A / N : I have written and rewritten and edited this one to absolute death, and having reached the point where my fingers jam and my eyes blur just looking at the thing, I'm giving up. So - for all the lovely people who know exactly who they are and prod me out of hopeless lazy despair when I need it . . . . here is chapter thirteen.
(Thirteen? Oh. Irony. How interesting.)
Points of note : This seems like a good point at which to remind my readers that I don't use the Black Family Tree. In Bella's first memory, she is eleven, Andromeda is fourteen, Narcissa is nine. (It seemed like a good idea to provide a reminder, in case anyone had forgotten and the dynamic between them seems a little strange.) In memory no.2, Bella is thirteen, and Rodolphus is sixteen. Memory no.2 is explained in greater detail later on, and in all honesty will probably be written in some other multi-chap in the future. (Probably the Andromeda fic which is on my to-do list.) But it should be easy enough to follow without detailed background information, it's pretty self-explanatory. And hopefully Rodolphus' opinion of Bella (given to Lucius in chapter seven) makes a little more sense now. Also - I'm working under the hypothesis that the fathers of Crabbe and Goyle were about as imaginative as their offspring. So Bella is referring to Goyle Sr in that similie, not his son. We haven't slipped into sudden AU or anything.
Chapter title is from the song by Lou Reed and The Killers. Because I love it, and it seemed to fit.
Tranquilize
"At last," a cold voice hissed, and Bella swallowed hard.
She looked up. She couldn't help it. Perhaps it would have been wiser to stay staring at the floor, to indicate . . . humility, or remorse. But her gaze was drawn upwards instead, fixed upon the man before her.
He was a man. A powerful man, certainly, but still. A man, not some sort of minor deity. There was no reason for her to be struck dumb in his presence.
No, Bella thought dully. No reason at all.
And yet here she was, lying crumpled on the floor, mouth agape and hands extended, proferring bloody palms towards him. An offering? A plea?
He was close to her now . . . so close to her . . . his wand hovering an inch from her lips. There was nothing Bella could think to say. She wanted to say something witty, arresting, impressive . . . but she seemed to have left her wits behind her in Hogsmeade.
Say something, she screamed at herself. Say something!
Her master withdrew his wand, very slowly - and then his lip curled, and Bella realized with a sudden surge of horror that her hands were still upturned, blood falling quietly to the floor. She dropped them immediately, cheeks blazing, and balled her fists in the fabric of her skirt.
"It was a Portkey," she said hoarsely, when she found her voice. "The knife. It was a Portkey."
Her master's expression remained inscrutable. "Yes," he hissed.
Bella swallowed and sat up a little straighter. She wasn't sure she dared to stand. Why couldn't she think of the right thing to say? She had waited for this moment, after all – waited weeks in impatient expectation.
Yet here she was, gormless as Gregory Goyle before the most powerful wizard she had ever met, a man whose approval mattered more to her than anything, for reasons she didn't fully understand. And she was reduced to pointing out the obvious.
The knife was a Portkey. Well of course it was a Portkey. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't, would you? Idiot.
She wanted to ask why, what her master had intended by it . . . . but she had a feeling that might be obvious too.
"Who – who attacked me?" she stammered instead, hoping this question might interest him a little more, might draw his attention to the fact that she was here, and had evaded her would-be assailant. "In the field? My lord," she added hastily.
Her master regarded her a moment, his head tilted to one side.
"Dolohov," he answered at last. His tone was indifferent.
Bella took a deep breath, pushing her hair out of her eyes. The floor was cold against her knees.
And then her master's gaze flickered briefly to her hands, to the crimson streak across her forehead. His lip curled again, and suddenly, she understood.
She shouldn't have picked up the knife. It was a suspicious object, and she had touched it, with her bare hands, without a second thought. It could have been a trick, or a trap. It could have been cursed. Touching it - trusting it - had been foolish. Weak. Of course he wasn't impressed - of course he wasn't about to pat her on the head and call her a clever girl.
But . . . Bella frowned. If she hadn't touched it . . . she would still be in the field. Wasting time, with a fifty-fifty chance of being incapacitated by Antonin Dolohov. Unable to Apparate to her master for fear of her Trace leading a half a dozen Ministry officials to his doorstep.
She bit back a groan. There was no right answer. She would have been guilty of negligence or recklessness, whichever option she chose, and he had intended it that way.
Her master gave a high, cold laugh.
"You are late," he said coldly. Bella cringed.
"My lord," she said quickly, "I didn't . . . intend . .. I . . . I've hardly even slept! I was prepared – I was - and then Lucius . . ." - she scowled - "Lucius threw a tantrum and decided he didn't want to take me after all. Because he cares more about school . . . about licking the shoes of his teachers and polishing that stupid badge. He isn't . . . he doesn't . . . He isn't grateful! He doesn't care about what you've given him," she said fiercely. "He doesn't forget it all for you, for this, to fight. He's happy to sit at school and pander to Professor Slughorn and spin his little web of platitudes. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't feel it like I do, and then he has the nerve to tell me I don't belong and don't deserve and he won't – he won't -"
She fell silent, breathing hard, as her master raised a hand. His expression was blank, unreadable, and then his mouth curved in an icy, ironic smile.
"Ah yes," he murmured. "Lucius. The Malfoy boy - the boy who brought you to me."
Bella swallowed. "Only because I left him with no choice," she muttered.
Her master did not seem surprised by the statement, but his gaze flickered towards her as though she had spoken out of turn.
"Yes," he said sharply.
There was another uncomfortable pause, as he studied her in silence, and then, as Bella teetered on the brink of an apology, her master's lip curled again – not in a scowl, this time, but in a slow and distinctly chilling smile.
"Yes," he mused. "Lucius." He took a step towards her, his wand idle at his side - but his eyes were locked on hers. "Perhaps you do not understand your friend as I do," he murmured.
Bellatrix opened her mouth instinctively, about to tell her master that from today, Lucius was no friend of hers. But she closed it again, and fell silent without a word – seized by a sudden curiosity, a sudden desire to know just what her master understood about Lucius. What he thought of him at all.
"Shall I tell you about Lucius, Bella?"
He raised his wand – a concise but somehow careless movement – and Bella nodded slowly.
Her master lowered his wand again in lazy approval.
"Lucius believes he is playing the long game," he hissed, his expression as unreadable as before. "He believes that if he exercises patience in the present, and avoids failing his master, he will be rewarded in the future." He paused, a smile stretching thin and oddly bloodless lips. "When more reckless followers have . . . fallen by the wayside."
Bella swallowed, her heart thudding against her ribs.
Selfish, she thought sullenly. Liar. Worm.
"Will he?"
Her master tilted his head to one side. "What do you think?"
Bella stiffened. "No," she said defiantly. "He doesn't deserve it."
Her master took a step towards her, and raised his wand again, so that it was once more hovering an inch from her lips, his sheer proximity freezing her in an attitude of stormy contempt.
"Lucius' patience is rare," he admonished, and his wand began to fall, tracing the line of her neck as he spoke - never quite making contact with her flushed and fevered skin. "Oh yes . . it is, Bella. Such patience . . . such patiently concealed ambition . . . it is more valuble than you give it credit for."
He smiled, coldly, and Bella couldn't help but wonder if this statement was as complimentary as it seemed. It sounded a little ominous. As if their master had Lucius right where he wanted him . . . .
She couldn't help it. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, and she felt her simmering resentment at Lucius fade a little.
Fool.
Her master caught her expression, and raised an eyebrow. He did not smile – but something in his expression suggested he knew what she was thinking, and was somehow amused by it.
There it was again – that high, cold laugh - and then he touched the tip of his wand to her collarbone, and retraced the path it had taken, up to the hollow of her jaw. He pressed the wand of yew briefly against the final, fading bruise on Bellatrix's neck . . . cold as bone . . . and it ached. A hidden, hopeless wound.
He must know. He must have noticed. He must.
Her master removed his wand – and then he smiled.
"Come, Bella," he said softly. "We are wasting time. Up."
Bella didn't wait to be told twice. She scrambled to her feet, breathing hard, and did her best to alter her expression – to project readiness, determination . . . anything, in short, but a faintly concussed appearance and apparent inability to breathe properly in his presence.
Her master did not comment. Her attempts to regain composure seemed not to interest him at all.
"You are familiar," he said sharply, "with the concept of Legilimency?"
Bella frowned. Legilimency. The word did sound familiar. She had the feeling it belonged to the world of newspaper articles and Ministry reports. Frankly, it sounded dull.
Her master's wand hand twitched. "Apparently not. Perhaps the subject bores you, Bella?"
He raised an eyebrow at her shocked expression, but seemed more amused than annoyed. A clumsy apology had no sooner occured to her when her master clicked his tongue, impatiently dismissing it.
"The inferior thoughts of inferior people could certainly be considered dull," he conceded. "In that instance, the power of Legilimency is a rather tiresome gift. But sometimes, Bella, it can be much, much more." He paused. "Used correctly," he hissed, "Legilimency can lay bare every treacherous thought, every poorly concealed truth . . . every secret in your adversary's mind. Unfortunately, the power of Legilimency happensto be one of the many weapons in Albus Dumbledore's arsenel."
A rather ugly look clouded his features for a moment, and it took obvious effort to dispel it.
"No matter. The many irritating facets of Albus Dumbledore's character are not part of the current discussion. I am here to teach you Occlumency, the ability to shield your thoughts from prying influences." He paused. "Influences like those of Albus Dumbledore."
Bella felt her heart speed up. "And how does that work?" she asked. "Occlumency?"
"Ah. Yes. Occlumency." Her master pulled himself back into the conversation. "It is an art," he said smoothly. "Like any other. But it requires discipline, and no small amount of skill. Few have the aptitude for it."
Bella stood up a little straighter, bristling with determination. "I can trace my family tree through five hundred untainted years," she objected. "That has to count for something."
Her master did not laugh.
"Perhaps," he said at last. "Though the purity of your blood is not in question, Bella."
Bellatrix frowned. There was something in question? "I don't under -"
Her master ignored this. "We shall see," he said briskly, effectively cutting her off. "Set aside your wand."
"My wan – My Lord?"
Her master's eyes flashed. "Set aside your wand," he repeated, in an icy tone.
Bellatrix placed her wand swiftly on the writing desk to her left, almost tripping over her own hem in her sudden haste. She straightened up again, red-faced, and faced her master, sweat prickling across her empty palms.
She stood, trapped by his gaze, for a long moment – and then, without warning, he raised his wand.
"Legilimens!"
It was not like their first meeting . . . and yet it was the same thing. Bella was sure of it. Images hurtled through her mind, summoned against her will, wrenched from the most private crevices of her skull . . .
Legilimency.
He had done it before, but then, she had not understood.
Before, the effect hadn't been quite so overwhelming. The images had come to her in snatches, then, swift and distorted. There had been no incantation, and through it all she had seen his face.
His eyes, boring into hers, intoxicating. And she had thought him . . .
But this was different. More powerful. The spell hit her like a curse, an assault, and the images were sharper – much sharper. There was no world around her now, there was nothing else to see, and no way to watch her master's expression. She was surrounded by her own memories, drowning in them, and she couldn't fight her way out . . .
She was eleven years old, curled in a ball at the foot of Cissy's bed, and Andromeda was prying something small and silver from her hand. "There'll be hell to pay if you hex Cissy's hairbrush, Bella," she protested. "Besides, you have your Trace. Do you want to get expelled?"
"I don't care," Bella said obstinantly. "I don't care! I hate her!"
Andromeda squeezed her arm, ignoring her attempts to twitch away. "It's not her fault," she murmured, smoothing her hair. "It's not her fault they treat her the way they do."
Bella scowled, suddenly violent, and Andy pulled her sharply into her arms.
"I'm not the favourite either," she whispered, her breath hot against her sister's ear . . . and Bella felt all the fight drain from her jealous, lonely younger self . .
Bella twitched, appalled at herself. No, she thought fiercely. I hate her . . . I hate her . . . blood traitor . . . liar . . . weak . . .
Her master did not give her time to dwell on it.
She was standing in the stairwell, looking down at the empty Slytherin common room. No taller than Cissy, really . . . applying lipstick to stubborn-set lips. There was a faint fluttering in the pit of her stomach, as she wondered how it would feel . . . to be kissed . . .
And she knew just how to do it.
She smiled. Oh, she knew how to do it. Rodolphus Lestrange would do whatever she wanted, whatever he thought about it. Whatever he thought of her . . . .
Little Bella Black . . .
She giggled - a sharp and gleeful sound - and her prey jumped.
Bella swallowed, desperate now. Lestrange? Lestrange? Of all the things for her master to see . . . blackmailing Lestrange into becoming her first kiss had to be the most childish and humiliating.
She hadn't thought of him in a long time. She had forgotten, somehow . . . forgotten how it felt to be thirteen, before Andromeda and purpose and the Cause - forgotten how it felt to care less than Cissy did now, and to want for the sake of wanting. To want because she chose to want . . .
She was treading water in the bath, bubbles thick against her skin. Paper-white and disorientated, because her mind was full of her master, a burning desperate ache she didn't want to feel, and she didn't understand . . . Why did it matter so much, why did she want so much?
Where had it - ?
Why did it - ?
She pressed her fingers flat against her neck - at the spot where he had once touched her – and plunged beneath the water. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't care -
Drown it – drowning - stop it - stop -
"Stop!"
The room returned in a rush, and Bella staggered drunkenly, light-headed at the sudden return of the solid world. She gasped, staring at the floor as the boards wobbled oddly. Her head was throbbing strangely, and her eyes had begun to smart.
"It was a shock," she protested, cheeks burning. (She hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to say anything at all . . . ) "I can do better," she insisted next. "I didn't know what to do, my Lord - I wasn't ready -"
Her master stood stock still, staring at her with empty eyes, and then he raised his wand.
There was a sound like a whipcrack - and Bellatrix gasped as his spell struck her cheek, sharp as a slap, leaving an angry red weal.
A Stinging Jinx.
And then his wand was at her throat again, forcing her to her knees.
"Such lies, Bella . . ."
Bella shook her head emphatically, aghast. "No! My Lord – I didn't know what to do! I didn't – I don't – I tried -" She cut herself off, horrified. He had given her a chance, and she had squandered it, had let him catch her unawares – it would all be over, if she couldn't convince him otherwise.
"I would never lie to you!" she cried in desperation.
"Silence," her master spat. He pushed his wand into the hollow of her jaw, forcing her head back, and her neck arched instinctively. She could not have looked away from him now if she wanted to.
"Silence," he hissed, and Bella was dimly aware of a shiver, trapped somewhere beneath her skin. "Perhaps it is time we discussed lies," her master said softly.
Lies. Lies.
"Yes, Bella. Lies. There are times," the Dark Lord stated coldly, "when a lie is necessary. There are times when a lie is wise – to safeguard a plan until the optimum moment, or dupe an unwitting ally. But I do not tolerate lies from my followers – and I do not tolerate excuses. An excuse, Bella, is simply a lie my followers tell to themselves - and by extension, to their master."
Bella stared up at him, unable to comprehend how swiftly it had all gone horribly wrong. "I don't know how to defend myself. I don't know how to perform Occlumency," she wanted to tell him, but that was a lie, an excuse – his silence told her as much.
The answers were there. They had to be. She just couldn't see them.
"You are not concentrating," her master spat. "You lack focus."
Bella nodded, numb with horror. She stared at him until her eyes began to water, willing herself to think of the answer. But it wouldn't come to her. Avoiding eye contact – physically avoiding the situation – couldn't possibly be what he expected. It was unreliable, rudimentary – the only reason she was here at all was because it was a poor resort. There had to be more to it. There had to be.
But no method of mental defence occured to her. Her master had told her to set aside her wand, yet expected her to fight the spell. She ground her teeth, frustrated. Magic couldn't be magic at all, surely, if a wand wasn't needed to perform it? He couldn't expect some infant outburst of power, she wasn't a child -
"Teach me!"
The words emerged more angrily than she had intended, an abrupt demand. Bella swallowed, her heart a throbbing lump in her throat. "Please . . . " she whispered. "Teach me, Master."
The word had echoed a thousand times in her head, but it didn't sound the same out loud, addressed to him directly. It didn't taste the same.
But it seemed to please him. Her master's high, cold laugh rang out unexpectedly, and then he lowered his wand . . . and stroked the curve of her jaw with one cold finger, a taunting smile twisting his thin mouth.
"Focus," he breathed. "At last."
Bella nodded, bitterly disappointed when he released her and simply gestured for her to rise.
"Very well," her master said sharply, when she stood before him once more. "You wish for me to teach you? I shall oblige."
There was a soft, mocking undertone to his words, but Bellatrix no longer cared. When she merely nodded fervently, her master gave an almost inaudible laugh.
"Yes," he breathed. There was something intoxicating about his tone. No more than a whisper . . . it seemed more commanding than a shout, somehow. She found herself listening, straining to catch every nuance . . .
"I shall oblige you, Bella . . . ." he murmured. "And in return we shall have no more lies, hmm?"
Bellatrix didn't think she had spent so much time nodding in her entire life. Her head was in danger of falling off, but she didn't dare stop. It didn't seem enough, somehow. "No," she muttered, humiliated. "No more lies."
"Such progress." Her master had returned to his clipped, cold tone. "Now. Let us waste no more time. To begin," he ordered, "you must first clear your mind of all thought."
Bellatrix set her jaw, determined, and fought valiantly against the urge to stare at the Dark Lord in slack-jawed bewilderment.
"Clear my mind of all thought?" she echoed, confused. "You mean . . . stop thinking, my Lord?"
"Precisely."
"But . . ." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "How do I stop thinking?" she managed at last. She could just as easily stop breathing.
"It is not impossible. Although I imagine you may have some difficulty with it."
Bella frowned. "Why?"
"You are too passionate," her master explained patiently. "You feel before you think. It is a troubling attribute of yours."
Bellatrix opened her mouth, and then shut it again, unable to think of a reply. After all, that she was passionate, she could hardly deny. But she didn't see why that was so undesirable, or why it should trouble the Dark Lord.
Her master sighed, a hissing exhalation that made the back of Bella's neck prickle in eerie apprehension.
"For instance," he elaborated. "Your loyalty to me. It is built upon – how shall I put it? Passionate foundations."
Bella reddened. Oh. That.
Her master nodded curtly. "Yes. However, we are veering off-topic" His wand hand twitched once more. "I had ordered you, I believe, to stop thinking."
Bellatrix nodded, grateful that for some unknown reason, he had chosen not to explore her inappropriate feelings any further. "And how do I do that?" she asked. "How do I stop thinking?"
Her masrer treated her to a taut, vampiric smile. "Clear your mind of all thought, Bella," he replied.
Bellatrix resisted the urge to roll her eyes with difficulty, succeeding only because she knew her master would not take too kindly to it. How was she supposed to clear her mind of all thought? Surely that was the same as not thinking?
Still, she supposed she had to try. Taking a deep breath, she tried to push every unwelcome, obtrusive little thought out of her mind. For a few short seconds, she succeeded. But then . . . she growled in annoyance.
Every time – every time – she thought she had managed it, something would sneak past her defences, past the solid brick wall she kept trying to conjure in her mind. Some nagging, persistant little thought, like "this is stupid" or "finally, I did it!"
Bellatrix scowled. Her master sighed, the air hissing through his teeth.
"Come here."
Nervously, she approached, stopping when she was a foot or so away from her master.
"Closer, Bella," he said impatiently. Dangerously. When she hesitated, he made a little sound of annoyance and strode towards her, coming to a halt just inches away. "Close your eyes," he hissed.
Panicking a little now, Bella obeyed. She gave an involuntary start of surprise as she felt him press his fingertips to her temples, and tried to open her eyes.
Only to find that she couldn't. Her master's thumbs were pressed lightly against her eyelids, the feather-light touch keeping her blind.
"Quiet," he murmured softly. "Now. Stop thinking. Is that really so beyond you, Bella? Let go of every train of thought . . . just stop."
She swallowed. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she could hardly breathe. Well, that would be one way to clear my mind, she thought sourly. Stop breathing and fall unconscious. To her surprise, her master laughed again.
"Try a little harder, Bella."
Bellatrix tried to open her eyes again, surprised. "How do you know it's not working?" she asked, curious. After all, if eye-contact was so important . . . .
She was distracted by the feel of goosebumps erupting along her spine.
He was tracing the frown line on her forehead with a long, cold finger.
"Your face gives you away, Bella," he said softly, now tracing the downward curve of her mouth. Her lips tingled and she swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Oh . . ." she mumbled, unable to think of anything to say. And really, why was it so important anyway? Why did she always have to have something to say? Why couldn't she just . . . . .
Feel.
The last word was an echo in her thoughts, a whisper that slowly died away, leaving in its wake . . . nothing.
Blank, empty calm.
His finger, still tracing a pattern on her lips, became softer and softer, until it was just the ghost of a touch that she could feel, and then . . . . nothing at all.
The silence swelled around her, the oddly steady thud of her heart the only thing she could hear. But eventually – a hundred heartbeats later, or a hundred hundred - she found that thoughts began to surface again.
She opened her eyes.
Her master stood some way away, in the shadow of heavy velvet drapes, watching her in silence. He looked paler than ever in the gloom - inhuman and intangible.
Bella blinked. She felt heavy and tired, as though she could quite easily fall asleep where she stood. She had never felt so calm before. Blissfully, beautifully, all-consumingly calm.
It was quiet in her head. For the first time, nothing seethed or screamed or shrieked for her attention. Oh, they were still there - all the thoughts which had seemed so urgent and clamourous just moments ago, which had threatened to overwhelm her, to ruin her by surfacing at the wrong moment. They were still there – still safe in her head, all her seething indignities and burning ambition and sharp-edged pride, all the memories they provoked. But they were oddly dull and dimmed, in this state - and it wasn't perfect, but if she wanted to, if she tried . . . she could push them far away.
Safe, for the moment.
Her master's gaze was searing. There was no incantation this time, but Bella could still sense it – something more than simple scrutiny, nudging the truth to the front of her mind. She swallowed, briefly panicked - but she could keep it at bay. She could do it. Her master would not attack her as brutally as before, (it had been a taster, a demonstration of his power, surely?) . . . . and Dumbledore would never use the incantation. The Headmaster would never try to force the truth from her so violently, as long as she gave him no reason to. All she had to do was hold this feeling, keep the truth at bay for a little while – just long enough to avoid suspiscion without appearing suspicious herself.
She smirked. The old man could twinkle at her all he liked, now. He could spend the whole of detention scanning her in serious, silent contemplation. She knew how to hold him off.
She smirked, and her master smiled, a cold and triumphant expression.
"You have learnt enough for one day," he said softly. "You may leave."
Bella didn't wait for his approval to wear off. She sank into a shaking, triumphant bow, and reached for the handle of the knife.