AN: Written for round eight of QL. Um, I'm not even sure what exactly this is. I'm sure it's more creepy than fluffy, but it is the cruciatus cure and Bellatrix Leastrange, so I guess this is what you get when you try and make the fluffy. A hot mess.

Prompts: (peom): the bells by Edgar Allen Poe, (restriction) no letter "j", and quote "the marks humans leave are too often scars." – john green, the fault in our stars

Word Count: 953

Cruciatus

It was a dark night; the howling wind rustled the fallen leaves, thunder rumbled overhead. Rain hit the window with a pitter patter and streaked down the glass, dropping out of sight. The woman with the dark, wild, unruly hair stood next to the vast window, staring out as the storm worsened.

She traced the patterns of the rain drops on the window's glass from top to bottom, following it until it fell out of her sight. The cycle would continue again when she traced another in its path, followed by another and another. She soon fell into a familiar rhythm to try and soothe her boredom.

She needed something to do with her hands. She would love to be able to torture someone but at the moment she settled for the mundane task of tracing rain droplets.

She had always liked storms – how they cast a dark and creepy glow over everything in its path, marking it as its own. It was exactly how she felt whenever she tortured or killed. She got off on her victim's screams of pain and them begging her to stop.

The strength she achieved from torturing made her feel powerful and completely in control. The sensation made her feel almost giddy – childlike even.

She got off on torturing someone.

The Cruciatus Curse was her lifeline. Her best friend, if you would. She lived for it, she wouldn't know what she would do if it hadn't been created. If it didn't exist.

She didn't want to think about that now or at all. Instead she focused on the storm raging on outside.

The storm only enhanced that giddy, childlike feel and she basked in it. Thunderstorms were her sunny days; the thunder was her chirping birds.

She reached into her robe and pulled out her wand. She fingered the wood, her fingers gliding over it. The wood was unfamiliar beneath her touch. She missed her old one, her baby, the one that sent a spark through her; starting at her fingertips and spreading through her veins.

She craved the sensation that only intensified when she tortured someone. The only sensation that's ever made her feel alive.

She craved the screams of her victims – the sounds were like musical laughter and to her ears. She smirked at the thought, wishing more than anything to be able to hear that sound again. To feel whole again.

The sensation felt as if she was floating on air. She was weightless. Not a care in the world.

Of course, she never really did have a care in the world. She did want she wanted and fuck what people thought. She was a death eater after all. And soon there would be absolutely no one standing in their way. In her way.

She craved that freedom. The freedom to do anything she wanted without having to hide from aurors or the Minister of Magic. She'd give anything to find a random passerby and immediately torture them because she felt like it.

With Voldemort ruling, she could do just that.

She chuckled at the thought.

Perfect. It would be perfect.

Her wand was an extension of her arm, doing everything she asked of it and more. It was her power source – the origin of her power, her strength.

There was a path, trailing behind her. Of all the people she's ever tortured – her mark on the world.

A sneer appeared on her face as she watched the rain continue to fall and the memories that came with it returning.

Her victims.

She reached into her robe and pulled out her other weapon of choice. The second knife she carried. Her father's knife. If she were a sentimental person, it would mean a lot in a different sense than what she saw it as. Continuing on the Black family tradition – maybe one day she'd give it to Draco.

She held the black grip tightly in her hand, the Black family crest engraved into the material. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She stared down at the glittering metal of the knife – the knife she was proud to carry, proud to use.

She remembered one of the first times she used that knife and all the times she'd used it after that. The knife, like her wand was an extension of her hand. Any tools she used or came in contact with were like that.

There was one person's screams that stood out among the rest.

One she wouldn't forget for quite some time. It was stay with her.

The Granger girl's – the filthy Mudblood. The one who had made off with her wand in the process of the escape. The Weasley's boy's protests and shouts in the background easily made the moment all the more delightful for her. They enhanced it even, feeling her with a more pleasure sensation – something she couldn't describe in so many words.

She wasn't satisfied that she had lost her wand in the process, but she planned to rectify that as soon as she could. She wasn't going to rest until she had.

If there was one thing she loved more than torture, it was revenge. And she definitely would get hers. One way or the other that was going to happen. She would find that filthy mudblood again – if it was the last thing she did.

And this time – the second time – would be much more satisfying than the first.

She would make sure of that as well.

The thunder cracked, followed by a loud cackle. They muddled together easily that she wasn't sure which sound was which.

Not that it mattered.

As long as she got what she wanted, what she desired, it wouldn't matter.