Chapter 5: Aunt Walburga's Bloody Portrait

Clouds had lowered down from the skies, blurring streets and buildings. It was a terribly awful and cold day for an August morning. It had poured the previous night, and now the streets were suffering the after-effects of a huge shower. Most Muggles had called in sick for work, as it would be a terribly weary mission to travel through the still very wet, and soaked streets of London.

Bellatrix was tossing back and forth in bed, curling up, reverting to tossing back and forth—doing all this in order to cover herself fully with a very worn blanket. She was quite unconscious of the fact that the Body-Bind Curse that had been incanted on her by Harry the previous night had finally lost its hold. She groaned, her toes were stiff cold—the blanket was too undersized for her figure. Knowing that the blanket wouldn't cover her toes, no matter how hard she tried, she then stuffed her head under the pillow in order to warm her ears instead. She grumbled when she did not succeed in her mission to warm them. Sighing, still half-dazed and asleep, she fluttered her dark-eyelashes and revealed her dark irises to the world.

Meanwhile, Harry was quite immersed in his sleep. He had his mouth half-open, drool leaking out of it as he slept, seeming quite dead from afar. Therefore, he did not know that the witch sitting upright on the bed behind him, and who was now absorbing her surroundings with enlarged eyes—was not going to linger in a half-dazed state for long.

Bellatrix was about to thrust her slender hand into the pocket located at the side of her robe to find her wand, but stopped instantly when her eyes accidently caught it on the floor by her bed— cracked in two.

Comprehension dawned onto her.

Memories of the past night swept into her mind.

Her breathing began to get ragged. She lifted her gaze from her cracked wand to Harry Potter who was lying down a few inches away from it—he was sleeping so soundly he seemed almost unconscious. Her lips curled into a small smirk, as she stared at the holly wand sticking out of his pocket. Slowly, she climbed down from bed, and began to tiptoe silently towards him.

He didn't even notice.

He didn't even toss around or make the faintest sound, as she gently drew out his wand from his pocket. She stared blankly at the wand her hands now held onto firmly, not quite knowing what to do with it. So, she stood still for a few seconds, and a thought suddenly popped into her mind that seemed to interest her more than completing what she had planned to do yesterday. Smiling menacingly, she curled her slim fingers on both ends of the wand and—

Snap.

She had broken it in two, just the way Harry had broken her wand.

She smirked, the boy deserved it—nobody had ever dared break her wand—and she knew exactly where to place the pieces. Kneeling down, she gently opened his pocket with her fingers, and then carefully shoved it back to where it had been in one piece—just a mere few seconds ago. The deed done, she trudged out of the room, walking through the hallway, and down the stairs to the ground floor.

Shivering, she hugged herself with her hands, as she began to pace through main corridor towards the nearest fireplace— when suddenly she screamed in distress. Looking down, she realized she had walked into granules of glass— it had been the glass encasing the portrait of her dreadfully annoying aunt.

She groaned, staggering backwards and collapsing down on the cold-hard ground. She hissed at the pain, as she shoved her hand into her pocket for her wand, but was met with nothingness, so she had to resort to removing each individual glass that had been cemented into the skin on both her feet with her hands.

At last, she removed the very last pieces from her feet. Her hands were now fully stained red. She glanced down at the creamy-white robe she had been wearing since yesterday morning. The robe was now spoiled red from her blood— first tainted red by the blood that had oozed from her knees, when she had fallen down after running from Gringotts—and now from the blood that had seeped out of her feet. Growling, she ripped the ends of her gown, and began wrapping them around both her feet. It took a few tries before she finally succeeded in dressing them properly.

She rose from the ground, carefully avoiding the glass smithereens on the floor, and limped towards the nearest fireplace. Finally, she arrived to a room with one. Only, she stared at the fireplace dumbfounded, not really knowing how to lit it without her wand. She slumped down onto a worn sofa and growled in irritation. She felt quite handicapped without her wand—it was such a terrible existence. She began to wonder how Muggles could live without magic on a daily basis—

"Having trouble?" she heard a voice. She instantly turned her head around, her dark curls springing onto one side of her shoulder. A boy with jet-black hair and striking green eyes was staring at her with a smirk plastered on his face: it was Harry Potter. She smirked back, wondering if he had realized she had destroyed his wand. His footsteps neared her, and she soon viewed his shadow loom on the ground beside the sofa she was seated on. Slowly, she lifted her head, and stared at him with her dark eyes. Both of their faces were void of any expression other than pure irritation. They stared at each other for a few minutes in such a manner—not uttering a single word, until— "You broke me wand," he said flatly, breaking the silence.

She shrugged and didn't respond.

He glanced down at her feet, and found them dressed with the material her robe had been made of. The cloth was stained completely red— she was bleeding profusely. He remembered how he had been walking down the main corridor, and had found dabbles of blood leaving a trail—he had followed it, until he had arrived to the small study room they were now in— "MISTRESS IS BLEEDING!" Bellatrix and Harry turned around abruptly at the voice, both completely stunned, and in state of wonderment at whom else was in the abode.

A house-elf, roughly three foot tall, with wrinkles covering his frail little body, and white hair sticking out of his ears was staring frantically at Bellatrix. "DID MASTER DO IT?" he screamed. "DID MASTER DO IT?" Harry growled and grumbled, this was 'just great', he thought to himself, 'just great'. Bellatrix and Kreacher, the two beings that irked him the most, were with him in the same room.

"Quiet down, Kreacher," Harry heard Bellatrix order. He looked back at her, and was surprised to find her equally as aggravated as he was at seeing the house-elf. "It was not him," she said bitterly to the house-elf, referring to Harry, "it was that bloody annoying portrait of Aunt Walburga."

Kreacher looked stunned. He stared at Bellatrix for a while, and then his stricken and stunned face began to turn into an awful expression that conveyed pure disgust and revulsion. Bellatrix, in just a fraction of a second, was no longer the idol he had worshiped for years. She was now just as equally as repulsive as Harry Potter—she had referred to his flawless Mistress as 'annoying'. Slowly, trudging away from their view, he went into the kitchen cupboard where he lived and kept Bellatrix's picture. Grimacing, he began to rip it to pieces, moping as he did so.

Meanwhile, back in the study room, Harry looked at Bellatrix frantically and with irritation. He shoved his hands into both of his pockets, but couldn't find the plastic bag that held the floo powder Dumbledore had given him yesterday. Cursing within, he ran up the hallway, avoiding the granules of glass from Aunt Walburga's portrait, and hysterically searched around to find the plastic bag, but he couldn't find it anywhere. He couldn't Apparate—he didn't know how—how was he going to find someone to heal Bellatrix's wounds—how was he going to get back to the Burrow or Privet Drive?

Growling, he went back to the study room, brooding as he did so, and arrived back at where he had been standing a few minutes ago. Bellatrix didn't seem to care an iota for where he had disappeared, or why he had been causing such a ruckus upstairs. "Now, with no wands or a house-elf to heal those wounds—what do you plan on doing? You've got to Apparate to St. Mungo's or—I don't know—the Burrow to heal them," he said, furrowing his eyebrows in anger, though his eyes were muddled with concern.

Bellatrix once again just shrugged, for she didn't care if she bled. Sirius's face was flickering through her head once again. She could perhaps die out of extreme loss of blood, she thought—the thought elated her. Harry caught on. "I'm not going to let you die," he said, firmly.

"Why?"

Harry was surprised, for he had heard her speak and hadn't been met with her usual shrug. He stared at her, perplexed by her question, while she stared at him with her striking, heavily-hooded dark eyes, waiting for a reply. 'Why?' she had asked. It was such a simple question, but he couldn't invoke a satisfying answer. He responded with an unintentional imitation of her shrug, and watched her as she plummeted her gaze to the marble floor, where a stream of red liquid had formed from the blood that had been dripping from the dressings covering both her feet. "Because—" Bellatrix suddenly heard Harry say, "because, I don't want to live with a guilty conscious for the rest of my life." She didn't respond, and continued to stare indifferently at the ground. She heard him sigh, and then she received the impending question. "Why do you wish to kill yourself?" he had asked.

She shrugged.

Harry's face furrowed with frustration—he knew he was not going to fork out an answer from her so easily. He huffed in— his lips were trembling with anger. "I'm going to go to a Muggle pharmacy to get some alcohol to disinfect those wounds, and some proper bandages—some matches too to lit up a fire," he said, gruffly.

What's a pharmacy? — She thought to herself, as she heard him walk away, the sound of his footsteps soon dimming and dimming until they were non-existent. And what are matches? — She pondered, still shivering with arms wrapped around her chest, and silently gazing down at the pool of blood beneath her feet.

oOo

The wind was rushing into his eyes, scraping his eyeballs, he blinked furiously to get a clear image of where he was heading. He glanced around and not a being was to be seen. He continued to march onwards through the pools of water billowing beneath him. His pants had become so wet and cold— they had caused his legs to become numb. Where was Dumbledore? The headmaster had just left him stranded at Grimmauld Place and hadn't returned for hours. He cursed under his breath, as he continued to trudge forwards, wrapping his arms around himself. He was only wearing a shirt made out of thin fabric and equally thin trousers.

He finally arrived at the corner of a street, and found a small convenience store. 'This will do', he thought to himself, pushing the door open with one shivering hand.

He shook his hair, and rubbed his hands together to warm himself up as soon as he had walked in. "Quite cold, innit?" he heard a voice. He looked up, and found an elderly Muggle cashier standing behind a counter. He nodded slowly, placing a forced smile on his face. It had been quite a while since he had spoken to ordinary Muggles—other than his Uncle, Aunt and boorish cousin of course. He gaped for a second at the elderly man, who had a wisp of white hair on his scalp, and a cigarette plucked into his mouth. Harry wondered— how did it feel to be completely unaware of how much trouble the world was truly in? He sighed, wishing for a second to be as oblivious as the Muggle behind the counter.

He began to walk around the aisles, trying to find some alcohol, dressings and matches. "Wha' are yer lookin' fer youn' lad?" he heard the old man's voice.

He turned around, and forced smile on his face once more. "Uh, some alcohol—" he shook his head when he found the man pointing at the liquor behind the counter, "no—no—not that kind. For wounds."

"Ah, I see," the man said, walking away from the counter. He seemed awfully happy. Harry assumed he didn't have many customers. The man walked down towards the very end of the aisle Harry was in, and picked up a bottle of alcohol with the cigarette still plucked in his mouth. He turned around and faced Harry. "Wha' else deh yeh need?" he inquired.

"Matches and some dressings," Harry responded abruptly, and then waited patiently for the man to return with what he had asked for. Harry's hands were shoved into his pockets, for he was still cold. Thoughts of Bellatrix swept around his mind, he wondered how she was doing back at Grimmauld Place—

"'ere you go," he heard the man. He glanced around and found him now back behind the counter, and his items beside the cash machine. He began to trek towards the counter, but soon realized that he didn't have any money.

He cursed in his head as he said, "I—uh—I don't have any money. I—"

"It's alright youn' lad," the man replied, smiling warmly at him, "yeh seem distressed." Harry hadn't realized he had looked distraught, he supposed the man— whom was now handing him a plastic bag—had just imagined panic on his face.

"Thank you," Harry responded, as he walked out of the shop.

He found the wind welcoming him with a harsh blow to his face. He growled, as he began to march forwards again, holding firmly to the plastic bag that was flying harshly, hitting his leg every now and then because of the bitter wind. He glanced to his right, and found a slimy figure standing in the alleyway, confused as to what he was seeing, he squinted his eyes and then gasped—

It was an inferius.

The inferius began to march towards him, as if knowing that the boy before him was none other than Harry Potter. Harry squirmed— he didn't have his wand and began to run away, afraid for his life. Not looking back, until—that is—he felt an icy hand grasp his arm. He turned back and shook his hand away, but slipped down onto the ground, and a muffled cry left his lips as his head thumped down on the pavement. He tasted copper—blood had started seeping down his forehead and from his nose. He felt the same icy hand wrap around his leg, and upon feeling it once more—he jolted up from the ground, relying on his survival instinct— smacking the inferius's head with the plastic bag. He watched the inferius land on the ground and once seeing this, he began to storm away again.

The wind was rustling through his dark hair, as he saw the dim outlines of familiar houses reveal through the fog before him, he realized he was near Grimmauld Place, and finally let out a sigh of relief. He arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, panting and wheezing as he did so. The door behind him, as he had expected, closed by itself. He heard a ruckus come from what seemed to be the dining room and he curiously followed the sound, with dried blood plastered on his face.

oOo

"KREACHER!" Bellatrix shrieked, throwing the plate across the dining room. The plate formed a dent on the wall in which it had landed. Kreacher had cooked a revolting rodent for her. Her stomach squirmed, as the image of the fried rat stayed glued in her head—she could feel vomit hurling up her throat. Suddenly losing her appetite, she unconsciously decided she would not eat today.

A small and smug smile emerged on the house-elf's face. "Mistress had asked Kreacher to prepare food for Mistress and so Kreacher did," he said. Upon hearing this, Bellatrix felt like choking the little house-elf until his final breath—

She heard a voice.

She turned her face to where it had come from, and found Harry standing at the threshold between the dining room and main corridor with a plastic bag held in his hand, and a face covered with dried blood.

She lifted an eyebrow. "What happened to you?" she asked flatly, and completely unintentionally too, for she didn't want to speak to him.

"Doubt you'd care," Harry responded, and then neared her. "How are your feet?" he asked, stooping down and sitting on his knees, soon lifting her feet, and placing them upon his thighs. Bellatrix was taken aback— she sat completely dumbfounded, watching him with stunned eyes as he grabbed a bottle from the plastic bag he had been holding a minute ago, and began to unwrap the bandages around both her feet. She felt an unusual feeling writhe through her stomach, as she viewed the dried blood that had leaked from his nose and forehead. She felt a desire to shove her hand into her pocket to cleanse his face, but realized she didn't have her wand, and upon realizing this, the thought of wishing to clean his face evaporated in an instant, and was substituted with a desire to inflict a very painful Cruciatus Curse on him.

She continued to watch him. He ripped his shirt and wet it with some kind of clear substance from the bottle that he had taken out of the plastic bag. He began applying it to her feet—

It stung—horribly.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, causing Harry to abruptly look up at her, he huffed and didn't reply and continued wiping the dried blood from her feet. Bellatrix hissed and winced, as he continued to apply the substance to her wounds. After wrapping appropriate bandages across both her feet, and being pleased with himself for how well he had done so, he erected from the ground and glared at her with irritated eyes.

"I was disinfecting your feet, not that you would know, since you know nothing about Muggle Science," he replied, flatly. "I've got some matches—they're a Muggle tool used to lit fires. Hold onto me and I'll help you to the nearest fireplace—"

"I'm not a bloody toddler," Bellatrix replied, furiously. "Don't speak to me in such a condescending manner," she spat, her dark eyes ablaze with anger.

"Oh, you can use big words," he said, mockingly. "Last time I heard you in the Department of Mysteries—you were speaking like a bloody toddler!"

She grumbled, Harry stooped down and forced her to wrap her slender arm around the crane of his neck. After doing so, they began to stride towards the nearest fireplace, with her limping by his side. He then gently placed her down on one of the sofas. Her lips were trembling furiously, as she watched him glide a twig on what seemed to be a small cardboard box. To her surprise, the twig's end burst with a flame. She glared at it in awe as Harry then threw it into the fireplace—igniting it at last. Harry then plopped down on the ground, sitting to her right near the fireplace.

The two of them didn't talk to each other as the room gradually began to get warmer. The silence was unnerving and quite uncomfortable for both of them. Bellatrix wriggled in her seat, huffing as she stared at the flames in the fireplace—she thought she had seen Sirius's face form in the flames. And when she had realized she had imagined it, a tear abruptly began to dribble down from one of her dark eyes—

"Why are you crying?" she heard that quite irritating voice.

She didn't respond, and continued to watch the flames. "Why are you here?" she barked.

"This place is co-owned by me, you know?" he responded. "But you didn't answer my question—"

"Why I'm here is none of your concern," she hissed.

The two continued to sit in complete silence again. Harry stared at the flames, remembering how he had once seen Sirius's face in the fireplace at Hogwarts a year ago. He sighed a miserable sigh, then glanced to his left at his killer. She was sitting down on the ornate sofa with her arms wrapped around her chest, staring at the flames with her beautiful dark eyes—he abruptly shook his head upon thinking of her in such a manner.

An hour passed in stillness, and in that hour Harry continued to wonder and ponder over the enigma sitting to his left on the sofa. What had crossed her mind when she had stunned Sirius? He lifted his head and looked straight at her—he had to ask—"What were you thinking when—when you murdered him?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper, but Bellatrix had heard him loud and clear through the sound of burning wood in the fireplace.

She stiffened, but continued to stare at the fireplace. Minutes passed, and Harry felt that he would never receive an answer—

"I didn't think," he heard a soft voice, barely a whisper—saturated with pain.

Those three words continued to echo around the room, long after she had uttered them.

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed that bit. I've already started on the next chapter. And, once again, your thoughts are welcomed, so please feel free to leave a review, =)

P.S—Thank you to those of you who have reviewed my fic anonymously—I'm thanking you here, for I cannot thank you through messaging you privately or any other means for that matter.

As for one of the reviewers named 'Guest' who has asked me if Bellatrix has gone through a de-aging potion, my simple and fairly short answer to that would be no. Bella's in her late thirties maybe very early forties, and Madame Promfrey (as mentioned in the third chapter) has given her potions etc. that has caused the effects of Azkaban to disappear from her physical form, but she isn't de-aged in the sense that she's literally gone to being a twenty-something years old. Anyhow, I hope that answers your question. And, I've met plenty women in their late thirties and early forties who seem as though they're forever stuck in their twenties (I had a Spanish teacher I was surprised to hear was forty something. I thought she was in her twenties), but if you any of you want me to implement a de-aging kind of thing in this fic then please let me know, and I'll try my best to somehow put it in. =)