A/N: Well, I ship Rodolphus/Bellatrix, but this came to me at the spur of a moment...
This is almost a stream-of-consciousness fic, but not quite.
She can't sleep, because she's angry—anger that rushes through her veins, giving her adrenaline—although the one she's angry at? It's really herself—she, miserable, guilty, adulterous wretch. She slips out of bed—because she can't bear to lie there anymore, when she remembers his lips on her face, his voice telling her, it'll be okay, Bella, it'll be okay, you'll be okay, as he hugs her to his chest and even as she enjoys his warmth, she knows it won't be okay because it won't ever be okay for her and because she's just too late…
Because he won't ever be able to get that betrothment to Narcissa broken, along with his father's blessing…because even though she knows he loves her, she can see it in his eyes—some mysterious unspoken thing—he loves her more, and she knows it and he knows it and they both hate it with every fiber of their bones. She's nothing more than his mistress, as they say and she really really hates that word because she wants to say she's more than that but they all know she's not—she's Lucius's slut his concubine his mistress dirty goods and unwanted. She's heard the whispers—like cracks of a sharp whip aimed at the soft flesh of her mauled and broken heart you dirty little slut sleeping with him, when he already has someone—the jeers, breaking through her fragile walls; why? why wouldn't they stop just stop stop please STOP she's had enough.
And she knows Narcissa will be the lady of the manor, his wife, and the mother of his child—when her dream was to be the only one he loved, something impossible and so sweet in the distance.
Narcissa—sweet, innocent golden Narcissa—the smiling girl with such naïve and kindness who was always her mother's favorite. Her best friend little sister and the one who she throws her trust back into her face daily. Before, she used to get a vindictive satisfaction when she was with him, something like an one-up over her, thinking she was putting a crack in that nonexistent pedestal when she was really raising it up even higher. But now she just feels guilty and tired so tired she wants to close her eyes let Morpheus carry her away maybe if she does, the guilt will go away.
It never does. It's a disease—her disease, the one that eats into her bones poisoning her blood and the one that makes her heart crack just a little more whenever Narcissa smiles joyously at her grasps her hands, why won't you smile, Bella, you look so unhappy lately tell me what's wrong we're sisters and you can tell me everything, but she can't because how could she tell that smiling girl that it's really her and Lucius, the ones that make her cry at night, oh Merlin, are you okay? Bella? Bellatrix, why are you crying, and then his voice, Bellatrix what's wrong, Narcissa told me you cry at night, tell me why, please, the eyes that she sees are grey, warm and concerned, but that just makes her feel worse.
Rodolphus thinks that when he jokes with her, laughs at her, tells her, hey, you're so pretty, Bella, why don't you just forget Lucius and shack up with me, he's making her feel better, but it's worse, reminding her of the lovesick fool she is inside the one who will never be loved—she forces a laugh at every joke he tells, hey, Bella, did you hear about the one with the kneazle, the hag and the bartender, but inside she cringes, because her laugh is brittle cold and broken, a dead thing that has absolutely no vestige of humor. He can tell she fakes it, fakes everything and puts on a mask for everyone—she can see it in his eyes, really, Bella, you gotta talk to me you gotta talk to someone, when he says that she knows he wants her to open up to him open up to anyone—he's literally her overprotective older brother—then, she really wants to kick him wants him to just get out of her face because so what if she has problems because fuck, she doesn't want to tell anyone so shut up leave me alone please!—but she never does, just forces a smile, maybe, Rodolphus, and gets the hell out of there.
Alecto wonders if it's something that she's done—something she's done to make their fearless comrade become an empty shell—but it's not, and she acts almost exactly like Rodolphus, it really pisses her off how all these people care about her because that means she'll never be able to leave them swiftly.
Severus is pretty much the only one she can stand, because his pain is just like hers, it's the similarities and differences that bind them together and apart, because at least he has a chance at a shot, because, at least she's not in love with him, and I still have a tiny chance, Bella, and she can't bear to crush his childish dreams, because she can't let herself tell him, kiddo, nothing ever ends up like that, and so she sympathises, deftly turning all questions away from her and Lucius, hey, Bella, is that thing about you and Lucius true, and then smiling, flippantly (even though it feels so fake cracking like plaster on her face), a true lady never kisses and tells, does she, Sev?
If Rodolphus is like her overprotective older brother, Rabastan is like her cheerful little brother, who wants to fix her, because she's the sister they never had, and sometimes, when she's not thinking about him, she wonders, why do they care so much? Little Rabastan, who tries to cover up his worry with an exclaimation, You should wear something nicer, Bella, something instead of those baggy sweaters, and get your hair cut, she nods mutely as she listens, because really, she knows what he's really saying, just clean yourself up, and maybe you'll get another boy and smile again, and it hurts. Just a little, inside.
When he pushes her into his room, and announces, Bella, I'm going to cut your hair, she makes no objection, because inside, she's thinking, go ahead, because it won't make a diffference at all, and before she knows it, Rabastan has a pair of scissors in his hands, and snip snip snip, there, Bella, I'm done. He turns her to face the mirror, and she sees herself—beautiful, yes, but all wide black eyes on a pale hollow face, and a short cap of black curls—it looks good, but she feels like crying.
But she murmurs thanks and practically runs out of his room. Later, she sneaks back into her room, and gathers back her hair, sobbing, because it's like Rabastan tried to cut him out of her, and even though he torments her in her mind every single moment, she convinces everyone and herself that she'd like nothing better than to forget him, when really, deep down inside, she knows, Bellatrix knows that, with Lucius Malfoy, she'll always grasp and hold onto his memory tightly, with both hands, until the day she dies.
~FIN~
A/N: Like? Hate? Review?