Disclaimer: I do not own Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort, Harry Potter or
any of the characters; they belong to J. K. Rowling and are used with all
my respect and admiration.
Author Note: This is the first fic I write in English- please forgive my grammar, vocabulary etc. [If you understand French, try to read the French version, which is obviously better.] I tried to follow the cannon of book 5; however, this not a theory in itself, so don't yell at me saying that it doesn't make sense if you don't agree. Oh, and please; R&R.
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Bella.
Bellatrix tried to free herself, but couldn't. She couldn't even move. Just there, her Master was fighting Dumbledore. She heard him, shouting "Avada Kedavra". Again. With is high-pitched voice. But he wouldn't kill him tonight- not yet. Once more, the old Professor would escape. She knew it.
She had failed. The prophecy was lost. The Master would punish her, or she would be back in Azkaban. Her mind went blank. Why did he come, when there was nothing left to win? He knew, he couldn't win, today, unprepared, against this enemy, the only one he had ever feared; the only one who called him Tom, she heard it. For him, for Dumbledore, he was still a man. Nothing more than a man- or even a child. Not a monster. Nor a God.
A man.
He had come to the Ministry. He had shown himself. Truth was now revealed to all, and all would fight him. Why? She was begging his forgiveness, and yet she knew; she would suffer, but never scream. She had killed Sirius. Finally. She was proud- and still enjoyed his surprised look, when he realised it was the end. Torturing this silly boy's parents into madness had made her laugh. She loved causing pain and death.
Those idiots had got caught. Malfoy, and the rest of them. They has spoiled their only chance. She heard her Master's voice, again. She hated its sound. Voldemort knew it- but strangely, he didn't care. He didn't care of all those human, despicable things- those pathetic feelings.
There was a special bound between the two of them. She could felt it- but she hadn't yet found the words to describe it. It was higher, far beyond this ridiculous attraction called love, full of physical needs. Love was nothing- an illusion for the weak. She ignored it, and he didn't even know its signification.
No. There was no such thing.
She thought of her husband. She truly despised him. He had done nothing but following her. She despised him almost as strongly as she admired the Master. He who had made her kneel before him, and look down, while knowing perfectly that the cost was too much for her. He was the only one who could imagine this cost. His greatness fascinated her.
Never, ever, she would have knelt before anyone else. Never, she would have obeyed anyone else. He was the only one. She hated him, for having subjected her to him. He felt this too. She hated him, but did not fear him. She had nothing to lose.
This. thing had no name. Both knew it existed; and both denied it. She had forsaken everything for him; she had lost her youth and her beauty in a dungeon. For him. She had survived Hell because she was evil, because her hunger for power kept telling her to go on, to believe, to lead them all. She was a queen, and he had always known that. A crownless queen who had come to claim her due. He took advantage of it. She had been faithful to him. But he had made her his servant; she would never forgive.
Never.
Voldemort had disappeared. Suddenly she was afraid, and called. Then Bellatrix heard him, provoking Dumbledore. Screaming. She had guessed; he could possess Harry Potter because love flew in his veins. It made her laugh. The Headmaster had become an old romantic. If it had to be true, they would find another way. If love was about to break Voldemort, they would divert it; divert its strength. Now that Lily's protection was in his own blood, he was able to touch the boy. But this power had to backfire, and crush them all.
They would not use it.
For one moment, she realised her loneliness. This ambition, this need of absolute that was in the depth of all her body, could only be understood by a monster beyond men. Heartless. Her own heart was full of hatred, and anger, but still she had one. That was the reason of her inferiority. The reason why she begged him. Because of that, she was his servant.
Servant.
She wasn't strong enough to survive alone. And she hated her own weakness, the one Voldemort didn't know.
Harry's blood had given to him humanity. He had understood that- but too late. Along with a victory, came a loss. It was now able to die.
What if he was also able to love? What would happen then?
No. It couldn't be. It was nonsense. Pathetic nonsense.
But she couldn't help marking how his cruelty towards her had grown less cold, less automatic. It was now like a defence. And she was scared. Since her return he had been attentive. When she had seen him again, seen his ugliness, she hadn't stepped back; she hadn't felt pity either. Herself had left in prison her grace and elegance. Something was changed. If it was true. If Voldemort could feel something, not this common and vulgar love, but still some form of respect, of gratitude, of this strange affinity for the only person in the world who could understand him, who didn't blink while watching him, right in his scarlet eyes. Then, slowly, it would consume him. He couldn't survive love. And she would be his end, her, although she was the most faithful of all, even because of that. She would burn him, and destroy him. She didn't want to. She didn't want it all to be meaningless.
Bellatrix tried to realise how ridiculous was her thoughts. Voldemort didn't know warmth. He hadn't come for her. He had never felt this power. He could never recognise it, nor fight it.
No.
She was dreaming. She was old, faded, and she was dreaming of inspiring a cursed love in an evil mind. Voldemort would know her thoughts. He would laugh. She was wrong. He despised her, her like the others; their loneliness was inevitable.
Things were bound to happen that way.
Bellatrix didn't want to go back to prison; it wasn't for a long time, since the Dementors had left it- but the Ministry employees were coming yet. Surely, he wouldn't have the time to care about her. It would be too dangerous. Why did he come here, to provoke Dumbledore and this boy? He had to flee. Or it would be their end.
Suddenly the statue let go of her. She could breath. At this very moment, a long-fingered hand had grabbed her, and she disappeared, in the arms of Lord Voldemort.
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Author Note: I apologise again for the style- remember this is not my first language. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for reading this. Please review. Do you think I should write a sequel?
Author Note: This is the first fic I write in English- please forgive my grammar, vocabulary etc. [If you understand French, try to read the French version, which is obviously better.] I tried to follow the cannon of book 5; however, this not a theory in itself, so don't yell at me saying that it doesn't make sense if you don't agree. Oh, and please; R&R.
***************************************************************************
Bella.
Bellatrix tried to free herself, but couldn't. She couldn't even move. Just there, her Master was fighting Dumbledore. She heard him, shouting "Avada Kedavra". Again. With is high-pitched voice. But he wouldn't kill him tonight- not yet. Once more, the old Professor would escape. She knew it.
She had failed. The prophecy was lost. The Master would punish her, or she would be back in Azkaban. Her mind went blank. Why did he come, when there was nothing left to win? He knew, he couldn't win, today, unprepared, against this enemy, the only one he had ever feared; the only one who called him Tom, she heard it. For him, for Dumbledore, he was still a man. Nothing more than a man- or even a child. Not a monster. Nor a God.
A man.
He had come to the Ministry. He had shown himself. Truth was now revealed to all, and all would fight him. Why? She was begging his forgiveness, and yet she knew; she would suffer, but never scream. She had killed Sirius. Finally. She was proud- and still enjoyed his surprised look, when he realised it was the end. Torturing this silly boy's parents into madness had made her laugh. She loved causing pain and death.
Those idiots had got caught. Malfoy, and the rest of them. They has spoiled their only chance. She heard her Master's voice, again. She hated its sound. Voldemort knew it- but strangely, he didn't care. He didn't care of all those human, despicable things- those pathetic feelings.
There was a special bound between the two of them. She could felt it- but she hadn't yet found the words to describe it. It was higher, far beyond this ridiculous attraction called love, full of physical needs. Love was nothing- an illusion for the weak. She ignored it, and he didn't even know its signification.
No. There was no such thing.
She thought of her husband. She truly despised him. He had done nothing but following her. She despised him almost as strongly as she admired the Master. He who had made her kneel before him, and look down, while knowing perfectly that the cost was too much for her. He was the only one who could imagine this cost. His greatness fascinated her.
Never, ever, she would have knelt before anyone else. Never, she would have obeyed anyone else. He was the only one. She hated him, for having subjected her to him. He felt this too. She hated him, but did not fear him. She had nothing to lose.
This. thing had no name. Both knew it existed; and both denied it. She had forsaken everything for him; she had lost her youth and her beauty in a dungeon. For him. She had survived Hell because she was evil, because her hunger for power kept telling her to go on, to believe, to lead them all. She was a queen, and he had always known that. A crownless queen who had come to claim her due. He took advantage of it. She had been faithful to him. But he had made her his servant; she would never forgive.
Never.
Voldemort had disappeared. Suddenly she was afraid, and called. Then Bellatrix heard him, provoking Dumbledore. Screaming. She had guessed; he could possess Harry Potter because love flew in his veins. It made her laugh. The Headmaster had become an old romantic. If it had to be true, they would find another way. If love was about to break Voldemort, they would divert it; divert its strength. Now that Lily's protection was in his own blood, he was able to touch the boy. But this power had to backfire, and crush them all.
They would not use it.
For one moment, she realised her loneliness. This ambition, this need of absolute that was in the depth of all her body, could only be understood by a monster beyond men. Heartless. Her own heart was full of hatred, and anger, but still she had one. That was the reason of her inferiority. The reason why she begged him. Because of that, she was his servant.
Servant.
She wasn't strong enough to survive alone. And she hated her own weakness, the one Voldemort didn't know.
Harry's blood had given to him humanity. He had understood that- but too late. Along with a victory, came a loss. It was now able to die.
What if he was also able to love? What would happen then?
No. It couldn't be. It was nonsense. Pathetic nonsense.
But she couldn't help marking how his cruelty towards her had grown less cold, less automatic. It was now like a defence. And she was scared. Since her return he had been attentive. When she had seen him again, seen his ugliness, she hadn't stepped back; she hadn't felt pity either. Herself had left in prison her grace and elegance. Something was changed. If it was true. If Voldemort could feel something, not this common and vulgar love, but still some form of respect, of gratitude, of this strange affinity for the only person in the world who could understand him, who didn't blink while watching him, right in his scarlet eyes. Then, slowly, it would consume him. He couldn't survive love. And she would be his end, her, although she was the most faithful of all, even because of that. She would burn him, and destroy him. She didn't want to. She didn't want it all to be meaningless.
Bellatrix tried to realise how ridiculous was her thoughts. Voldemort didn't know warmth. He hadn't come for her. He had never felt this power. He could never recognise it, nor fight it.
No.
She was dreaming. She was old, faded, and she was dreaming of inspiring a cursed love in an evil mind. Voldemort would know her thoughts. He would laugh. She was wrong. He despised her, her like the others; their loneliness was inevitable.
Things were bound to happen that way.
Bellatrix didn't want to go back to prison; it wasn't for a long time, since the Dementors had left it- but the Ministry employees were coming yet. Surely, he wouldn't have the time to care about her. It would be too dangerous. Why did he come here, to provoke Dumbledore and this boy? He had to flee. Or it would be their end.
Suddenly the statue let go of her. She could breath. At this very moment, a long-fingered hand had grabbed her, and she disappeared, in the arms of Lord Voldemort.
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Author Note: I apologise again for the style- remember this is not my first language. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for reading this. Please review. Do you think I should write a sequel?