I don't own anything but my laptop.
This is the translation of the wonderful "Rosa Rosso Sangue" by La Fenice Nera.
Here is the link: www dot fanfiction dot net/s/5989080/1/Rosa-rosso-sangue
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Blood Red Rose
I stay on the terrace, to feel the cool of the night.
I'm leaning with the elbows on the white marble balustrade, looking at the sky dotted with stars. It's curious that, on the day of my birthday, my star is not at all visible.
Only in the cold winter nights, when the sky is clear and the icier wind of the year blows, only then Bellatrix, my star, is in plain sight [in the sky].
But it's spring now and it's my birthday.
The night is warm and a light breeze gently blows my hair, while, with nothing on my mind, my gaze lazily shifts towards the garden, between the gloomy trees in the dark of the night, on the cold stone fountains and to the emerald green grass from which rises that scent of nature, still moist and fresh. I cling to the black shawl on my shoulders. I feel it to the touch: it is hand-woven and embroidered with fabrics and designs, special magic symbols; one of the few things I have left from the time before Azkaban. That's because my sister kept it by accident.
Yeah, Azkaban. How many birthdays I've spent in Azkaban. I've even lost count. I've almost lost count of the years that I have now.
And I think I'm the only one to have remembered the anniversary of this day. Or perhaps, they have all been too afraid to tell me, to get me see what I have become, how much I've changed.
Everything has changed compared to when my birthday was an absolute event and already several weeks before everyone was waiting for the celebrations with enthusiasm.
I was surrounded by gifts, perfect, beautiful, personal, desired.
The celebrations were always different, original and special. Often unrestrained.
All other Death Eaters remembered it: it was with them that I had the best time, while my sister filled me with affection and wonderful gifts that could only be for me.
Furthermore, Rodolphus behaved in a special way. We'd made love at midnight, to welcome the day of my party. I was his witch: the most charming, the most attractive, the most beautiful and dark. That day and that night, more than every other days and nights of the year.
Yes, everybody remembered of my birthday.
Everybody… except for him.
Him… my Lord.
He would look at me, he knew, he didn't forget, I know. But never, ever said a word to me. Never, ever, made me realize that he intended to wish me a happy birthday, even with just a nod.
I longed for it.
But nothing.
Then Azkaban, the void. The days all the same. The years all the same.
Thus my life passed. In solitude, in cold, in desolation, in the time that ran blank, in the perpetual noise of the waves dashing, dreaming and hoping to see him again one day ... In the certainty that he would return to me.
Because I believe in him, I believed in him and I'll always believe in him.
And he came to rescue me … I knew it… after birthdays and birthdays, he came back to me.
To save me. To have me back with him.
I smile, thinking back to the fact that he never, ever, disappointed my expectations.
If we exclude love expectations ...
I sigh and savor the night air once again.
This is the first birthday that I spend out of Azkaban, after a long time. Nobody has celebrated the day of my birth, many years ago. Nobody has celebrated my renewed presence in this world. My magical world.
It would be a nice gift, if the world could go to back to when it was only magical, just for us, hereditary wizards and witches.
I would be so powerful, so splendidly witch… but I know it will happen soon. Because my Lord will make it happen.
I abandon these thoughts to the first gust of wind that ruffles my hair more.
I decide to give myself a gift anyway: I take a rose from one of the many vases my sister so perfectly decorated, the ornaments she used to make Malfoy Manor perfect. Her house, our headquarters.
A white rose, unfortunately. Cissy and her mania for white things: elegant, but cold and pure as ice… I prefer red roses, scarlet roses.
I play a little bit with its thorns, I fell their touch on my fingers.
I've always loved playing with the thorns of roses. To feel up to which point I could challenge them, before they could prick me seriously.
Shortly after, as I savor the scent of disgustingly white petals, I hear someone approaching behind me, silently, in the night.
"Bella," he says with his, cold, strong, crystal clear voice.
I'd recognize it between a thousand billion voices, intonations, timbre. That voice, so special, so particular.
Him.
"My Lord," I say with a sigh and I turn eagerly towards him.
We look at each other deeply in the eyes for several moments, without saying a word. The spring wind continues to blow slightly, to creep in among us, bringing me his scent, his perfume, his essence.
I let it penetrate me at every point of my clothes; then under, on the skin, allowing it to enter even in the flesh. In this way, becoming one with him. Because I want him immensely, without bounds, without reasons, with foul imagination.
"This gift doesn't pay homage to my most faithful Death Eater, my most powerful witch." He says suddenly, breaking that special silence between us, full of a strange tension.
"You ... you remember ...?" I dare to hope, but I don't dare to say the end of that sentence: I fear he'll get mad, lose his temper... I fear I'll be disappointed.
"I remember precisely the birthday of my only student of the dark arts, of my best Death Eater, of the one who preferred to end up in Azkaban rather than betray me. Certain demonstrations of loyalty are fundamental to me, you know. "He tells me, without averting his gaze from mine. Then he observes my fingers, that are still resting on the thorns on the stem of the rose. Just resting, without hurting me.
He smiles ... it does so in a satisfied manner, sly, defiantly. He smiles with particular intentions. Dangerously. My heart starts to beat faster when I see it and I feel, vaguely, all his intentions.
"White roses don't suit you, Bella. You aren't pure, you aren't candid. Blood red roses are better for you. "
At that point I smile back, conspiratorial. He knows who I am, he knows of what I'm made of.
"Unfortunately, there were only white roses here…" I reply, pensive and sad, looking at my only, ill-suited birthday present.
Then, almost unconsciously, I offer the rose to him. To let him do what he wants to do with it.
I just vaguely guess what.
He takes my fingers with his, cold, pale, slender, but strong. I don't want - not that I can - to free me from his grip.
He makes my skin slide on the thorns, gently but firmly. I keep looking incessantly at him, until I feel a sharp and sudden pain; then, a little trickle of warm blood comes out of the fingers and the palm of my hand. I don't protest, I trust him.
Slowly, he shifts upwards the stem of the rose, higher and higher, between my fingers, until the petals are stained with red.
Blood red, my blood.
Those soft petals don't hurt me on the wound. I like to see them change color, slowly but relentlessly.
Now, a gift made so special was better suited for my birthday.
"That's better, but we can do more, much more ... come with me, do what I tell you ..." he whispers.
I look at him in the eye again, deeply, condescending.
He leads my hand near his lips, smells the blood, feels it with his tongue exactly like a snake. Then he licks it. Slowly.
It excites me.
He licks it again, warmly. His tongue is hot on my veins.
It arouses me more and more.
"Let me taste your blood, let me taste your pure blood completely… nobody has it purer than yours…" he almost hisses, distracted, looking at my wound, my magical energy flowing abundant out of it.
Eager, frantic, hungry for that power. That I offer him and only him.
I lustfully open slightly my lips, with a candid and light motion of assent with the head to say yes, to say that I want it, I want everything he wants.
"Let me taste your pure blood. I want your energy. We'll make this rose more than scarlet: it will be red, redder than hell, blood red. Your blood. For me." He whispers to me with fake sweetness in the darkening night.
"Everything for you, my Lord. Take me and do what you like, do what you need, I'll like it too. That's what I want too. "I reply him adoringly, languid and ecstatic.
Even just with a light touch, the pleasure I feel nearly kills me.
He loves to hurt me, it excites him. He loves to feed on my pure blood, as if his wasn't so. It excites him.
He loves to possess me with strength, to be my Master, dominant through and through. In every aspect.
I love when he penetrates me with passion and growing excitement, just like the crescent moon tonight.
I love him… and nothing else.
I love to know that he wants my energy. That he draws magical power from my blood, nourishment, dark force. He uses me, he wants me, he needs me to increase his own powers, for his own black magic.
I love to feel possessed by him : my emotions become instantly enveloping, warm, overflowing and enhanced. I lose myself in him.
I'd die for him. I know.
But in the meantime I live, birthday after birthday, moment after moment, gaze after gaze.
For him, only for him.
An endless night of blood red orgasms.
The most beautiful birthday of my life.