
"Crucio!" The venom interjected into those three syllables was unnerving when compared to the almost lethargic flick of the white, emaciated wrist the proceeded it.
The figure screamed and writhed in pain, falling to the ground where his body continued to convulse. His hood, which had been up, until that point concealing his face, fell away. Dolohov.
Voldermort watched intently as every inch of Dolohov's body twitched, as if the image pacified him, as if every scream that broke unwilling thought the Death Eaters lips somehow dissipated his anger.
Idiot, thought Bellatrix, gaining a sadistic pleasure from her fellow Death Eaters torture, she uttered a giddy, mirthful laugh even in the face of her own impending punishment.
After what seemed like an age, filled with Dolohov's wild screams of pain and continuous thrashing, which preceded Bellatrix's manic peels of pleasured hysteria. Voldermort seemed to grow tired of the sport. He effortlessly flicked his wand and Dolohov became completely still, his harsh, labored breathing and masked whimpers still echoing around the cavernous room and Bellatrix's gusto dying in her throat. All was tensely quiet for a few moments, before master called for his servant;
"Bellatrix," his tone was harsh. The female Death Eater recoiled as if she had been struck.
He spoke no further words, but his commands were quite clear. Slowly and purposely she got to her feet.
There were twenty-five paces that separated her from her master. Twenty-five, and each one she took felt like she was walking towards her own death sentence. Sealing a fate that could not be undone.
She counted each one as she took it, ticking it off upon an unseen list, as the numbers frittered away before she could stop them. He tapped a long white, skeletal finger against the hard stone surface of the chair. It made gentle rhythm; thump, thump, thump, that echoed like the beating of a heart in the silence. Becoming louder and quicker as his impatience grew.
Not once as she approached did his expression soften from its tautened grimace of anger, the wasted skin stretched so tightly over the structure of his skull and so white that it appeared, at first glance, to be a none existent feature. Fear flowed through her, poisoning her, seeping doubt into her mind. She had failed.
She arrived in front of him all too soon. He sat majestically upon his throne carved from stone, and even in the semi darkness of the room, his white skin seemed to glow.
She threw herself completely at his mercy, collapsing onto her knees at his feet.
"Please, my lord -"
"Silence!" He cut across her, the end of the word becoming no more than a dangerous hiss.
"Don't beg Bellatrix. It only succeeds in making you look even more pathetic," he continued coolly, almost mockingly.
Slowly, she got to her feet, staring up longingly at the pale white face, skull like, with two red slits for eyes, and vertical pupils. She mapped his features again, lest she should forget, admiration on the verge of infatuation stirring in her heart. Her breath catching in her throat before disappearing from her body entirely, his words stinging deeper than rightfully they should have.
"Don't you have something you wish to say to me Bellatrix? A 'thank you, my Lord,' perhaps?" He asked smoothly, his voice like liquid fire flowing around her, deadly captivating, but false, endangering trickery.
"Thank you my lord! For a moment there, forgive me for saying so," as she spoke hurriedly, her eyes remained downcast and her head bowed.
"I thought that you were going to leave me." She gave a small laugh, that died all to soon in her throat as he spoke;
"I should have."
The forced smile faded instantaneously from her lips and her eyes went wide with horror, there was a moment of stunned silence as her world shifted. Her face a statued portrayal of anguished betrayal.
"Noooo!" She cawed harshly, dragging the single syllable out for as long as her breath would allow. Her hand gripping at her chest.
He waited for her to draw her breath again, and then cut her off when she opened her mouth to speak.
"But me being a merciful lord, I spared your worthless life. You are even less use to me dead than you are alive," he said simply.
Her expression of horror turned to joy and gratification immediately, her mind just as easily disregarding her previous hurt.
"Oh thank you my lord! Thank you! Thank -"
"Don't grovel," his voice flowed with anger now, "You are not so weak as to fall at my feet and simper your worthless gratitude. You are however, so weak as to let six adolescent wizards, not even of age, evade you. Outwitting you at every chance, out maneuvering you at every opportunity, and then, finally allowing them to take and destroy would should have been mine!"
She hadn't heard the incantation, but when a beam of light hit her squarely in the chest, she felt her own body convulse, in the same way as Dolohov's had done minutes previous. Suddenly, for a singular moment torture seemed to lose it's enjoyment. She was playing a dangerous and misguided game with her affections, and her fingers which were placed to close to the fire, were about to get burnt.
Every inch of her body stung with fire and pain, her muscles contracted against her will, ensuring a pain that only ever intensified the longer the spell wore on. How was it in this instance, that the pain she had loved to inflict so much upon others, was now the pain that felt like it was killing her. She wondered, vaguely, for a second; was this how Frank and Alice Longbottom had felt before they had succumbed to their madness. That thought alone, caused a ghost of a smile to pass across her lips, which grew, despite the pain, into manic laughter that she sustained until all breath was stolen from her and she returned to enduring the convulsions in a well mastered silence.
Voldermort was speaking again, his voice low, almost as if her were speaking to himself;
"How could this happen? I should be hearing it's words at this very moment."
He stood abruptly, advancing on his servant. With a lazy flick of his wand, he ended the spell that bound her.
Bellatrix lay completely still, breathing deeply and allowing the pain to recede and the memory to fade. She watched as her master approached her. His black cloak billowing around him, presenting an even more ominous figure of power.
He stood above her, his voice low, dangerous and mocking at the same time.
"How is it, Bellatrix, that my finest Death Eaters were foiled by none other than Harry Potter? I brought him to you on a silver platter, all you had to do was wait for him to take the prophecy and then intercept it. What was so difficult?"
"I tired my lord!" she choked out desperately between huge gasping breaths. "He wasn't alone!" .
"A minor inconvenience," he continued flatly, "I would have thought my Death Eaters more than a match for him and his friends. Perhaps I was wrong to assume so, perhaps I placed a little too much faith in the ability of those who serve me. I won't be making that mistake again."
"No! The Order of the Phoenix! Dumbledore!" Her eyes widened in fear.
"Could have all been so easily avoided had it not been for your incompetence," he spat the last word as if tasting something repugnant in his mouth.
"Master, I tried," she whimpered, repeating her earlier pleas, "I tried to retrieve the prophecy, but Lucius -"
Her body began to convulse and she writhed in silent pain once again.
"No Bellatrix! It was your inability to keep your temper under control that lost me the prophecy when it was almost within my grasp." He paused for a moment before letting a smile play upon his lips. "Lucius will get his comeuppance however, don't you worry, my vicious one."
He watched as she twitched on the floor at his feet, her face contorted with pain as every muscle in her body contracted. He pushed the spell harder, watching as a single tear fell, washing the dust from her cheek in it's track. It was not physical pain however, that was its cause, but something infinitely deeper.
"Are you not going to scream?" He asked menacingly.
"No," came her strangled reply.
"How very brave of you," he mocked, "So valiant in the face of death, just like your dear cousin."
"You won't kill me," she said, with as much conviction in her own words as she could muster .
"No," he said smoothly, a tone unbefitting of the subject matter. "I still have use for you yet. But one day, your usefulness to me may run out."
Her eyes went wide at the very thought, but something else nagged away at her.
"How did you know? How did you know about Sirius?"
"My dear Bellatrix. Lord Voldermort knows all. Besides, who else would be so foolish as to kill for something they want and still not get it," he laughed. A chillingly menacing laugh that seemed to turn Bellatrix very blood to ice.
"But you said," she accused, her voice steady even if her hand shook, as she pointed an accusing finger at her master from her position on the floor.
"You told me, that to gain something that you want when someone stands in your way, you need only to remove those who oppose you."
Voldermort's cruel thin white lips twisted up into a smile.
"Yes, those who oppose me." He waited patiently as to let the truth of what he was saying sink in. Bellatrix eyes shone with a gleam of realization. He waited until she was about to speak; and then cut her off, sneering.
"What did you think you would achieve by killing you dear cousin? The Black family Heritage?" His laugh was cruel, merciless.
"That died tonight, along with dear Sirius Black, the last heir to 'The Nobel and Most Ancient House of Black'. You killed your own cousin for something that would never be yours in the first place. It's almost poetic."
She didn't speak, she couldn't. His laughter snaked over her like a rope, chocking her, stealing her very breath. Her eyes were wide, manic with an unknown fear, which stirred within her very soul. A coldness seemed to spread over her and settle in the pit of her stomach. Her body felt like a lead weight, her head too heavy to lift and her arms and legs strangely detached. Her mind spun in dizzying circles that robbed her of all thought and logic and seemed to make the world turn in on itself, dislodging every foundation.
He was kneeling down at her side, his white, skull like face only mere inches away from her own, his lips twisted into a smile.
"What is is that you want from me, dear Bella?" He asked smoothly.
Her sunken eyes glistened up at him from within their surrounding voids of blackness and her lips pressed together in a thin white line. Her singular weakness? Him.
"All I ever want is to please you, my lord," she whispered her reply.
"Perhaps," he mused aloud, "Or perhaps there is something more that you don't care to admit."
He extended a bony white finger and slowly brushed it against her hollowed cheek, the movement burned like bare flame, but still she did not cry out in pain, nor even call a tear to the corner of her eye. Both reflex reactions had long since been lost from her.
His voice was different when he spoke again, all sense of smoothness gone, replaced by a harder tone that was both sneering and jubilant;
"Lord Voldermort knows all, Bella. Never forget that."
His laughter was callous. It echoed around that dark cavernous room, repetitively lashing her with wave after wave of sound.
Even after Voldermort had disapperated, the sound of it still rung in her ears like a ghost of remembrance. She was alone in the darkness, it seemed that as soon as he was able, Dolohov had disapperated. But she couldn't, the Cruciatus curse that she had endured for so long had left her weakened.
She lay completely motionless, too weak to move, but to ashamed to simply lay there, It was a vicious circle, she was openly mocked and manipulated by Voldermort but bound by her infatuation, obsession and admiration for him to serve loyally and willingly. It was a chain that she was unable to break and one that she would never try to.
Bellatrix paused for a second at the heavy wooden door, her hand hesitated just a few centimeters above the bronze handle. Her fingers clenching and unclenching in indecision as her mind deliberated whether of not to reach the extra inch or so.
Footsteps and conversation from behind caused her reflex's to override her thoughts, and spurred her hand into lurching involuntary forward to grip the handle. She cursed silently as she turned it, opening the door to the dimly lit room.
Many of the places at the long ornate table in the center of the room were already filled, their occupants; silent. Her eyes wandered quickly over all those seated, accounting for all the empty places and their positions on the table. One in particular caught her attention; on the Dark Lords immediate right, a placement that would cause anyones heart to swell with pride should they be appointed it. She saw herself seated there in her minds eye, the gaze of each of her fellow Death Eaters regarding her with jealousy, envy and hatred as she stepped up to claim what was rightfully hers. Such a blissfully satisfying depiction.
For a minute, the figure revolving slowly above the table, suspended in thin air, in what looked to be a state of unconsciousness; caught her gaze, before it fell over, and rested upon Narcissa and the rest of her family. They were seated just over half way down the table, their eyes averted from it's head as if afraid to look upon the person situated there.
Narcissa returned her sisters gaze for a moment, her blue eyes steely.
"Bellatrix," the voice that called her was low, almost thoughtful, she immediately looked to the head of the table. Her masters face shrouded in shadow, the light from the fire behind him hiding everything but his silhouette from sight. Her eyes searched hungrily in the darkness.
"There. Next to Narcissa." She blinked as one would after being forced to abandon a particularly enjoyable day dream, to return to the real world where things were vastly different.
Her eyes once again darted to her sister, before finally falling upon the chair next to her. Her beating heart seemed to fall into her stomach and come to rest there.
At first, she thought about arguing, but when her master turned away from her and addressed the Death Eater on his immediate left – who's face she couldn't see either – all protests died in her throat. His disregard for her long and loyal service disarming her.
The scene in her mind sorely deflated in the face of reality so stark in comparison.
She walked slowly to her seat, feeling many pairs of eyes watching her, she kept her own averted to the floor as she watched her feet carry her forward. She knew they were laughing at her. The shame of it.
She took her seat, grudgingly, her sister stiff beside her. Bellatrix glanced once more up at the revolving figure above her, but it held no interest to her.
She turned her gaze sidewards and stared wistfully to the head of the table. The distance between her and her master could not have been more than six meters, but it might as well have been the length of the barren lands of the Sahara desert. For, at this moment, she had never felt further from him. Need clenched in the pit of her stomach Just like oxygen, he was vital to her existence.
How had she fallen so far from favor? How had the mistakes she had made cost her more than anyone else? How had she come to be seated so low? How now, had she came to be mocked by those who had once cowered in her shadow? She didn't understand. In the old days of glory, she had been the best. There there had been no-one higher than her, save the Dark Lord himself. Her lamentations stirred within her a profound longing for what had been lost. How so much had changed ...
... and how so much could change again.
Too much weight on a Hippogriffs back and it would surly break. She smiled slightly, the metal image soothed her somewhat. There was still time. The smallest of cracks in the wall that barred her way, and she would slither through it, like the prodigal serpent. To power, glory and favor once more.
The heavy wooden door that lead into the room was opened swiftly and almost silently as two figures entered. The first and slightly smaller of the two had sallow skin and long greasy hair that hung either side of his face like curtains. The second taller, with blunt features.
"Yaxley. Snape," the Dark Lord addressed them right away. Bellatrix's face fell in realization.
"You are very nearly late," very nearly, but not quite; thought Bellatrix sourly. If she had only stopped for a second to listen to the voices and realized, she could have hindered their way somewhat. Of all the rotten luck, that could have been her first opportunity. It would not do for someone as high in favor as Snape to be late.
"Severus, here," Voldermort indicated to the chair on his immediate right.
Bellatrix almost chocked on the air she was inhaling and it took all of her self control to stop her yelling out. Her chair! That chair was by any right hers! She was the Dark Lord's most loyal servant! Her! Where had Snape been while she rotted in Azkaban for her loyalty? Playing Dumbledore's Pet! He was an undeserved recipient of such a high honor! What was his greatest sacrifice for the Dark Lord? Nothing!
The utter contempt she felt for Severus Snape at that moment made her blood boil and caused her entire body to quake with repressed anger. She thought of him just a year ago, in the dank, darkness and grime of Spinners End where he belonged. The only place he belonged. That thought pacified her. He had no rightful place at this table, and certainly not her place! He was in a dangerous position now, he had revealed himself, in one fell movement he had made himself many enemies of former friends, well, for acquaintance sake anyway. They would catch up to him in the end. He would be dead, if not by her own murderous hands that were all to eager to ensnare the usurper, then by someone else's.
She stared at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, they were shaking with suppressed rage. She was consumed, her thoughts hell bent on finding a way, a door, a hole, a gap, anything. There was no room for rational or logical thought in her mind. Only three words spun around inside her head, the only three that right now mattered to her. Power. Glory. Favor. Her mind repeated them over and over again like a chant to bring down her wrath upon her enemies.
"Yaxely – beside Dolohov." She paused her maddening repetition for a moment. She couldn't help it. A smile stretched across her face. At least Yaxley was doing about as well for himself as she was.
She did not listen to any further exchange, conversation nor information. The pounding of her accelerated heart that echoed in her ears as it worked twice as hard to pump blood around her body, seemed to drown out all other sound. She could have been left alone in the room and noticed no difference, for although she was surrounded by her kind, she felt so alone. Isolated and cut off, from the one she loved most.
It was then that a scoffing voice caught her attention and held it, as always it would;
"Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?" A couple of Death Eaters around her snickered, and she did too, without fully being aware of what she was laughing at, but it did sound utterly preposterous. The Dark Lord, give up his wand!
Her mind went blank again, the dull thudding in her ears consuming all, and the slow rumbling sound that came from the same three words being repeated over and over again in barely above a whisper returning to lull her.
"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they have professed to desire for so many years?" It was his voice once again that broke through her reverie, returning her to face the harshness or reality.
"Of course my lord." Bellatrix watched as one of Lucius shaking hands reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow.
"We did desire it – we do."
No! Lucius was going to make them pay, each blundering word that was uttered from his mouth moved her further and further from any hopes of redeeming herself. She wasn't prepared to pay for his mistakes as well as her own. She would rise in the Dark Lords favor once again. It was all simply a matter of time.
Before she knew it, her mouth was open, spilling words that she never remembered herself thinking to say. Although her voice was constricted with emotion, it gave away nothing of the hysteria within. She leaned forward as she spoke, her desire for closeness domineering above all else.
"My Lord. It is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure." Every word she spoke was said with alarming truth.
"No higher pleasure," a thrill shot through her as he repeated her exact words."That means a great deal Bellatrix, from you."
At once her mania dissipated and she was able to live again, she drank greedily at his words, as one would draw a great breath after being starved of oxygen for so long.
He cheeks took on a pale pinkish hue as she blushed and her eyes welled with tears of sheer delight. Her heart seemed to have re-affirmed its rightful place in her chest now, beating there contentedly, almost purring. It was like a shadow, a faint reflection of how things used to be. A minute glow from the depths of a black lake, shining brightly for a second before the black oppressive depths claimed it's light once again.
"Not even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place on your family this week?" His voice was low and smooth but carried a sense of danger that stuck warning bells in her mind. His comment left her confused but his voice left her wary. Of course her wariness paled in comparison to her desire for her masters conversation.
"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."
"I'm talking about your niece Bellatrix. And yours Lucius and Narcissa. She just married the werewolf Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."
Nothing seemed louder to her than the raucous laughter that erupted at her expense in that instant. It was especially unnerving when compared to the almost deadly silence that had seemed to have overtaken her. She did not dare raise her ashen face from it's bowed position. She knew the gleeful looks upon her fellow Death Eaters faces, she did not have to see them. She did however, turn to her master, shouting above the commotion.
She did not know what she was shouting, for an unprecedented rage of humiliation took hold of her, leaving no space for actual thought. Her master did not pay heed to her as she all but relapsed such was her delicate and shaken mentality.
"What say you Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?"
The laughter mounted once again.
Bellatrix had not even been aware that her nephew was in attendance up until this point, up until the Dark Lord himself had singled him out for ridicule. Her eyes had only ghosted upon him before, completely disregarding his presence. Now that she looked upon the face that reminded her so much of his father, she could see that under his fearful expression, the look in his sparkling eyes reflected hers, embarrassment.
She saw the exchanged glances between mother, father and son. Draco's terrified look, Lucius' determination not to meet anyones eyes and Narcissa's ever so slight shake of her head. Bellatrix wondered with vague annoyance why they would not look upon the face of their master.
If one thing could be said about her, Bellatrix thought with a smile, it was that her fall from favor was neither as steep or as rocky as Lucius' and regrettably, the rest of his family's was. She would have pitied her sister – if pity was not an alien concept to her – for the amount of incompetence that the man she loved showed. And Draco too, for having said man as a father and role model.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of ridicule, Voldermort spoke again, causing silence to reign with two syllables; "Enough."
The laughter died at once, for which she was grateful. Her master spoke again, this time his voice was low and easy, like water flowing over pebbles in a gentle river.
"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time." Bellatrix gazed at him, her eyes wide and sparkling, her breath catching in her throat . He was throwing her a lifeline as she drowned in the sea of her mistakes. She grasped it with both hands, promising to herself that she would never let go. She would do whatever she had to, for if not, the consequences were almost to horrid to imagine. Herself, considered even lower than Lucius. Unbearable.
"You must prune your, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest?"
Her eyes swam as she fought back the tears of gratitude. Her master, her Lord, her savior. And save her he did, he was offering her openly the chance that she needed. The chance that could grant her ultimate favor, gain her back her rightful place in the hierarchy and much more besides. This was it, the now or the never
"Yes, my Lord. At first chance."
An idea previously incubated in her mind began to weave a web of death. Blood purity, that's what she prided herself on, another pedestal of importance that brought her above her fellow wizards and witches. The noble name of Black became more blackened with each passing generation, and that was something she was determined to rectify.
She would have glory again, the recognition she deserved. She could not fail, her heart ached painfully at the very though. She had only ever wanted one thing, and one thing alone, to be favorite, to be top. It was more than admiration for her master that spurred her on, it was need. A need that overshadowed all else such was its consumption. A need that would kill her to satisfy and kill her not to gain, but a need that had done, and would continue to plague her existence, right up until the very end, for it was for him, and him alone, that she gave up her life.
Thank you very much for reading :)
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