Title: He Does Not Love Her
Summary: He does not love her. She knows this. But she still continues to serve him. A long drabble.
Pairing: Bellamort of course.
Author's Note: This is just a character exploration for Bellatrix. About her love for Voldemort and how it could be the reason for her insanity. That's why it's slightly disjointed and confusing. I hope it makes sense and I hope you enjoy it. My first Harry Potter fic!
He Does Not Love Her
He does not love her. He can not love her. But she loves him. So much it hurts.
She never understood that saying. How emotions could hurt. But as she looks up at him and sees nothing more than pure basic lust, the pain in her chest makes itself too evident to disregard.
As she lies alone in the bed when he's finished with her, she wonders why she does this to herself. Yes it's for him. She can not deny him. Nothing could make her deny him. He's too powerful…Too important…Too cold….
But when he leaves and it feels as if nothing was worth it all, she allows the tears to fall down her perfect cheeks. She loves him but he does not love her back and he never will.
Love is weak he says. Love is painful she knows. It's a mixture of pain and pleasure that makes no sense if she speaks it out loud. So she keeps it locked away, emotions and feelings that no one should have. And she wouldn't change it if she could.
Slowly she comes to realise that she welcomes the pain it all brings. Each animalistic cry, each torturous spell, each word of love that she longs to hear but which is never spoken.
Slowly she comes to realise that each disappointed glare, each spell of punishment cast her way, hurts her much more than anything else ever could.
Slowly she comes to realise that she wouldn't be herself if it wasn't for the pain that resides so fully in her heart, if he loved her back, if he cared.
Bellatrix Black. Bellatrix Lestrange. Neither who she wants to be. But both who she is.
They fear her. They hate her. They are horrified by her. Even her own husband knows she is not his to have.
They think she's evil and perhaps, she thinks as blood trails its way down her chest, perhaps she is. She feels nothing for the mudbloods and muggles that she tortures and kills. Nothing for the half-bloods and traitors she torments.
But how, she wonders, is it possible for her to be evil when the pain of her heart reminds her everyday that she is consumed by the emotion of goodness.
She would not be who she was if it wasn't for the Dark Lord, she reminds herself as doubt sinks in. She would be nothing but an empty shell.
But her Lord hates the emotion. He knows how it destroys. How can she ever expect him to love her if her core is full of what he despises?
It makes no sense in her mind. Nothing does anymore. The cuts on her skin no longer cause pain. The insults against her ears just make her laugh.
They all think she's happy. And maybe she is. Maybe she just doesn't know it.
As she looks up into her Master's eyes, she believes that she does mean something to him. That he does care for her if he at least can't love her.
For who else does their Lord take to his bed? For who else does their Lord whisper to in the dark? For who else does their Lord make cry out in pain and pleasure?
It was love that created her. Love that destroyed her. And love that bound her in her unshakeable loyalty.
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