For Ella.
In the pale light of the morn, as he strode across the grass, even his enemies had to admit that Voldemort appeared regal and mighty – a true conqueror.
In the eyes of his most faithful, his snakelike visage took on an aspect of divinity, seeming to her a serpent god incarnate – the ultimate expression of magic.
This was Voldemort at his greatest, Voldemort triumphant, Voldemort preparing to mark his ascent with the blood of all those of his foes who yet remained, Voldemort unhindered by Dumbledore the Lord of Light, Voldemort unhampered by prophecy or Chosen One.
As the sun's morning rays broke through the clouds, pale and weak, catching on his skin and eyes in delicate glimmers, Bellatrix breathed in the air and exalted in the power that flowed from him, nothing in her world but her god, her lord, her master.
And as with steps both light and dangerous Voldemort drew ever nearer to the last bastion of resistance to his rule, the crumpled and broken body of their erstwhile saviour and Chosen held in the grief-shaken arms of his closest friend, to her eternity meant nothing but her Lord, his presence, his might, his glory, forever more.
I wanted to end it with the two of them dead together, but...it broke the flow, so I didn't.