character death. sort of.
IX
Bellatrix bit her lip and swore and drove. She had stopped once more at headquarters to do her makeup - thick and bold and daring, dark red lipstick and black eye shadow and eyeliner thick as crayon - and the Dark Lord had not been there, so she had been unable to tell him anything. She had not seen him since she had fallen asleep at the table, early in the morning. This did not disconcert her (though she was uneasy when he was absent ever since the events of Halloween 1981), but she still missed his presence deeply.
She must be getting lipstick on her teeth as she tore her lips apart - how unfortunate. She glanced into the rectangle of her rear-view mirror, saw the unevenness of her lip colour. She'd have to reapply it somewhere private. A lady never put on lipstick in public.
She worried a little about Lucius, locked up, and then she worried about her nephew Draco and her sister Narcissa, and how they were faring. Bella knew Narcissa could take care of herself, but Draco was still a loose end. He hadn't yet joined the Death Eaters, and the last thing Bella wanted was Draco joining to, in some way, avenge his father's incapacitation. People like that never made good Death Eaters. They were too footloose, too emotional.
Still, that was not her problem now. Her problem was her next target.
Mundungus Fletcher was a very unusual person. Cocky, but not. Smart, but not. Responsible, but not. Bellatrix did not connect with him like she had managed to connect with Kingsley. Fletcher was of another breed altogether. She did not like this breed, found it disgusting that it was still alive. Still, if they hadn't been killed off by now, then they must serve some purpose. Like mosquitoes. Drove you mad, but fed the bats. And Bellatrix liked bats.
x
It had stopped raining, but there was still water on the park bench. Voldemort didn't care; he went and sat on it anyway. Beside him, Dumbledore was reading a book.
"It stopped raining," Dumbledore said mildly.
Voldemort ignored him, busied himself with leaning his black umbrella against his leg and taking in the scenery.
"Bellatrix does not like rain," Voldemort said, after a moment.
"Did she kill Kingsley?"
"That's a silly question," Voldemort said. He said silly as if it was just another word, a word just as serious as agoraphobia or homicide or perversion, and not something five-year-old girls giggled during sleepovers.
"Yes," Dumbledore said, still pleasant. He was always calm and mild with Voldemort. He did it on purpose; he knew how unstable Voldemort could get around him, counted on it. Voldemort hated the older man even more for it - for treating Voldemort as if he were a puppet on a string.
Just thinking about talking with Dumbledore caused Voldemort to suffer serious stress. That's why little talks like these - the secret meetings of two masterminds, the purpose of which was merely for sport, if nothing else - happened so rarely. If Dumbledore had his way, he'd speak with Voldemort more often, maybe under the delusion he could work his magic and then Voldemort would become The Golden Boy, or something equally trashy. Voldemort only agreed to it because it reminded him why he hated Dumbledore so much. It was good for his cause.
And Voldemort did not ultimately fear betrayal through these meetings. Breaking pacts as sacred and old as these had a punishment. Voldemort knew Dumbledore was not strong enough for the old gods anymore.
The Headmaster probably thought he was, though, so still Voldemort was wary.
"Anything to say, Tom?" Dumbledore asked.
My name is not Tom, Voldemort thought immediately. Long ago he had decided not to argue anymore, though he would never be used to it. Tom. Ridiculous. The prodding of an old man with nothing left. "Not really, no," Voldemort said.
"Nothing? Have you nothing planned?" Dumbledore smiled his angry, crooked smile. "You're always scheming, Tom."
Dumbledore was always scheming as well, but Voldemort was not a man for miniature pokes and prods. He would let Dumbledore lie, to himself and others; it was none of Voldemort's business. "It is useless to remark on the future," Voldemort said, getting to his feet. He'd had enough. His priestly robes rustled softly. "Forming an opinion on what is yet to come brings no joy, nor pain."
"I see," Dumbledore said.
Voldemort nodded. "God Bless," he said, tucking his umbrella beneath his arm and wandering off.
x
Lucius was sitting in his cell. He had nothing better to do.
Most people preferred to keep Lucius distanced from the public. As in, the Ministry of Magic did. Few reporters had been able to catch a glimpse of Lucius since he'd been locked away - one reporter, obviously in it for the money, had flung himself across the hood of the car Lucius had been shoved into weeks earlier as he'd been taken to the Ministry itself. That photographer had managed to capture a photo of blonde hair and the annoyed face of the driver, and that was the most recent photo of Lucius the public had been supplied with.
Lucius could not be a person - he had to be a name, and a blur, and nothing more. Those who had known Lucius personally in the past preferred to scrub him from their memory, and treat him the way the papers treated him - nothing but black type on paper.
Lucius was fine with that. He didn't have long. Lucius Malfoy would not go to Azkaban - he refused to set foot there, refused to be tainted. He respected Bellatrix. He respected her strength, a strength he did not have. Bellatrix strode into Azkaban in a flurry of anger and fear, proudly refusing to denounce her Lord, no matter how many years went by. Until, finally, he had come for her.
Lucius did not have that courage. If Lucius was to be sentenced to Azkaban, then he would be certain that he would never set foot on the island. He'd rather die.
And he might have to do that himself.
Still, there was always a chance. It's never over till you're dead, anyway.
Lucius was lovely, in an old-fashioned sort of way. He was slim and aquiline and aristocratic. Sometimes, when Lucius was in the dark, and nothing but the dark, he was even beautiful. Something of the old world was in Lucius' blood, and it resurfaced when the modern world held no sway.
He sat with his back to the wall, inspecting his hands. He used to be able to palm read - something Narcissa had taught him back when they were younger, and their lives had been flowers and laughing and romance before parenting had come along. He couldn't for the life of him remember how to do it.
x
Mundungus lived in a dinghy flat somewhere in the south - or was it north? Bella hated directions - of London. It took her awhile to get there, especially since she seemed, halfway through her drive, to be taken with a fit of shudders, and nearly collided with a biker at an intersection.
It was a cheap place to live. People like Mundungus Fletcher were always moving. It had as much to do with survival as it had to do with whim. Bellatrix was fortunate - she'd found the right place.
She sat in her car for a moment. There were a lot of people around. It was late evening - it was time to go to clubs, and whathaveyou. People going out for dinner, people going out drinking and dancing, people going out to have sex in bathroom stalls. Human nature came out at night. Bellatrix liked that.
People ignored things, at this time of day. If someone was fighting in the room next to you, you didn't go and check. You turned up your music.
The alleyway where she had parked her car was deserted, so there was no one to ignore her anyway. She got out, and went into her trunk, and got out her duffel bag - filling it with only a few items so that it was light and easy to carry. She locked the doors and set out to walk the last block to the building, her black sneakers splashing into little puddles that had gathered on the uneven pavement.
A man gave her an openly inviting look as she passed, but she ignored him. She had not fixed her lipstick. She was still pretty.
She looked up at the building as she circled it, choosing the back door, through the alley. There was an open window and a fluttering curtain, a few floors up. She knew that that was his apartment.
Bellatrix thought, to hell with the security system, even though there wasn't really one, just a door that wouldn't let you in unless you had the key. Bellatrix didn't have the key, but the door let her in anyway; perhaps remembering, from a long time ago, when it was still a tree, that balance must be kept within the world, and here was a lady who held a pair of scales - and, after some rummaging in the bag, a crowbar.
She walked slowly up the stairs, as if her knees pained her. She went up three flights, her crowbar hanging limp in one hand and her bag in the other, before stopping and finding the door she wanted to go through.
She put down her duffel bag, and knocked.
x
Mundungus was a small, wiry man, and he was a very quick man. He glimpsed her face - and it was her real face, the face of a fellow criminal - and had nearly shut the door all the way before Bellatrix kicked it back open.
She threw herself into the apartment, but he was ready. People like Mundungus were always ready.
The iron coat stand and its decorative, sharply curved barbs nearly took out her eye as he shoved it at her. She tried to bat it aside with her crowbar; the vibrations jarring through the metal almost made her drop her weapon. But her determination brought her through it and she darted aside. The barbs scraped down her thigh.
Mundungus didn't talk. You never talked in fights like these. Instead, when Bellatrix sent her crowbar slamming against his head he jumped aside, and threw a cheap wooden chair at her, their fight having spilled right into the kitchen.
Bellatrix knew the place would be small, but hadn't factored that in. She found it cramped, and hard to manoeuvre a swinging weapon. Her wrist throbbed as she used her arms to block the chair, the crowbar managing to slide its way between the chair legs and become jerked to the side, bringing her arm with it.
And then Mundungus punched her, right in the face.
Bellatrix's nose bled, and her lip split immediately from the blow, and widened when, as she lost her balance and fell towards the floor, he elbowed her in the mouth.
It stung, and she was dazed, but she was still coherent. Coherent enough to kick, upwards, foot sinking into Mundungus' stomach.
Mundungus fell back, right against the countertop, reaching out to grab the edge and catch himself. Blood was dripping down Bellatrix's face as she tore back up to her feet, just in time to see Mundungus retrieve a carving knife from the counter.
Bella reached behind to her waist and drew her skinning knife - acquired at a hunting goods store - to raise it in retaliation. As the two blades struck one another Bella's wrist throbbed hotly, and she nearly dropped it, but didn't.
Mundungus' knife slid along her blade and downward, cutting at her forearm and slicing down near the elbow. Bella ignored this and lunged, knifepoint jabbing forward with the speed and anger of a striking cobra. Mundungus jumped back and hit the counter again.
Blood was beginning to spatter to the tiles, and all of it was Bella's. This made her angry, but it was not an illogical anger.
This was not going to be a kill like Kingsley. Kingsley was a kill for information. But Bella had all of her information now, and she knew her target, and she wouldn't stop until he was dead. Mundungus seemed to sense this.
He attacked her again, knowing that if he was cornered, he would probably lose. She twirled her knife in her hand to the correct position to properly block him, and avoided his kick. He pushed her back. Flecks of blood spattered the linoleum.
This was his apartment, and he knew it better than she did. They exchanged more stabs and slices, and no more blows were made until he went for her shoulder, and she pivoted away - and collided with the corner of the fridge.
He tried to stab her then, of course, but Bellatrix, using the fridge as leverage, pushed herself sideways and a little back.
She was still hit, but it wasn't as serious as it could have been - instead of her throat it skittered along her collarbone, slicing past layers of skin and clothing and opening up a thick well of blood and revealing bone. He swept his foot along the floor, knocking her legs out from beneath her, and she toppled back, slamming the back of her head on the ground.
He stepped, hard, on her fingers, and she let go of her knife - but then she kicked up, and dealt him a blow squarely beneath the chin.
She flipped onto her stomach and began to half crawl, half run, scrambling to her feet, needing space, needing to recuperate and to get her senses back. He tackled her just as she was about to regain her balance and she crashed forward, on carpet this time, and fell through the open doorway leading out of the flat.
She swore, loudly, the words distorted through her split lip, and desperately attempted to crawl away. He let go of her waist to grab at her hair, and she let out a shout as her head snapped backwards. Her uninjured hand, clawing for something to grip, hit the familiar material of her duffel bag just outside the door.
Open! she thought.
It was. Or it did. Bellatrix didn't take the time to think about it. Her fingers closed around the nearest object she could before Mundungus dragged her back into his flat.
She rolled over and kneed upward, hitting him squarely in the chest. He let out a grunt of pain and his hand snapped forward, palm outstretched, slamming it against her nose. If it wasn't broken before, it definitely was now.
Bellatrix disregarded it, swung what she was clenching in her hand around towards his head. It was light, and not very firm or supported or strong. It was a noose.
It caught and she pulled tight. Mundungus struck out at her in the immediate panic of a man whose air had been cut off, before she felt a strong tug on the rope and he was pulling her back.
Bellatrix let go of the rope to clutch farther along, nearer to the end. He scrambled away and got to his feet, loosening the noose. She jumped up and pulled, panicking, not wanting him to loose it enough so that he could slip it off.
They stood across from each other, breathing heavily. It was not a very long rope, but they were a good distance apart, and Bella had some extra length of rope dangling to the ground from where she held it. She clutched it with both hands, even though one of them didn't really want to work. Mundungus held his own end steady, gripping at the rope around his throat to prevent her from tightening it. But she gave him no room to loosen it, either. It was quiet, except for maybe the slight flutter of the curtains framing the open window in the TV room, and their breathing.
Bellatrix tried to spit out the blood filling her mouth, but found it difficult. And then, experimentally, she tugged. Mundungus stiffened and pulled back with equal strength.
Bellatrix threw her weight back against the rope, and Mundungus did the same in the opposite direction. She dominated the tug-of-war at first, but eventually her wrist and arm failed her and Mundungus gained several feet back, dragging Bella forward.
She grit her teeth and her grip tightened. She wrestled him back towards her end of the room for about half a metre before she immediately loosened her hands and let the rope slide through, and watched as Mundungus toppled backwards with the sudden freedom.
She gripped tight before the last of the rope slipped from her fingers, and he crashed right into the sill of the open window. She darted forward, quick and desperate, slamming him against it as he tried to push away. He elbowed her aside and her forehead collided with the top of the casement, but he was too late.
Bellatrix grabbed his legs and flipped Mundungus right through the window and then turned and ran, pulling, until the rope was stretched firmly with no more length left to spare. But it wasn't, she realised, taut.
She supposed this was a good thing - she doubted she could ever support his weight. She went to the end of the rope, tugging, until she could manage to get into the kitchen, working as fast as she could to tie the end to the best support she could find - the pipe under the sink.
She picked up her crowbar where it had fallen and went back to the window. As she suspected, Mundungus was clinging to the wall, just barely hanging on. He was breathing heavily through the tightened noose.
Bellatrix leaned out and began to hit him with the crowbar.