Warnings: There's no graphic murder in this but it's definitely there and alluded to and all that fun stuff. Also blood and dark things, I'm not sure what to tag really, but it's a creepy murder circus, if that helps!
The crowd swelled. It was a bloated, seething mass of buttery fingers and glazed eyes. Popcorn spilled on the floor and the smell of peanuts rose like smoke towards the swooping canvas ceiling. James wove through the crowd as everyone picked their way to their seats, stumbling on clumsy, tired feet, mouths stretched into wired grins. Eager to watch. Eager to be entertained. Unaware that anything else existed but the bright spotlight.
Every night was the same. The only thing that changed was the volume of the crowd. Judging by the sheer numbers pouring into the tent, the Showmaster needed to replenish quite a lot tonight.
He ducked around the ring of fire, still smouldering from previous runs, and snuck into the changing rooms. Murmurs came from the long benches as the entertainers prepared, but he crept through unseen, his cloak pulled tight around him. He only took it off when he was in the private dressing room, just a curtained-off part of the tent with enough space for a vanity and a trunk overflowing with gauzy costumes.
A woman sat at the vanity, running a gilded comb through her red hair. It was like fire, crimson and burning bright, softer than soot. It usually hung in serpentine coils, an homage to the Showmaster, but today it was straight as a pin. Her eyes were at half-mast, but they shot open when James tugged off the cloak and appeared in the mirror, grinning like a fool.
"You're not supposed to be back here," Lily whispered, whipping around in alarm. "If the Showmaster sees you…"
"Hush," James said. "She won't."
The Showmaster was not to be trifled with. But James had earned a few minutes of free time, and as long as he didn't disrupt the show, she would turn a blind eye.
"You know the rules," Lily said, but she was already starting to cave as he crept closer. "As soon as the show starts, the only thing that matters is the audience."
"It's a good thing we still have a few minutes before the curtain rises, isn't it?" He made that final step and met her bright green eyes. "Try to keep quiet. We don't want to get caught."
The comb clattered to the vanity. He kissed her harshly, his pulse singing. Nothing existed but the fierce way they gripped each other, the heat of their bodies colliding, the noise of the cushioned bench toppling to the ground as James pushed her against the vanity.
There was blood on his shirt, but Lily still clung to him. Still kissed him like he didn't stink of copper, like his hands weren't pruned from washing them under the freezing cold faucet outside, trying to work the slick crimson from his hands. It wouldn't come off now. Not after years under the Showmaster's thumb. She was a wild, vicious creature with a mouth full of jagged glass and hair like razor wire. She pointed, and James followed. She laughed like a hound, and he held back his shudder. She drew her knife, and James drew blood. She gave them a comfortable bed, a warm fire, and food to eat, so long as they put on a show.
Lily's show happened in the evening, in the spotlight, where she danced along tightropes made of old, refurbished nooses. James's show was whenever the Showmaster required it, in the shadows, where he tied the knots over and over again.
"You really shouldn't be back here," Lily murmured against his mouth.
"Hush."
"Don't you hush me," she said. "How was it, tonight?"
"As easy as breathing."
James used to hate that answer, but now he'd come to know it intimately. It was the only answer he had left to give. He'd come to feel comfortable with his own descent. Chaos felt like an old friend now, and death was a constant companion, but there was comfort in coming home too. It was like all those dark and dismal things he did and said and was didn't exist when he was beside Lily. So he didn't hate the answer. But he hated that she had to ask, that he tainted her pale skin with blood.
"I'm glad," she said, touching his cheek. "Now get out of my dressing room, and find a good seat. The show's about to begin."
James flashed her a cheeky grin. "Can't I just find a good seat in here while you finish getting dressed?"
Lily pushed him, laughing, from the room. The velvet folds of the tent swished shut, cutting off his view. He was still grinning as he made his way back to the crowd. The noise had increased tenfold; the audience were in a trance-like state, their feet hitting the floor, hands clapping despite the empty stage, eyes fixed unerringly up at the highest point of the big top. James settled quietly on the floor and joined them, tipping his head up to stare at the fine rope wire stretched across thin air.
"I've got a bone to pick with you," cooed a voice in his ear.
James went stiff with fear. He was careful not to show it on his face, keeping it upturned. Meeting the Showmaster's eyes never went well for anyone. There was madness in them, good and proper. She slunk around to crouch in front of him, barefoot in a tattered dress, her corset laces so tightly that it was a wonder she could breathe. Grey hair skimmed his vision, tightly wound in serpentine curls. He had no idea how old she was. Nobody did. That was the whole point of the show.
"Whatever I did," he began, but she placed the tip of her knife under his chin before he could speak.
"It's not what you did," she said, in that tone that bubbled and fizzed with laughter, baby-high and boiling. "It's what you didn't do. Haven't I taught you better? Haven't I given you everything you've ever wanted?"
It wasn't her knife, he realized, recognising the flat feel of it. Her knife was corkscrew shaped and deadly sharp. His knife was duller and chipped. And all at once, he knew precisely what the problem was, precisely what he hadn't done. He put his hand out, palm up, and lowered his eyelids, but never his gaze.
"I'll take better care of my equipment, ma'am," he said. "It won't happen again."
"I know that!" The Showmaster tipped her head back in a wild laugh. "I taught you better, after all. And your pretty, lovely little firecracker would take more than a tumble if it happened again. It wouldn't take much for that wire to break. We don't want that, do we?"
James's gaze flicked down. Bellatrix Lestrange's face lit up with glee as their eyes met. There were lines around her eyes and running down her cheeks like ink, dark grooves where the skin had cracked over the years. He did not want to see the gleam in her eyes, but he had no choice, pinned to the ground.
"Are you finally going to fight back? Finally going to pitch a little fit?" she said. "All for that sweet little flower up there?"
There was no limit to what James would do for Lily. No limit at all. But for some reason, he couldn't make his mouth move.
"What happens after?" she continued, her smile widening. "Where will you go? Do you think anyone will take you both in? You're both rotten, right to the core. I made you the way you are, Jamie. And when rot sets in that deep, nothing can get it out. So where will you go?"
The lights bled across the stage in the background. The crowd roared faintly. Bellatrix swayed forward, as though led by a string, her eyes bulging and her smile cracking at the corners. She had hated Lily from the moment she met her. Lily was beautiful, and Bellatrix had once been beautiful too.
"You came to me," Bellatrix said, leaning forward to leer at him. "Never forget that. You asked me for help, and I gave you a home in return for a few itsy bitsy favours, didn't I?"
It was true that they'd come here seeking safety, seeking work. It was true that the town they lived in didn't approve of Lily's everlasting youth, her kind smile and sweet, healing hands. When the accusations of black magic rolled in and people gathered on their doorstep with fire in their eyes, James took her away. They ran together. And they found this place, this circus of madness, and never looked back.
Looking back wasn't allowed. And there was nowhere else to go.
"You did," he said, averting his gaze. "I'll do better in the future."
Bellatrix cackled. "Good boy."
The knife landed in his upturned palm. She was gone in a flash, making her way up to the stage, her arms spread to suck in the roar the audience let out at her arrival. James clenched the handle of the knife. It would need dealing with soon. Sharpening and cleaning. There was still blood on the edges. And no doubt Bellatrix would have something else for him to do with it soon, a line of victims waiting for him once the show was over. Murder was the currency of the circus.
But it could wait. The lights fell on the tightrope, and everything that wasn't up there could wait.
Lily stepped out demurely, as she always did. She wore tight red clothes, a dress of shredded crepe. The pieces streamed like crimson fire as she walked the rope, sparks of magic soaring around her.
It was not just walking. Every step was a dance between life and death; at one point she wavered, and her hair came free, tumbling down her back in a flat wave. James's pulse surged as he watched, breathless, not blinking until she was back on her feet, twirling along the rope. He forgot everything else. Lily was the only thing that existed. Not the noise behind him as the crowd succumbed to the magic, as the audience's vitality drained away, not the way the Showmaster laughed from her plinth, her hair regaining its lustre, the cracks in her skin smoothing over.
Lily flung herself into the air, an arc of red, and caught the descending hoop with her pale, perfect hands, and the crowd roared again even as their bodies shrank and their voices cracked. James clapped, not minding the knife in his palm, and kept on looking up.
The madness could thrive at his back for eternity, and James would not blink, so long as he could keep looking at Lily.
[Word Count: 1,763]