Bellatrix Lestrange Has Problems
Lord Voldemort was an imposing man by himself, but when flanked by his most trusted lieutenant, Bellatrix Lestrange, he was at least one and half times more frightening. Bellatrix was the Dark Lord's arm or leg or left kidney, depending on what Voldemort needed at the time, and she loved every minute of it.
Especially when she was at his side, applying the burning brand of her wand to skin of Lord Voldemort's latest "informant." "Don't struggle," she whispered with feigned sympathy to the whimpering wizard. "My wand might slip, and oops! You'll be short an important appendage." She giggled, feeling like a giddy child. "Or not so important, judging by what I see."
"Hold one moment, Bellatrix," commanded Voldemort. "I wish to question him now."
The other Death Eaters stood around the three of them, witnessing and containing. They were her Lord's fortress and bedrock, but she was more than any of them. They were the circle, but she was at the center.
She didn't pay attention to the interrogation. She didn't need to. She needed only to extend her wand when asked and to relish the closeness of her Lord. His presence, intent on the now weeping prisoner, melded into her, overpowering and bolstering her at the same time. She closed her eyes, hummed her pleasure and let herself go.
"What's wrong with Bellatrix?" whispered Lucius to Snape at the outskirts.
Snape considered how much he could tell Lucius without shattering the man's fragile little psyche, but then remembered that he didn't really care. "I think she's getting off on this," he whispered back.
"Ewwwwwwww," said Lucius.