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"STOP!" shrieks a painfully girlish voice, far smoother than it was just moments ago. "Drop your wands," she rasps, tone having dropped drastically, now bearing resemblance to the sound one creates when walking over a gravel path.
Silence. Bitter silence but for the heavy breathing uttered both by Bellatrix herself and the flustered teenage boys standing, defenseless, in the centre of the room. Harry hesitates, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and plastering his tufty black hair to his skin, before allowing his wand to slide out of his fingers. It makes a hollow clinking noise as it lands on the cold marble flooring, as does Ron's as he follows.
A familiarly heavy stone drops gravely to the pit of Harry's stomach as he stares forward at the scene before him.
Bellatrix holds Hermione before her, much as though using her as a human shield, sleek, silver dagger pressed up against the girl's throat. The older witch's chin rests on Hermione's right shoulder and the boys can ever so clearly make out the rhythmic rising and falling of Hermione's chest. Bellatrix grins a crooked, cackle of a grin, her hair falling hectically over one eye as she plays with the girl's hair, fingers petting the chestnut curls in what could be considered a soothing manner under a much different light. Hermione shudders subconsciously as the woman's hot breath ghosts its way over the tender flesh of her neck. She whimpers quietly, which results in Bellatrix jamming her chin harder into her shoulder. The girl can feel her body pressed limply against her captor, her small frame resting dependently on that of the dark witch, which is a curiously comfortable position, other than the cold knife threatening to slice through her throat. She tries desperately to remain still, not wanting to jar the knife any further.
Bellatrix can feel Hermione's hair tickling her bare shoulder, tries to focus on the matter at hand, jerking her head back an inch or so farther. Hermione cries out lightly in protest, silenced by lips brushing her jaw line. "I said drop 'em!" Satisfied with the result, she hisses, "Pick them up, Draco. Now."
The youngest Malfoy hesitates a moment, glancing to his mother. She averts her eyes in response and Draco leans down and picks up the wands, locking eyes with Harry for a moment before turning and retreating to the back of the room to cower beside his parents.
"Well, well, well," breathes Bellatrix in an eerily sing-songy voice, her fingers still toying with Hermione's hair. Hermione stares blankly at the ceiling, tears welling in her eyes. She shuffles forward slowly in the direction of the boys, and the girl can feel her body swaying in time with Bellatrix's movements. The older witch's back is arched slightly into the embrace so as to more evenly distribute Hermione's weight, but Hermione doubts that's the only reasoning behind it. "Look what we have here." Her lips press briefly against the girl's earlobe, coaxing out a muted moan. Turning away and losing contact, she takes in the boys' faces. Harry's is filled with the deepest of regret, of guilt, and Bellatrix knows fully well that he's blaming himself for the situation at hand. Ron's eyebrows are raised and furrowed, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly and his face expressing pure horror. Why shouldn't he, what with the position his love is in? Bellatrix beams again, then presses her lips again to the girl's creamy skin. "It's Harry Potter," she whispers, her voice becoming anthrax coated in honey. Hermione shivers, the motion running down her spine, and Bellatrix's hand pauses its motion on the girl's forehead, allowing for the full effect of her words to settle in. "He's all bright and shiny and new again, just in time for the Dark Lord." She lets her lips brush faintly against Hermione's neck, then turns to face Draco. "Call him," she utters, the words practically rolling off her tongue, and Hermione exhales sharply, drawing a smile from the older witch.
Draco freezes, a horrified look plastered upon his pale face. He glances towards his mother again in insecurity, but makes no move to do as his aunt says. His father steps up, his shoes clicking against the stone floor. His lip twitches, perhaps in disgust, but he peels up his sleeve nonetheless.
Bellatrix grins a sadistic grin, one a fox might see fit upon killing a rabbit. She returns to stroking her prisoner's hair.
Her neck sore from straining back for so long, beads of blood falling steadily to the floor from the bleeding reminder of her blood status, Hermione stifles a sob. The older witch nuzzles her neck discretely and the girl shuts her eyes, trying to squirm her neck away.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Bellatrix glances up, malcontent, but her expression turns from irritation to curiosity as she peers up at the chandelier. "What the…" she breathes, brows furrowing in confusion as her fingers cease their movement. She digs her chin into the crook of Hermione's neck, perhaps to get a better view, before the structure above comes crashing to the ground.