A/N: So I went looking for a prompt for a new fanfic, even though I have four currently running, and one about to finish. I went onto the forums and found a challenge from David-El, who wanted a muggleborn Dark Lord/Lady, specifically a Hufflepuff Dark Lord/Lady. So I chose a Dark Lady, even more unbelievable than a Dark Lord, but with the twist of Hufflepuff traits. Hufflepuff traits do not make a Dark Witch, but we'll see how I can spin this to make it believable. Anything can have a good and a bad side.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Chapter 1 - The Language of Pain
Light shone warmly through the large round window on her right. The parlour room itself was not impressive. It was large with brown marble tiles but there wasn't much in it. It really had one purpose, which was why she didn't like staying in this room, even with its lovely warmth. She much rather preferred staying in her greenhouse with all the plants, animals, damp smells and the earthy feeling that completely surrounded her. That was what she really loved.
However, right now, she was in her parlour. She sat on a high-backed oak chair, one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. Some would call it a throne, but she didn't like to use such harsh words. She crossed one leg over the other at the knee, bringing her tea cup to her mouth daintily. Ginger tea, something with little a kick to keep her awake. It was definitely too early in the morning for anything stronger.
There was a light knock outside the large doors at the other end of the room. She slowly placed her teacup down before taking a deep breath. This was the part she hated the most, when she to make an example, when she had to exact punishment. She rose from her throne (in this instance, it may as well be a throne) and walked to the edge of the small dais on which it sat. Her long gold dress skirted the ground and tickled her ankles but she paid no mind. There were things to be done.
The doors opened and a struggling man was brought before her, two of her guards walking on either side of him. He raged within their grasps, huffing and spitting as he twisted and turned. His face was red and the veins in his head and neck pulsed. She could feel her own face changing. Whenever she saw one like him, an uncontrollable anger swelled within her and she wanted nothing more than to see people like him crushed beneath her heel. The quiet, demure woman sipping her tea was gone now.
The seething man was thrown onto the floor, her men's wands trained on his wrists, ankles and neck, bounding him in invisible shackles, as they forced him onto his knees. She stepped down from the dais and walked closer to the man, the sound of her heels sharp on the marble floor. The temperature had dropped, even though the sun still shone through the round window. Her counselors often told her she had that effect whenever she got like this but she never felt it. In this moment, she was lost in her own mind, in her own memories, acting only on emotion and she couldn't help if that coldness seeped out of her very pores.
She stopped in front of the man. His head was down, exposing the vulnerable part of his neck to her. His long black hair fell unrestrained over his face as his shoulders heaved and his anger controlled his muscles. She could tell that he hated her. Every aspect of his being hated her. She looked down at him with a cruel grin. She understood hatred.
But she wanted more. She wanted to look into the eyes of this disgusting human being. She reached a small, delicate hand out towards him, her fingers brushed the fringe above his forehead just before he lunged, jaws snapping. Her fingers retreated swiftly and she only offered him an arched eyebrow. Her men tugged back on his restraints and he fell to sit on his ankles, his head falling to his chest once more.
"Mr Rosier, how lovely it is to meet you. I see you are not one to disappoint. You are exactly how I expected you to be."
He pulled his head up on his own and looked into her eyes. Even at his lowest, at her mercy upon his knees, he acted as if he had the upper-hand. His chest and his stature was still proud as he looked at her as if she were scum, the dirt on his expensive shoes. This was why she hated people like him, people who thought they were above her simply for being born.
"I assume you already know who I am," she began. Her hand flew out quickly and grabbed the man's jaw, wrenching it upwards painfully. She saw the grimace on his face before he sneered at her, teeth bared, and growled, just like the dog he was. "I also trust that you know why you're here," she added.
That got the reaction she wanted: the glimmer of fear, the deep swallow, the pale skin. "Now, you understand." She tightened her hold on his jaw, her neatly manicured nails marking half-moon shapes in his flesh. "I'm changing purebloods' stance on this whole mudblood mentality. Now I know you are not one to talk about your problems, I mean, you've already behaved like a lesser animal in my midst. I don't think you're smart enough for reasonable negotiation. It seems you only speak the language of pain when it comes to fraternizing with my kind. So I will speak to you the same."
She prodded the centre of his brow with her wand, his eyes closing from the discomforting touch. Wordlessly, she cast the spell while still holding his jaw in her hand. From previous personal experience, she found that when one body part was fixed in place, the pain and the injuries were more severe. The conflicting muscles, those who would flow with the pain and those held in place, grated on each other; the brain became stressed from the contradicting signals and steadily drove the victim to madness. She saw Rosier's eyes roll to the back of his head as he twitched under her. She smiled as his mouth foamed and gurgling noises left his throat, but her strong grip on his draw held his mouth close and prevented him from screaming out loud. Maybe, if she pushed. just. a. little. further.
"Madam."
Her concentration broke and the man fell from her grip onto the marble floor. Involuntary convulsions racked his body as she gazed down at him, blood oozing from his mouth and his nose. Another wound seemed to have opened up on his abdomen and his once pristine white shirt now stained red. She looked at the guard, the one who had called to her, and righted herself, brushing her hands on her dress and returning her wand to her side.
"Thank you, Patrick. Please take this man to the holding cells. If he is beyond saving, dispose of him."
The two men bowed low before levitating the man out of the room behind them. Large fat drops of 'pure' blood fell onto the brown marble tile in his wake, the sun glinting off the tiny red pools. She had tortured a man in broad daylight. She groaned as she sank into her chair which was no longer a throne. This was not the first time blood was shed here by her hand. This was not the first time a man lay convulsing at her feet, not even the fiftieth time. Her hatred of them and her love of her kind drove her to do this. She lost herself in her hatred and then had to live with her tumultuous feelings afterwards. This was why she hated the parlour. Maybe she would need that strong drink now.
She sat in her study nursing a tumbler of whiskey. It was what her father always drank after a long day at work and once she was older, she found out exactly why it helped him. Her father. It always stung when she thought about her parents. Thinking of them brought forward all the hatred she had for those purebloods. That was when she truly began to hate purebloods, when she truly began to hate, though she didn't know at the time. She almost spat her whiskey out onto her deep red rug but she didn't. Whiskey was too precious to waste.
Lucille Prickett had grown up like any normal little girl. Living in a small white house in the middle of Surrey, Lucille was bright, carefree and loved by her parents. She was an only child and the cutest thing to grace her quiet, little neighbourhood. Her blonde hair was allowed to grow free, Mr and Mrs Prickett raised her without rules and without restraints, and she revelled in the warmth that came with their love.
She wore the prettiest dresses to match the prettiest smile anyone had ever seen on a little five-year-old girl. She had the prettiest voice which morphed into the prettiest laugh as when played with her little puppy. She would sing to herself as she played in the backyard and she always said 'Please' and 'Thank You'. She was the perfect princess and Lucille knew it. Lucille knew she was perfect in people's eyes. No matter what she did, people would fawn over her, whether she wanted it or not. Random strangers would pick up in the street as she walked with her parents, showering her with kisses and presents, even though they didn't know her. Lucille was happy.
Lucille performed her first feat of accidentally magic while sitting in her room, having her own tea party. She didn't even know she was doing anything strange, pouring tea for her stuffed animals with a floating teapot. Her mother had found her, the teapot tipped to give Mr Thomas the turtle something to drink, who was seated at the opposite side of the tiny table. Her mother, though wary, still thought this was the cutest thing Lucille had done, shouting at once for her husband to come look. They encouraged their daughter and her strange abilities, though they did keep it secret from the world. Magic was real it seemed and though marvellous, not everyone would see it the same. But Lucille was their perfect, magical little girl.
But then, suddenly in the dead of night, her parents were snuffed out by pureblood teenagers with nothing better to do than find and torture a couple of muggles. They did not know that Lucille was muggleborn. They did not even know she was in the house. They had unlocked the Prickett's front door and stole up the stairs to her parents' bedroom. The teenagers had their fun, contorting her parents' bodies into impossible shapes and then aligning them into lewd positions. Their clothes were stripped and their dignity destroyed until the teenagers got bored at how easy it had been and just disappeared. The muggles would eventually die on their own, and the muggle police would simply think it was some creepy serial killer or psychopath. The teenagers would face no retribution, no punishment for their crimes.
Lucille watched it all from the crack of her little room door. She watched as the people she loved, the people she idolized, her mother who would sing as she baked and her dad who would read the newspaper out loud at the breakfast table. She watched as blood spurted from their ears, eyes, nose, mouth and places that blood shouldn't even come out of. But she kept quiet. She did not want those boys to turn on her.
When they left, she slowly pattered to their bedroom, scared that one boy had lingered behind, scared that they would come, but sickly curious to see her parents. She stood in their doorway not wanting to go any further. There was a gurgling noise and laboured breathing, her parents' nude bodies clothed in a thick layer of blood. Their once perfect life was now imperfect, marred and desecrated beyond repentance and fell to the floor clutching her legs to her chest and shutting her eyes tightly, letting loose loud wails of despair. Her perfect world now shattered and Lucille mourned for her parents and the loss of her old life.
There were loud pops outside Lucille's home but she did not hear anything until there were footfalls coming up the stairs. Lucille crawled into the shadows, her wails grinding to a deafening stop. The boys had come back! Little balls of light attached to sticks led three men into her parents' bedroom, casting long shadows in all directions. The men grimaced and one dry-heaved before they attended to her parents. Lucille let out a whimper, clapping a hand to her mouth. Oh no!
One man turned towards her but his face was kind. "Hello there." She was unsure. He had a stick just like the teenagers. "I'm not going to hurt you." He came closer and scooped her into his arms. Lucille was used to strangers picking her up, but not like this. But she remained still in the man's arms not wanting to provoke or anger him. He started to rock her slightly and Lucille felt her eyes droop. The last thing she heard was, "Where will we put her?"
