The hand panted oriental vase had fallen to the hardwood floor, delicate shards of tinkering glass spreading in all directions: over the thin and wearing old carpet, over the dull floorboards, worn from years of abuse. It was everywhere, a shattered monument to a long awaited reunion between two people.
Bellatrix didn't seem to notice the fine pieces of tinted glass, which were reflecting the light of the moon streaming in through the open window, as she rolled onto her side, biting her lip as she stared at the man beside her. He hadn't been out long, had finally just drifted off moments ago, one hand resting on her thin hip. Her eyes swept over the still form of her husband, his body covered in a thin sheet, his forehead still dotted with bead of sweat, his dark hair damp. She wanted to smile, to brush the black strands away from his face, to lay her cheek on his slightly heaving chest, but she wouldn't allow herself the pleasure. There had been far too much of that already.
After what seemed like hours of just watching him breathe in deeply, she made up her mind to linger no longer, and slipped from the bed in one lithe movement, sliding neatly from beneath the sheets. The moonlight fell over her pale skin, giving it an almost blue tint as she reached for her robes, which were hanging on one of the bedposts.
Slipping the material over her bare form, she began to creep across the room, making no sound as the glass ground into the soles of her feet, blood oozing slowly from the fresh wounds. If anything, the pain was a welcomed contrast to the other emotions and feelings coursing through her. She wanted to forget him; she wanted to forget this night. She didn't need Rodolphus there, as a constant distraction. She would make herself push away again.
He would go along with her, when the morning came, pretending as though the night before had never happened. The both of them would write it off, tuck it away in the back of their memories. All of it forgotten. The scars would remain, for days, but eventually they to would fade, and the night would cease to exist at all. The rough way she'd pounced on him, knocking him back into the nightstand, the vase crashing to the floor. The way neither of them had noticed, too busy with hands and lips, which would be bruised come morning. The way it felt to have skin on skin, after 14 years of not even a single glance.
Bellatrix wouldn't truly forget it, just pretend, as would Rodolphus. For it was much easier to just pretend, then to have to suffer the pitfalls and the foolish notions that came with love. The first time, there hadn't been time for the love aspect. Only nights like this one, passionate and tortured and so caught up within itself that nothing lingered with the dawn except the scent of sex and sweat. Now though, there was no more Lord to please, or work to be done, and there was time for the feelings and the foolish mistakes.
So she left, before her heart could get in the way, before Rodolphus could cloud her mind and keep her from doing the things she was meant to do to avenge their fallen leader.
They were Death Eaters. They couldn't allow such a petty, muggle belief, such as love to stand in their way.
Nothing could stand in their way.