A/N: Sorry it's been so long. But now I'm back and I think I'll be updating this series much more frequently.
So this is another Bella fic (the other one isn't part of this series; it's called The Amazon Star and you can get to it through my profile.) It's set while she's in Azkaban, during Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts. I always thought that Bella's fierce loyalty was a little creepy and obessive. It's a very interesting relationship.
Again, if you want to see a Table of Contents for this story, I have a Guide To "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black" in my profile that has the chapters and their respective Black Family members.
Read and review!
Bellatrix Lestrange
Loyalty
The world has not ended.
It did not stop spinning; indeed, it continues on its path, unaltered, unaware of what haunts you.
Even as life goes on, even as you keep living, you curse the day you were born. Life is nothing without him. You had bonded yourself to him in such a way that you cannot live without his presence.
You are his.
Forever and ever, always and eternally, you belong to him. Irreversable, and unbelievably his. Your mind, your body, your soul. He owned everything that made you you—he controlled every fiber of your being, to the point where now, you do not know what to do.
He is dead.
You still refuse to believe it. Your fingers ache for the familar feel of his skin; your lips acutely note the absence of his own.
You are numb to the world. You know your head rests on the wall behind you, yet the brick gives you no resistance. You are falling, falling through space and time and eternity, and you are hoping for an end to the madness. You wish for it. You pray for it. You just want to die. But they won't let you, will they?
As a testament to your grief and pain, the Dementors haven't been near your cell in days. They avoid it like the plague; your heartache causes them pain, and you relish that—if only they could feel a tiny portion of your sorrow. If they could only touch the top of your searing agony.
You bleed to know you're alive. You watch the red blood swell to the surface of your skin, and you relish the warmth it brings—you have been without warmth for years. You have been without meaning for years.
You have essentially been without life since That Day.
It doesn't matter that you can't remember the date, or even the year, but That Day has been imprinted onto you heart and mind and soul since. You fumble over the hazy memories, trying to make sense of it all. Would it have matter if you went with him, hiding in the shadows? Or would you too have died, your body just an empty shell to be burned?
Death would have been better, you think. You could escape this endless torture, this unforgiving pain.
And then you feel a tingling on your arm. An old cut, you think, festering in the dank wetness of the prison. A reminder of your failure. Of your weakness.
You lift your head from the solid wall behind you. You are tired, and sick, and limp, yet you move carefully, trying to move just enough to see your arm.
It's there. Your Dark Mark. You gently trace the curve of yout forearm with your other hand, touching the skull as if it were sacred.
It's glowing.
He has returned.