Now we're lying about the nights,
Hiding it all behind the smiles,
Take a look at what you did.
They hadn't been getting along nearly as well as they used to, in the past few years. In fact, things had never been good between them, if one considered that for him, only fitful fornication was good and she was just Bellatrix.
Bellatrix was not a word synonymous with good. (At least in the sense that good things are pure and untouched.)
She supposes, (somewhere deep within her mind, relatively capable for rational thought), that it's never been far away. Lurking beneath the veneer of refinery and eloquence, scratching away at the silky black and emerald green surface.
The fact is; she just doesn't have the time. There lies a cause much greater than her, something to give herself wholeheartedly to, in a way that he could never understand. He's a mere mortal after all, and what is that in the face of her Lord?
Although, she doesn't think it could have hurt like this. After all, she's been known to find herself caught up in the arms of others before, enticed by their sparkling eyes and fresh-faced youth. Underneath it all she feels aged in a way that only experience could make you, but for twenty-something years old, she's yet to find someone who can pace her like he can. Keep her wound up like a clock.
And there he is, tangled in the black and emerald sheets, swathed over him haphazardly. The slit in the window sends a shaft of pale light over his body, athletic and strong as it always has been. The body that lies next to him is olive-skinned and lithe, sheets strung over her abdomen as her hair lies flung across the satin. Her satin.
Perhaps it isn't jealousy, or even betrayal that tugs at her. It's the thorns she notices; the thorns of disgust wrapping themselves around her heart, prickling her insides that bleed for vengeance.
Is it shame? Probably; that her prowess is comparable to the filth that lies on her side. To think a half-blood could ever match her lineage of powerful and capable ancestors. Their blood runs thick in her veins, pulsating as the cold flush of hatred falls over her like a mist.
As for Rodolphus? Well, there would always be others would there not? She is after all, excitingly dangerous. Dangerous in a way he seems to have misunderstood.
'Fuck Bella, put it away!' he yells, rousing quickly with a flick of her wand. The body of the blonde tumbles to the floor, and through the semi darkness Bellatrix sees slashes of red across her back, accompanied by a rasping moan of pain.
'Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food,' she hisses, training her wand deliberately on his chest, 'it's rude not to put them out of their misery first.'
'It's more thrilling when they scream,' he challenges, eyeing her deliberately.
'Show me,' she says, turning her wand slightly and muttering under her breath. His body contorts with a jolt and he does indeed scream, although it sounds more furious than it does pitiful. Shame.
'Fuck!' he screeches, lunging towards her madly.
She laughs humourlessly. Without a wand, how benign.
'You won't kill me,' he challenges, stumbling towards her menacingly, 'you won't kill me because I'm the only one fucking crazy enough to take you.'
She laughs harder, the manic peals of sound draping themselves over the room, bouncing off the walls and high ceiling.
It feels good to control someone like this; perhaps he's got the right idea, she thinks, advancing towards him more pointedly. With a flick, he's thrown up again, and lands face down next to his whore.
'Wake her' she commands, and colours flash again.
The Weeknd - The Knowing