A / N : Hello everyone . . . .
A few notes about this chapter. First of all, if anyone has recently visited my profile, you probably saw this coming. For those who haven't - I was thinking about cutting the chapter into two again, as it was getting too long. Lately I seem to be suffering from what I can only call "Harry Potter syndrome", where the more I write . . . well . . . . the more I write. That, or I have completely and utterly lost my ability to gauge how long a chapter will be from the points in my notes. It's probably a combination of both, now I think about it. I've tried writing 100 word drabbles, and being ruthless with myself, but nothing seems to work – and if I'm not happy with something, I won't post it. So for the moment we're stuck with the long chapters, which leaves me with two options - posting one giant chapter (which would probably be about sixteen pages long and give my readers a heart attack) or splitting it up into shorter chapters. I think Plan B works best, because you get something to read a lot faster. But if you feel like the chapters lose something, then please let me know.
This chapter has also given me hell. And thanks to my preposterous chapter lengths, the hell will continue on for another chapter after this. Um, I should clarify that. I don't hate these chapters. The opposite, actually. I used to love them. I loved them so much, in fact, that once upon a time I did something I never do, and wrote a whole chapter months before I needed it, storing it neatly in my notes to be pulled out at a later date. Unfortunately, me being a technophobic idiot, I never thought to back up these lovely notes - so when my last computer crashed, I lost them all and had to start again from scratch. And my brain, somehow, absolutely loathes the idea of rewriting something it considered completely done. My muse tends to sulk / scream / go on hunger strike. Anyway. This is only about half the chapter in my head, and I have completely deleted it and started all over again six times. Which should give you some idea of how bad the problem was. The good news is, it's getting better. Unless I've just jinxed myself, the next chapter update I post should be for this fic. I don't like to drag things out, believe it or not. ^^
Other notes . . . Chapter title is from the song by Muse. Please review if you have any thoughts, because I have not mastered long-distance Legilimency, and feedback helps. The Molly / Arthur mention here . . . if anyone needs a quick recap without rereading – Dumbledore is recruiting for the Order. Bella sold the Prewett brothers' names to Voldemort during her last encounter with him, as potential blood traitors. Lucius and Rodolphus then tortured them as a warning, on his orders. Molly is understandably rattled, and Bella is (perhaps less understandably) smug, and annoyed that she can't claim much credit for it. That's about it. Oh, and writing summer scenes in dire weather is harder than I expected, so, er . . . I hope they convince, and the head-cold I was struggling with at the time is not glaringly obvious.
Okay, I'm done rambling. (At last, you think . . . ) Enjoy! xD
Darkshines
It was turning into the first truly hot day of summer.
Bella scowled and quickened her pace, throwing her hair over her shoulder. She had always hated the heat. Hot weather was for people like Cissy – dainty little girls with wardrobes full of prim pastel sundresses and flimsy, pointless parasols. Her own wardrobe was full of velvet and silk, blood red and deepest black. She didn't see the point in wearing a colour that looked as if it belonged on the walls, intended to bring out just a hint of pink in her cheeks, and keep male pulses plodding placidly along - rather like the sickly smiles and empty platitudes her parents demanded as proof of her wifely appeal.
Bellatrix gave a contemptuous snort.
Madam Puddifoot, (the plump proprietor of what had to be the most nauseating establishment in all of Hogsmeade) cast her a disapproving look, and swiftly returned to straightening her doilies, which were beginning to curl in the sun.
Bella rolled her eyes. Madam Puddifoot was quite possibly the most pastel person she had ever encountered, and was probably personally offended by her attire. Not that Bella cared. Clothes were supposed to stand out, to make an impact – they were supposed to be striking. The closest Bella had ever come to wearing pastel was an impromptu hug she had once received from Cissy at a garden party, and she was more than happy to keep it that way.
The problem with wearing striking clothes, however, was that even Bella couldn't deny they were sometimes impractical. All that silk and corsetry raised her own blood pressure almost as much as her intended victim's, and in the heat it was nothing short of annoying. She rolled back her sleeves, scowling. She felt hot and sticky, and was starting to regret spending so long in the bath. The scent of bubbles still clung to her skin, lily and rose rising sickly sweet from every pulse point. She didn't want to appear before her master like this - it was humiliating. Bella would rather have been sweaty and purposeful – bloody or slime-covered, even – but instead she was going to present herself as a vapid little twit, someone silly and girlish enough to put on perfume for her master's sake.
He doesn't even like perfume, she thought sourly.
Bellatrix wasn't sure how she knew this, but somehow she was certain of it – her master was not a man who liked perfume. He liked . . . honest things. Purposeful things. She swallowed, pressing her lips together in a tight scowl. It was going to be hard enough to rise above Rosier's bleating about Black women – if she appeared before her master reeking of roses, it was bound to dent her argument ever so slightly. It was as good as advertizing her sex.
Bella inhaled deeply, struggling to soothe the voice in her head baying for Lucius' blood, and more than happy to settle for Rosier's, should he cross her in a fit of cousinly concern. She had lost control, at a time when she needed it most - at a time when she felt almost panicked without it.
She was thinking about her master's taste in perfume.
He was bound to notice. He couldn't not.
Suddenly, Occlumency seemed more urgent than it ever had in Dumbledore's office.
Bella felt her scowl deepen. Other recruits didn't think about these things. But as far as she knew, most other recruits were male, and unlikely to be overwhelmed by alien feelings of . . .. . longing and . . . . hopelessness . . . at their master's touch. They seemed to think about torture when close to the Dark Lord, and apparently longed to back away from his presence - as nonsensical as it seemed. Bella didn't understand it. They, after all, had nothing to hide. They probably didn't feel wrong-footed at every turn, acutely aware of how childish and puppyishly devoted they seemed, how cringingly eager to please. They almost certainly didn't struggle with a mortifying physical attraction to him which their master found coldly amusing, and which coloured their every meeting a delicate shade of . . . . humiliation.
No, Bella thought bitterly. Most other recruits probably didn't think about these things.
Hogsmeade itself was hardly helping to clear her head. The town seemed determined to distract or annoy her as much as possible. It was tiresome enough, walking through the town in a hurry and trying not to look as if she cared too much for her eventual destination, or intended to pass the village parameter at any point. But really . . . Bella scowled. Somehow, the occupants seemed more odious than before. It was possible she had simply never noticed it, when she was on time and distracted by nothing more troubling than whatever hideous outfit Lucius had brought out for the occasion. But today . . . her fingers twitched, and she tightened her grip on her wand.
The main street seemed to have been over-run with trysting couples and squealing brats. Little boys ran laughing up the road, tossing Zonko's joke products high into the air and cramming sweets into their mouths. Hogwarts students wandered aimlessly in and out of the shade, hand in hand and doe-eyed with mutual adoration. They cooed over the summer display in the window of Honeydukes (a dancing pineapple that would have granted Lucius ten minutes of spluttering, apoplectic annoyance, had he been here to see it), and congregated outside the Three Broomsticks, squeezed either side of cosy trestle tables and seemingly Spellotaped together at the lips.
Bella made sure to sneer as she passed Weasley and Prewett, wedged into the smallest table. Weasley turned purple at her attention, and a forkful of pumpkin pasty plopped into his Butterbeer. Prewett tugged sharply on his arm as Bella let out a ringing laugh.
She slowed down a little, painfully aware that she had drawn attention to herself now, and that their eyes would trail her all the way out of the village if she didn't get rid of them.
Prewett's eyes narrowed as Bella approached.
She looked a little different, somehow. The last time Bella had paid her any attention, she had been giggling and carefree, all soppy smiles and contented sighs, busy building the sort of future that made Bellatrix's skin crawl. But now . . . she looked a little more wary, a little less dim. She looked nervous and angry, in fact.
Bella grinned.
"Table manners, Weasley," she said idly, poking him in the back with the tip of her wand. He choked, spraying crumbs into his drink.
Prewett swallowed. "What do you want, Black?" she demanded, with what had to be forced disdain.
Bella shrugged. "It's a nice day," she said lightly, leaning across the trellised fence and prodding the nearest hanging basket. It lurched alarmingly, earth trickling into Prewett's flaming hair. Bella's smile widened. "I thought I'd do something . . . . nice."
"You're a Slytherin," Prewett said harshly. The implication - "you wouldn't know nice if it hit you in the face" - was hard to miss.
Weasley plucked a petal out of Molly's hair, his hand closing over her own. "Leave it, Moll," he murmured. "It's not worth it."
Bella winked. "He's right," she said soothingly. "These are difficult times, for all of us. That's what you're going to say, Weasley, isn't it? But Dumbledore's right. We shouldn't argue with each other. We should stick together." She paused. "Where we belong."
Prewett frowned. "I don't know what you-"
Bella kicked the fence, making her jump, and then tipped the contents of the hanging basket over her head. Weasley gave a shout as Bella flung a fistful of flowers in his girlfriend's face.
"Send them to your brothers!" she snarled. "I hope they're feeling better!"
Prewett gave a shocked, gulping sort of sob, and Weasley shouted something that sounded oddly like "When I get my hands on Malfoy . . . !"
The idea that Malfoy was responsible for any of her behaviour was downright insulting, but by then Bella had danced away across the street, laughing to herself as the pub's other patrons turned to stare at Prewett, who had begun to argue with Weasley. Rosmerta - the pretty young barmaid - offered the sobbing Prewett a napkin and flinched as she proceeded to beat Weasley over the head with it, shrieking something about her love interest "letting Slytherins walk all over him", which was rounded off with a vehement "My brothers wouldn't stand for it!" as he ducked beneath the table.
Bella slipped away from the scene unnoticed, and proceeded to run for the hill, cursing the heat. Faster, faster . . . . she was going to be late.
She let out a small scream of frustration. When she got back to school, she thought savagely, she was going to wrap Lucius' hair around his neck and hang him from the clock in the castle courtyard. That might teach him how it felt to have to fight against time.
Picturing his pale face flushed purple soothed her ire somewhat, but then the path evened out beneath her feet, the steep hillside fell away, and she found herself facing . . . nothing.
There was no-one there, no-one waiting.
After a moment Bella closed her mouth, fingers tightening upon her wand.
"Evan!"
No response.
She tried again. "Rosier?"
Nothing.
Bella swallowed, sweat prickling across her palms. "Rosier!" she spat. "Do you really think you can toy with me? Do you really think that I won't make you sorry you were born if you don't come out of whatever rat-hole you're sulking in in five minutes flat?"
Silence.
He was late.
He had to be late. He had agreed to be here.
Bella kicked the path, sending pebbles flying into the hedgrow.
"When I next see you," she snarled, "I'm going to cut off every appendage you've got! Understand? Every single one, you treacherous bastard, and then I'm going to pickle them in brine and send them to your mother, wrapped up in whatever's left of Malfoy's hair! Do you hear me?"
This threat - though colourful - gained no response, and she gave in at last.
He wasn't here. He couldn't be here.
Bella took a deep breath, shaking with anger and apprehension. Calm down, a voice in her head whispered fiercely. He might still show up. There might be a reason. Calm down.
She sat down on the stile, shivering a little despite the warm summer's air. The wood groaned as she sank her fingernails into the weather-beaten surface - shifting her weight impatiently, half-rising only to fall back again, chewing her tongue to stop herself screaming out loud.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Her heel twitched - beyond her control. It knocked impatiently against the fence, counting, taunting, threatening.
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
Bella shut her eyes and turned her face to the sky, something hot seething in the pit of her stomach. It was part rage, part fear, part frustration . . . and part . . . . the way he looked at her, the cool of his fingers against her throat.
Her foot stilled.
It was so hot. A cool breeze crept across her cheeks, a mocking touch, and the heat pressed down upon her eyelids, a thin layer of perspiration rising at her wrists, forehead, collarbone . . . .
There was a buzzing sound at the edge of her hearing, a bee humming among the heather. And then she felt it – a sharp prickle at the back of her neck. The unmistakeable sensation of being watched.
Bella sat bolt upright, drawing her wand up to elbow height. She jumped onto the path, a flurry of dust swirling around her ankles, and looked around.
"Who's there?" she demanded. She swallowed, mouth as dry as parchment. "I know you're there," she said softly.
Oh, there was someone there, alright. The question was, where? She didn't have long, and there weren't many places to hide. She couldn't assume they were hiding in the obvious areas of cover anyway. With an Invisibility Cloak, or a carefully placed spell, the spy could be anywhere. He could be standing two feet away, his wand trained at her heart. She was unlikely to get more than one chance to stun him, and if she got it wrong . . . .
Bella suppressed a shudder, and then, as her eyes swept the hillside one last time, deciding . . . a flash of silver caught her eye, startling her. Bright, blinding . . .
It was a knife, half-buried in the weeds growing beside the stile. A short silver knife, with a tiny, intricate serpent carved into the handle – and as she watched, the serpent moved.
Bella made up her mind in an instant. It was his mark. Slytherin's mark.
Her master's mark.
She dropped to the ground, plunging her hand through the thistles, and several things happened in quick succession. She was never sure, later, which came first.
A curse streaked past her ear - a screech of blistering, white-hot air, like an unruly note ripped from a violin. And then her fingers brushed the smooth silver of the blade, and she felt a sharp magnetic pull, a jerk beneath her navel - pulling her out of a hot summer's day in Hogsmeade and into the unknown. She gasped as the ground spun away from her, sending her hurtling through the air with her eyes screwed tightly shut, something searing and ice-white curling into her palm.
Her knees buckled against a hardwood floor.
Bella sat up immediately, staring wildly around as her surroundings lurched dizzily into focus.
She was sprawled on the floor in a gloomy room, struggling to catch her breath. Her right hand was bleeding, and she realized that she had instinctively tightened her grip on the blade, reacting against the pull.
Her fingers unfolded, strange and stiff, and the knife clattered to the floor. It looked oddly dull in the gloom. The blood on her fingers had taken on a strange quality too – it looked more black than red in this half-light, a sticky spreading stain, like treacle trickling across her fingers.
Funny, she thought dimly, as the edges of the wound began to throb.
The shadows began to swirl as her breathing became more ragged, the room settling into solidity around her. She took a deep breath.
She could feel it . . .
The wand stopped an inch from her lips.
"Bella . . . " a cold voice hissed. "At last. "