A/N: Warning for coercion and creepiness.
Song lyrics from Soul Asylum: "Marionette."
and they cut off your wings and replaced them with strings
now the strings attach to everything
No one remembers me. Mandy Brocklehurst. Fourth year Ravenclaw, second bed on the left. Prone to daydreaming overly much, trying to get away with the bare minimum on her Charms essays, and having an enormous sweet tooth when it comes to toffees. Likes putting her hair in two braids and tying them off with blue and bronze ribbons (one of my only concessions to House pride, I'll have you know).
But then the Tournament happened, and the third task happened, and in the chaos of Cedric Diggory's corpse thumping onto the grounds with a hysterical Harry Potter beside him, I suppose it was easy enough. Certainly no one noticed the black-robed figure that slipped up behind me, Stunned me, and dragged me off the grounds, still wearing my school uniform and the Muggle trainers I'd smuggled in because I can't help but despise some wizarding fashions, and school boots are one of them.
I wonder when the alarm went up. If it ever did. There's no time down here, you see. I don't know if it's been a few hours or a few months. I only know her face.
You've seen it on the front pages of the Prophet, I'm sure. Bellatrix Lestrange, escaped Death Eater, Voldemort's right-hand witch. The photos don't do her justice. Not really. She's much more striking when it's in person, and she's two inches from your face, and you can smell her breath and count the fine lines that have etched themselves under her eyes. Azkaban was not kind to her, but Bellatrix is not a kind person.
She told me when I first stirred, dazed, my head spinning and my eyes blurry, that I belonged to her now. She pulls my strings, she whispered in my ears, and her breath smelled like spices. I didn't know what she meant then, but I do now.
I don't know how long it is before she's pulling me into the Dark Lord's throne room, my hands tied behind my back, and her leash around my neck. The Dark Lord is terrifying, cadaverous, his skin dead white, his eyes burning into my face like barely banked coals.
"Who is this?" he asks Bellatrix, bored-looking already as he flicks his wand at another Muggle girl in front of him, who shrieks and arches in pain, her neck stretched back so far, it is a miracle it doesn't break.
"My pet," Bellatrix answers almost proudly, her voice a low purr as she shoves me down to my knees with the toe of her boot. "My little puppet." She twirls her wand, and I move without my conscious direction, bowing until my forehead scrapes the rock floor, rising until I am on tiptoes, nearly floating in my skimpy outfit of black tulle. It is nothing, but it is covering, and I cherish it.
"So she is," the Dark Lord says, looking interested for the first time, leaning forward in his throne. The Muggle girl in front of him stops screaming, sobbing as silently as she can instead, blood streaking her face where her fingers have clawed. I cry inside, terror bubbling in my throat, but I make no outward sound.
"My own spell," Bellatrix smirks, flicking her wand again and reducing me to a graceful puddle on the floor. "My own little doll."
The worst part is, I know she's right.