Pyrites is a character JKR edited out of the books. So far, at least. So I decided to use him – look, free Death Eater fodder!
III
The Daily Prophet wrote of Rodolphus Lestrange's death quite righteously. 'Justice is Served' , the article was called. One of the perpetrators responsible for the incapacitation of beloved aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom is dead…
x
There is a science to killing a god.
There are steps one must take. There are dark places one must pass through. There are directions to be taken, rules to follow - rules to break.
x
Bellatrix woke up slowly. She felt like vomiting and her throat was sore. There was sunlight, golden and yellow, across half of her blankets. The window was still open. In a wooden chair beside the bed Lord Voldemort was sitting, his chin propped in his hand, watching her.
"This must be hard for you," he said. "But I would not know."
Bellatrix rose one shoulder in a shrug, as best she could while she was lying on her side.
"Do not lay in bed all day; I am sure you have work to do."
She nodded. Sunlight shone along the edge of his black hair. His eyes were still red. His face would change over time, but his eyes always stayed red.
He took her hand, and placed it on the bedside table. It touched something smooth and cold; a glass of water.
"Get up," he said again. He stood up, picked up the chair, and set it back against the wall, by the closet. Then he walked out of the room, leaving her on her own with the water he had brought up for her.
Bellatrix hauled herself upright. She had a headache; she wanted aspirin. Instead she drank the water, and it was cold and clear, and settled her rolling stomach somewhat.
He was right. The Dark Lord was always right.
She got up out of bed, and she stripped off the jeans she had fallen asleep in. She rubbed a little at the marks on her skin the seams had caused overnight, then rummaged in her closet and pulled on a pair of black pinstriped trousers over her thighs. They hung on her bony hips. She was far too thin.
She belted them tightly on. Then she loosened the belt a little, lest it cut into her skin. She didn't bother to change her shirt, just went and sat at her desk and went through the drawers, looking.
She got out some paper and a pencil. She wrote down, 'Kingsley Shacklebolt.' She added, for good measure, 'auror.' And then, 'Order of the Phoenix.'
She chewed on her eraser, then decided she was hungry. She got up, and she went downstairs. She wondered vaguely where Peter was. She did not like Peter.
x
Severus was bent over the toilet, retching.
"You alright?" Nymphadora Tonks asked, drumming her heels against the wooden cabinets. Her hair was a shock of pink and orange and yellow, as if she'd dipped her head into the tropics. She had several piercings on her face.
"No," Severus said. He spat and wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm. "What are you doing here?"
"Just felt like visiting," Tonks said. She stopped drumming her heels and said. "Have you slept?"
"Tonks," Severus said, getting carefully to his feet, "You are my goddaughter, not my mother. Move, I need to use the sink."
Severus was someone Tonks truly admired - because even when he was vomiting and sickened and fragile, he still managed to give off a feeling of control, or at least irritation and demand. She got off the counter and let him rinse his mouth out at the sink.
"You should be at work," Severus said, after a moment.
"I have the day off," Tonks said. Then, "You smell like cigarette smoke."
Severus gave her a deadpan sort of look. "I need to go to sleep," he said, and matter-of-factly went to his bedroom. She heard him get into bed.
Tonks ventured out of the bathroom. Her godfather was indeed in bed, passed out, apparently. She frowned and went downstairs and drank a carton of milk at the kitchen table, thinking.
x
Bellatrix dropped a glass of water.
She couldn't help it. Suddenly, her muscles had gone insane, tensing and flexing and jittering, forcefully wresting themselves from her control. Shards of glass and droplets of water jumped out in every direction in a miniature explosion; she squeezed her eyes shut and winced at the noise, recoiling somewhat but not moving from her spot.
She opened her eyes after ten seconds; she knew because she counted. The glass and water sparkled in the morning sunlight.
There was a rustle of thin, flimsy paper and Voldemort turned the page to his newspaper, looking in slight interest for the crossword. He said nothing.
There was another man at the kitchen table, and he was sitting in Bella's spot. He was an attractive man, a dandyish man, with white gloves and red-gold hair. His name was Pyrites.
"You ought to clean that up, Bella," he said, smiling, as if it was alright to use her shortened name, as if he had known her for years and years, as if she liked him.
Bellatrix didn't say anything, just stared mutely at him.
The newspaper rustled again; Voldemort had set it down flat on the table.
"Go get a rag, Bella," he said.
She could move - she could move for him. She went back to the sink, and looked around, and she found a rag on the counter.
Voldemort looked round at Pyrites. "Leave." he said.
Pyrites stared. Then he got up and left, leaving his white gloves on the kitchen table.
"Bellatrix," Voldemort said. She twisted the rag nervously in her hands. "You are apologizing far too much of late. I want you to stop. I know you feel sorrow for whatever you do that may offend me, but apologizing takes time and you do not have much time. When you do something wrong, go and fix it."
"Yes, master," Bella said, nodding a little.
"Clean it up."
Wordlessly, she gathered up most of the glass in the rag, and mopped up the water. Then, using her fingers, she plucked up the rest.
Voldemort went back to looking for the crossword, and solving it.
Bella sat at the table beside him and ate a piece of toast with strawberry jam and then went back into her room. Pyrites didn't come back into the kitchen in all that time, because he knew he wouldn't be welcome.
x
"She's going to want blood," Moody said.
Arthur Weasley ran a hand across his grey face. He could hear his children upstairs, here for the afternoon, arguing over something trivial - some pathetic slight that only children found important. But adults did it too; even in war. Adults made mistakes.
"She is," he agreed.
x
It was a relatively small room, but then again, it was a holding cell, and not built for comfort. There were two aurors guarding the door, every minute of every day. Sometimes, they would stare at the prisoner; most of the time they played cards.
Their prisoner did not mind.
He was not Malfoy, he was not Lucius, he was not Mr Malfoy. He was Lucius Malfoy - it was a cold name, a sterile name, a rusted name. Lucius was too personal; Malfoy was impersonal but too popular; too respected. He was going to be the burr on the otherwise exalted family line. The name Mr Malfoy suggested respect, which he did not have.
So they called him Lucius Malfoy. Nothing more.
He was born of luxury, and some thought he was luxury himself. Now he was a poetic figure of power gone wrong, of the results when humanity met with greed and wealth and fame.
He didn't care.
His trial was to be in two days.
He knew his son would not be coming.
x
The last thing that Bellatrix was going to do was use magic.
x
The last place Lucius Malfoy intended to go was Azkaban.
x
By the first strike of the midnight hour, something was going to happen.
x
Voldemort was a patient man. He was also a smart man. He spent his days inside his own head, and yet, somehow, seemed to be aware of everything - every thought, feeling, detail, event - that went on around him.
He was very aware that Bellatrix was angry, and upset. He knew she was vicious and violent and not afraid, never afraid.
He knew she'd have to figure everything out on her own.