Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

Wigtown Wanderers, Chaser 1: Write about someone whose beauty is only skin-deep.

Prompts: (plot point) a wedding; (word) monster; (dialogue) "You're better than this."

Warnings: Torture (not very graphic), OOC Bellatrix (slightly)

A huge thanks to my teammates and Dash for betaing!

1969

Bellatrix smoothes down her white wedding dress, gazing at her reflection in the mirror with an equal measure of distaste and surprise. The bodice cinches her waist painfully, restricting her breathing, and her face feels sticky with cosmetics. Her naturally curly hair had been painstakingly tamed with products, and is now straight and glossy.

You should feel like a queen, her mother had told her shortly before departing from the room. But Bellatrix does not feel like a queen. No, she feels like a doll, all dressed up with rouge painted on her cheeks, the crimson standing out starkly against her pale face. She does not look like a queen; she is not pretty like this.

She looks breakable. Rodolphus could tug at her arm and it would tear off, stuffing and all.

Bellatrix Black does not want to get married. She does not want to pledge her life to someone. She does not want to be chained to another human for the rest of her life, obeying his whims and groveling at his feet. She is not a pretty plaything or a trophy wife; she is so much more than that.

But it is her duty as a Black heiress to marry a respectable pureblood, love or no love. Love is for weaklings and fools, after all.

She supposes it is better to marry a pureblood — someone pure, from a noble family — than one of those sniveling, pathetic mudbloods, or a blood traitor.

Three weeks later, Bellatrix is restless and bored, tired of being cooped up at home. Her husband is often gone during the day, and he returns home with his brother late at night, the latter inebriated. Both are solemn-faced, though Rabastan blabbers nonsensically — something about purity and honor, nothing that interests Bellatrix. She orders Rodolphus to put him on the sofa, and after a week, she doesn't even bother to come downstairs.

Bellatrix is brushing through the tangles in her hair when Rodolphus returns home — but this time, he's alone. Fine with her; this is their home. His expression is stoic, unreadable, but she doesn't look at him — not until he speaks, his voice low and hoarse. "I need to talk to you."

That is the first full sentence he's spoken in a week. Bellatrix's attention is piqued but she doesn't look away from the mirror. Her lips purse and she doesn't deign to respond; she knows he knows she's listening. He'll speak when he wants to.

A moment's pause. The scratchy sound of Bellatrix's brush running through her hair fills the room, until Rodolphus rasps, "Would you be interested in visiting my parents?"

Why would he ask that? She'd met his parents when they'd signed the marriage contract, and again when they'd married. She distinctly remembers the Lestranges' faces, so much like their son's in expressions, blank-faced and unemotional. She'd had her fill of them at the wedding — they'd been incredibly dull guests — and that is more than enough for her.

But she hasn't been out of the manor in weeks, and this is her first opportunity. Her first chance to taste freedom, no matter how little it is.

"Fine." Bellatrix hides her eagerness with a cool, indifferent tone.

"We're going tomorrow," Rodolphus mutters. "Pack a bag."

Whatever Bellatrix expects to happen next, it certainly isn't this.

The Lestranges' estate is grand, elegant, and fantastic — swords are mounted on the walls, encased in glass which could be shattered easily. As she and her husband navigate the twisting halls of Lestrange manor, she thinks she glimpses a room decorated with even more blades — the door is ajar, and Bellatrix's mouth salivates at the sight.

But that's not even the best part.

Bellatrix stares, stunned, at her in-laws. She can't believe her ears.

Today is the day everything changes.

1970

Bellatrix's flesh burns as the brand is seared into her skin, but the agony is partly subdued by the pride flowing through her veins. She'd earned this mark. The Dark Lord is trusting her with a mark, bestowing upon her an honor only for those in his inner circle.

When Rodolphus's parents had approached her with an offer six months prior, she'd accepted fervently, yearning to taste the freedom that had been just out of her reach all of her life.

She'd been waiting for a moment like this — a moment when she is not defined by her surname but recognized for her feats. The Dark Lord is powerful, fearsome; the way he can command a room and send adrenaline rushing through her blood, captivating her with every word he speaks, makes her giddy with the rush. He is poison, intoxicating and dangerous, but she has proven herself capable of surviving the worst poison.

Her body feels like a walking bruise, but as the Dark Lord walks away, she quivers with excitement. She cannot wait for the rise of this new empire, built upon the severed heads of mudbloods and blood traitors.

1981

The word monster is on the Longbottoms' lips as she laughs maniacally, singing "Crucio!" over and over again and relishing in their screams. There is beauty in watching them squirm, in watching blood trickle from their lips as they bite their tongues, in watching their bodies twitching in the aftermath.

Bellatrix catches sight of her reflection in the mirror, and she can see why the Longbottoms cry monster. She looks more haggard than usual; desperation and thrill contorting her face into something hideous.

The female Longbottom lets out a whimper and Bellatrix's attention returns to her, thrill giving way to desperation — she'd almost forgotten, in her giddiness, what she'd come here for. She can't help it; this is too much fun.

But she's here for a reason.

The Dark Lord.

Fresh anger surges through and her grip tightens around her wand, vibrating with barely suppressed fury.

"Bella." Rodolphus, in an unprecedented gesture, lays a hand on her arm. Bellatrix swings a scathing glare in his direction, and Rodolphus wisely removes his hand before she does it for him. "Don't you think we've done enough? We're not going to get any answers out of them. Look at them."

Bellatrix almost drops her wand from shock, and now the full force of her fury is redirected to her husband and her brother-in-law, who is nodding in agreement with him. The only person who doesn't express his opinion is Barty — dear Barty, whose face is blank and expressionless. His wand is pointed at the male Longbottom, who stirs and lets out a croak.

"How dare you!" The scream rips from her throat, scalding, and she tramples over the female's legs to get into her husband's face. Her normally obedient husband, quiet as he is. He'd never dared to speak out against her, but now — now when they needed answers, when they needed to avenge the Dark Lord —

"I never thought," she states, her voice shaking with rage, "that you'd suggest such a cowardly thing. I thought you were faithful."

"I am," Rodolphus says hurriedly, blinking rapidly. "I am faithful; I would never even entertain the notion of betraying him. But look at them. They aren't sound of mind anymore. I think they're useless — there is nothing we can get out of them. Watch." He nods to Barty, who casts a Cruciatus Curse on the male.

The male screams — it is one glorious, long scream, and Bellatrix absorbs the sound with brief, heightened pleasure — and when the curse is lifted, his words are garbled and nonsensical. Tremors run the course of his body and his eyes are glazed over and bloodshot. The female looks the same.

The sight makes Bellatrix even hungrier. There is still a little of their sanity left intact — she could still —

Something slams into the doors and everyone freezes. Another slam. Then another. Muffled yells. "Alohomora!" someone shouts, followed by a "Bombarda!"

The Aurors are blasting their way in, and Bellatrix, her victims forgotten immediately, readies herself — she knows she can't win, but she'll make sure the Aurors will feel their victory like a loss for a little while.

1986

Everything is cold. The chill bears down on her, seeping through the pores of her skin and making her shiver. But she won't break, she won't —

The temperature of her cell plummets — not that she can much feel it — and her bones seem to rattle more than before, but that's not what she's focused on.

When she finally looks up, all she sees is the fraying edges of the Dementor's hood, and she's plunged into —

"You're better than this, Bellatrix," her mother chastises her, her glare severe and making Bellatrix cower. "This is not how we raised you. Why couldn't you be more like your sister?"

Bellatrix feels a small spark of defiance in her stomach but she's powerless. Utterly powerless. Her mother bears down on her, scowling fiercely, and fear joins the defiance.

"I'm proud of Narcissa," she continues coldly. Narcissa, who is standing next to Mother and cradling her scarlet cheek, visibly brightens. "She is every bit the respectable daughter I raised — she will make her husband very happy. But you… you are out of control. If you're not careful, you'll end up just as insolent as Andromeda. You'll be nothing. I expected better from you."

All this over a slap — she and Narcissa had been arguing, and Narcissa had struck her arm lightly, but it had been enough to trigger Bellatrix's volatile temper. But of course, Narcissa gets away with a slap on the wrist, and it is Bellatrix facing her mother's wrath.

Of course, perfect Narcissa could never do wrong, and Mother had refused to hear anything different.

But Bellatrix? She would never be perfect, not even close, as far as Mother was concerned.

Not her first memory, but one like many of the ones she'd recalled in this state.

However.

The Dementor is motionless as she drags herself away from it, crawling. She feels ashamed; she is Bellatrix Black-Lestrange, and she should not be cowed by anyone or anything.

This is the price of loyalty. But for him, she'd pay any price — she is not like those cowards who had turned tail and ran the moment he'd fallen.

"Get away from me!" she cries, gathering whatever dignity she still has. "I'll show you! The Dark Lord shall rise again, and he'll flay those who have hurt me! You can skulk all you like but you'll see!"

Perhaps it's the unfaltering conviction in her voice that makes the Dementor hesitate. If she squints, the Dementor's hood seems to swim before her eyes, and she can almost see its face. Did Dementors have faces?

"Or perhaps," she continues loudly, moistening her parched lips with her tongue, "you can join him, and taste freedom as I have! You'll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams — you can siphon souls from as many mudbloods and blood traitors as you'd like. Those worthless idiots deserve it."

The Dementor does nothing.

"Oh stop being like that," she says, irritated. "That's what I get for holding a conversation with a Dementor."

The Dementor, apparently finished with her, doesn't stick around any longer and glides away. Bellatrix is now alone with her thoughts.

Fingering the hem of her tattered prisoner's shirt, she pulls at a loose thread and cackles. If she'd still been in her mother's domain, she would've been rebuked sternly. Unhesitatingly and ruthlessly compared to her sister. But the more Bellatrix thinks, she doesn't see why she ever cared about Mother's opinion.

As far as she is concerned, she'd never make Mother happy, but that doesn't matter. Even though she is sitting in a cell in Azkaban, tormented by Dementors daily, she feels better than before.

She's free from her. That's all that matters. She could be a monster, a heartless, soulless monster, unfit to kiss her mother's shoes, but she doesn't give a damn. No, she never should have given her mother that power.

She's free; that's all the matters. And one day, she'll be free from this prison, and she'll have all the happiness she'll ever need when she brings about the return of the Dark Lord and causes unimaginable chaos. The world will get its just desserts, she'll make sure of it.

That is the only way she will be truly happy.

2079 words

Written for:

Assignment 7 - Elemental Magic Task #1: Fire: Write about someone being destructive.

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