Chapter II

DON'T LET ME DIE

oOo

Black ragged cloth billowing in gusts of freezing cold air is the last thing she remembers seeing, its details etched in her memory for she thought it to be the last thing she'd ever seen.

Black is also the color of the disheveled hair of the faceless man who's bending over her and from her angle it actually looks like an ink waterfall.

Is she dead? She sure thought she would be by now but she can tell she isn't because there's pain; her whole body hurts, every inch of skin is aflame.

It's so hard to keep her eyes open; stabbed by the dim light of the room, they sting. It's all a blur of lights and shadows flickering before her. Eventually, she gives up trying to make out the stranger's features and allows her heavy lids to fall shut.

Let soothing darkness shape her perceptions instead.

Icy cold fingertips reach out to brush aside some strands of hair plastered to the sweaty skin of her forehead; she sighs against the cool caress. The gesture in itself feels swift and detached but it's human contact nonetheless and for the tiniest moment it almost seems to quench her thirst.

If only she could gather some of her strength she would grip the stranger's wrist and yank on it until he sat down by her side. She would whisper: stay.

She always gets afraid when she's in pain, afraid to be left alone. Yes, even Bellatrix Lestrange is not immune to certain human fears.

When she was little and she got ill she used to beg her sisters to keep her company, she recalls how Andromeda would always choose to stick around... but it's no use thinking about the goddamned blood-traitor now. Narcissa, on the other hand, would always find excuses to get away. So beautiful and yet so cold, she is indeed a true Black, born and bred to live up to her name; she fills Bellatrix with pride.

Yet the blond witch distanced herself from the raven-haired sibling and her rejection still hurts even more than Andromeda's betrayal.

The dark-haired wizard's deep voice pulls her from her thoughts, a voice that cannot possibly be mistaken for another.

"She's too weak, my Lord."

Snape, of course; that sneaky little bastard. She wonders if her face reflects her loathing right now. But... my Lord? Does this mean... Is he really in the same room with her? Has he come for her? Will he stay? Will he help her heal herself? Will he wait by her side? So many questions crowding her mind and only one plea: speak again, master.

"How long until she can fight?"

I'll be ready soon, my Lord, I'll get better and fight for you... always.

"I'm not even sure she can make it until morning."

Shut up, you filthy liar traitor! Tell him, master, tell him how wrong he is. Tell him your most faithful servant would never run from the battlefield.

"Such a pity..."

A... pity? Her tired mind tries to process the Dark Lord's words as they seep through her skin and bones, instilling the most dreaded doubt.

She wants to scream until her lungs are raw, except they are already, as it is her throat, and no sound comes out. She wants to thrash and turn onto what they think will be her deathbed but she's a prisoner inside her own body, a body turned to stone.

Touch me, master. Won't you even touch me?

"Well leave her then, Severus, others are in need of your skills."

Her chest is ripped open, her heart is bare for him to see the wounds he inflicted; truth is, it has always been bare for him to tear apart. She did offer it up herself.

Her blood is a slave to his voice, it keeps pouring out. There, he could taste the life she gave him but he won't have any. She still isn't good enough.

Loud echoes of retreating footsteps. Don't leave me. Coldness washing all over her body. I gave you my everything.

Eyes still closed, she knows she's alone in the room with Snape now, but not for much longer. If he's half as smart as he brags to be, he'll follow orders and leave.

Warm tears flow through her long dark eyelashes and down her deathly-pale cheeks; calloused fingerpads come to brush them away. Her eyes fly open only to gaze upon a pair of orbs as black as her own, and in those obsidian depths, she swears she can see the flicker of a most familiar affliction.

This is not the way she had planned to go out, laying in bed being pitied by Snape, disowned by her master, feared by her own sister. The battlefield had always seemed a more befitting place to be when hailing Death.

"I know I will regret this one day but... I cannot let you die." Snape's unpredicted words are barely above a whisper when they reach her ears. Eyes still locked together, for a moment what they are to each other doesn't matter anymore and suddenly she knows he's going to hear her plea.

Don't let me die.

AN: What Snape is offering is not love and it's not pity... in my mind, he's rather experiencing some sort of empathy towards Bellatrix. He still doesn't trust her but he is a good man at heart and cannot bring himself to just let her die, especially after seeing her pain and knowing what it feels like to lose everything on the Dark Lord. She allows herself to cling to him in this particular moment on the base of that same feeling, what she thinks of him hasn't changed though.

Bellatrix hasn't really seen the error of her ways, I mean, I like to explore her weakness here and the way her perception of Voldemort changes but she still believes what she has been taught, she still believes in pureblood supremacy. Personally, I just can't write a story in which she turns out to be a good person but I like being able to catch a glimpse of her humanity because she definitely holds some deep within her (unlike her master).