Written for Task 8 of Muggle Music: Write about being invited
Come In
She was giddy with excitement that day. There had been an owl with a note for her, requesting she present herself before the Dark Lord.
Bellatrix had been waiting for that opportunity since she had left Hogwarts. She had seen the Dark Lord before, she had even been introduced to him by her Father (only after making herself very noticeable truth be told). Her Father, who was never very fond of her plans to join the Death Eaters, had swallowed noticeably upon recognising the bird.
She felt a bit like what she supposes Narcissa feels every morning. Trying on clothes and experimenting with her hair, playing around with cosmetic spells and looking in the mirror for way too long.
She ended up wearing black all the same. Her hair forced into a wide braid that lingered on her left shoulder. Her wide eyes made even more evident by the kohl. Her plush lips covered with an ominous shade of red. Dark, like blood that has been out of a body for a while. High-heeled boots that claimed her femininity and announced her danger. She would always wear heels.
. . o . .
She is giddy again today, but her giddiness has changed. It's not like the first time. No, this is very different. And so much better. Because she yearned to meet him the first time, but, this time, she has missed him. She has been yearning for fourteen years. She has been surrounded by shadows and pain all the same, but it was never right in Azkaban.
Her Father, who no longer lives, would be very proud of his girl. Of the prized Death Eather that never faltered.
They are under the same roof, have been for days. But her Master only sees fit to call for her now. Now that she has slept for an entire night, that her hair has been somewhat tamed, that her old dresses have been magically adjusted to a body that feels foreign to her.
She does not spend time worrying about her looks today. She bathes, she dresses, she brushes her hair absent-mindedly. Her Lord and Master likes her hair down and wild, so she lets it be. She does not paint her eyes, she has permanent dark circles under them now that are all the accent her eyes need. But she paints her lips the same dark red, because she has missed that colour of old blood. Because she knows he likes it on her. She hopes to paint her skin with real blood soon enough. Because he likes that even more, because it pleases him.
. . o . .
She had Apparated to just outside the gates. She had followed a house-elf from the doors of Malfoy Manor, through the hall, up the staircase, and into a corridor. She had had to measure her steps, watch her composure, just to keep from plainly skipping like a school girl to the threshold she so wished to pass. She had stood at the doors pacing her breath.
. . o . .
This time, there is no house-elf. She needs not Apparate to join her Master. She follows the snake.
A powerful, heavy, mighty serpent comes for her. Bella's heart skips a beat at the sight, then another at the feeling. It's like she is already with him in some way. She feels compelled to touch the snake's head. No, she feels compelled to caress it.
The snake coils at her feet and then brushes its head against her hand. And she cannot keep from petting it. There is something very special to this creature, though she does not know what. It retreats the following moment, gliding across the floor, beyond the door, guiding her to his presence. This feels right. This taste of power, of darkness, in the air that surrounds her. These shadows are perfect, these shadows cradle her where the others wrecked her.
She measures her steps all the same. But today she would not skip to the door. She would run. Run to her Lord and Master, so that she could lay herself at his feet, where the world belongs. So she follows the solemn creature, almost in adoration of its powerful curves that wind a path over the dark wood floors. She feels reverent towards it. What else, if it belongs to her Master?
. . o . .
"Come in," he had said when she rapped her knuckles against the wood, forcing her breath to steady, "close the door behind you."
He was seated at his desk, bathed in warm candlelight, but somehow still enveloped by the dark. A handsome man, a powerful man whose face reflected his magical deeds. Elegant hands with long fingers carefully poised. He raised his eyes to her, appraising her, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. A single finger had beckoned her forward, closer.
An invitation into darkness.
Bellatrix took it without ever considering it an option. She was the darkness'. She hoped, in a nook of her mind, to be his.
. . o . .
"Come in," he says now too, even before she touches the door, "close the door behind you." She has to steady her breathing on the other side of the dark, heavy door.
Seated at his desk, he is in the shadows this time, only the moonlight reaches him. He is the one who comes towards her this time, rising silently, moving like a wraith, his robes billowing.
She takes in the sight of this new form of him. She can't really make out his shape, but he is taller now. His skin is much to pale, his features similar to the creatures he so likes. His face does not reflect his deeds. This entire new body does. He has gone beyond any wizard before. He has created a body out of sheer magic, nature had no say in this.
He is made of magic, like no other before, like no other will ever be. And she finds him glorious. Gorgeous. Magnificent.
This time, he does not beckon her forward with a finger. He approaches her and extends a hand. A pale, elegant hand, with long fingers, longer now, that end in claws.
An invitation into darkness.
Bellatrix takes it slowly, revelling in the touch of her Master again, shivering at how cold this new body of his is. She is the darkness'. She is his.
Author's Notes: Reviews keep authors going
For the 365 Prompts Challenge - Flashback