Fides in Culpa

Chapter Eleven: The Dark Lord and Dark Lady

She stared straight ahead at the wooden mantle hanging above the fireplace, gazing below at the crackling flames as if listening to the smallest of whispers from the pit. On the mantle were moving portrait frames of a man and woman that she didn't recognize, though considering the master of the house, Rita could have gathered that it was a mother whom He didn't know and a father that he wished He hadn't. What was more that was the moving couple in the portrait looked very unhappy; if they had been married, they wished for a very quick and painless divorce.

She had hoped to Disapparate to Malfoy Manor, which would have been her second hide-out from the Aurors. Considering that although Lucius and Rita had a disjointed friendship, Narcissa would have opted to take in Rita as a comrade-in-arms and a family friend. However, just as Rita had Disapparated from Spinner's End in order to escape from Dawlish, she had felt the searing burn from the Dark Mark—and mid-travel, switched to a second destination.

Rita gave a deep, weary sigh, and continued to stare at the artifacts on the mantle as her right hand palmed the dark skull on her forearm, aggressively stroking it to quell the itch. A thought crossed her mind that the Dark Lord hadn't summoned anyone else, for nobody else had shown in the Riddle House. A haunting feeling—and yet, a more suspended emotion that she couldn't quite identify—flooded her stomach with uneven butterflies. Her brow furrowed discreetly, as she pushed against the Dark Mark, trying to quiet the razor-burn that seemed to intensify with each passing minute.

"Ah, Rita—"

"Jesus Chr—" Rita startled, jumping forward and whirled around to look dead-face into the red eyes of her very quiet master. The Dark Lord gave an amused, toothy grin as his pupils flickered to the wand pointed in His face. A deadly reflex, Rita quickly lowered her wand apologetically, holding both hands up. Her hands were shaking, numb from the jump scare. Somewhere in her stomach, her heart had beat so hard that she could hear the blood pulsing through her ears.

"Sorry," she mumbled, pocketing her wand in her robe; though she had becomeself-conscious and regretted that she hadn't left Spinner's End wearing more than a pair of underwear and a bathrobe. She pulled the sash tightly. The Dark Lord indicated a long finger downward, and he wore a still amusing expression on his face as Rita followed his eyes to see her bare legs and feet—

"I was heading out," she explained with a small flush in her cheeks, "when you, uh, called."

"Quite an interesting choice in clothing for a stroll in the dark," he returned.

Was that a joke? It was a bit jarring, standing in front of him as vulnerable as she was.

"A bit of a hiccup," said Rita, passing a hand through her hair nervously. "It seems that I've come up on the Ministry's radar…"

"It was only a matter of time," said the Dark Lord with a half-shrug. "No matter, no matter."

He was imposing, quite threatening even; but Rita felt a very odd sense of comfortable familiarity alone in the room with the Dark Lord. He was, in his lowest quality, her teacher; and when they were not surrounded by the staring eyes of His followers or her simpering comrades, there was an air of understanding—though, perhaps it was one-sided, as she didn't fully understand her master as well had she hoped. At the very least, the Dark Lord didn't view her as low as Karkaroff, nor the despondent cowardice he held toward Pettigrew. She was somewhere above them in the totem pole, enough that his nonchalance toward her present attire amused him.

She couldn't explain it…

"Has my return dulled your senses, Rita?" asked the Dark Lord, his spider-like fingers weaved together pensively. "I gave you a bit of a start, didn't I?"

"I was lost in…" Rita glanced at the fireplace from where she had been suspended threateningly. "…thought."

"Ah, rumination." Whether He believed her or not, it didn't seem to matter, for He strode pass her to stand before the fireplace. She gazed after him with a powerful admiration, something that she felt toward Albus Dumbledore while she had been working for the headmaster, what she had for Severus when he had Imperiused Dawlish, or Bella when…Whenever she was Bella, Rita thought fondly as the Dark Lord held out a hand toward the dancing tendrils of the open flame.

"Sir?" Rita asked respectfully, for clarification.

"Rumination is said to be very constructive: re-thinking and re-living certain moments of the past can sometimes show the thinker a person, place, or specific small detail that they might have missed. One would say, anyway, if they didn't want to make the same mistake again."

She watched her master with an intense gaze, taken aback that He didn't speak to her as if He were angry; nor did it sound as if He were rounding out His disappointment in her. The Dark Lord was pensive, as if He were speaking out loud to Himself. She wasn't a stranger to hearing Him speak softly. Rita only understood Him to the point that whatever family he had was not the one He wanted, and instead had recruited His own brand of Wizard He'd like to surround himself. She was not His confidante, merely a student-in-learning whom happened to be at His side.

The Dark Lord's fingers motioned to the flame, and Rita smiled slightly as five orbs of fire danced in his pale hand. She felt herself move closer—awfully bold…but I want to see…He didn't tell you to move, Rita…But I want to see…She fought the small voice in her head and walked toward the Dark Lord, clutching her robe around the naked body underneath, mesmerized by the dancing orbs of fire in his hand. The Dark Lord turned to her full bodily, and His eyes glowed a horrific shade of red in the firelight. She'd flinch, but still…A deep comparison from the startling blue eyes she had seen when He had given her Dark Mark, yet still the penetrating gaze. A part of her wanted to look away, however she met his gaze with no attempt to hide her fascination with Him.

Raw power, personified.

"Hold out your hand," said the Dark Lord calmly.

Rita obeyed, her fingers shaking as she held it out to him, her palm up. Her heart was slamming in her chest. The Dark Lord's skin was ice as his fingers engulfed around Rita's entire hand. She watched as the five orbs of flames orbited around their joined hands—

"What—?" Rita began with a sudden look of horror as Rita's fingertips began to turn black, the poison that the Dark Lord had so graciously cured now ingratiated into her flesh. She anticipated pain, expected her flesh to decompose under the necrotic rot, but she felt none. Rita glanced up at the Dark Lord reproachfully, expecting scorn…

However, there was look of dark approval on her master's face, something of a secretive sneer that she hadn't seen on His face since He had physically touched Harry Potter, unharmed by his mother's piece of old magic. Whatever magic that the Dark Lord had conjured, it seemed to have pleased Him. Rita felt fear, though; for what the Dark Lord had shown her, her skin as black as ink—Would her entire body become as dead as this if she continued? Would she end up looking like Him, as horrifying as He? But the power…Imagine the power.

The Dark Lord released her, and with that, it was like He had pulled off a tourniquet and the agony that she had expected came rushing through; Rita uttered a strangled gasp as the traces of practicing the Dark Arts singed her fingertips, blanketing the flesh from her nails to her knuckles in the familiar nightshade.

He wanted her to see it. The poison He had taken from her, He gave back. But why? He said He would show me how to control it, and it's killing me.

"It is my understanding," said the Dark Lord softly, "that Bellatrix has taught you how to cope with pain. Pain brings out the worst in people, and the best in others. What does pain do to you, little one?"

He still calls me 'Little one'. That's comforting.

Rita clenched her fingers tightly in the skin of her palm. She had learned eventually that the tighter she did it, it lessened the agony enough for her to create horrors in the Forbidden Forest, just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to put the urges away for the night. Just enough to pacify, but not enough to satisfy. She couldn't control it, so to do it caused her great anguish; but Severus was always there to give her Murtlap in order to stop the curses from overwhelming her body.

The Dark Lord grabbed Rita by the wrist to unclench her fingers, and her stomach turned uneasily as he gazed at her digits with a look of satisfaction, then,

"What does the Dark Arts give you that you can't find anywhere else?" he asked her.

Surely, there's a point to it all. The Dark Lord doesn't do things lightly. ANSWER HIM, RITA—

Rita gave a short sigh, and answered Him, "There's something…alleviating…about it." Rita found the words hard to come by, unsure of how to describe practicing the Dark Arts in the Forbidden Forest as something akin to sexual desire.

The Dark Lord sneered.

"You are the first to describe it as if it were a lover." The Dark Lord said. Oh, so He caught on. "When I first rose my regime, I had many followers for one reason or another. Whether it was fear or true allegiance to my ideals, or to use my name as something as a threat, there were many takers. Since my revival, a select few have returned to my side: some I believe their excuses, others remain to be seen. Yours," the Dark Lord said with an air of amusement, "has to be the most entertaining."

"Entertaining, My Lord?"

"A true love," he added coldly, "for the Dark Arts. You've returned to me, why, Rita? Tell me the truth."

Rita wouldn't lie to Him, but the words in order to describe her reasoning for answering His call didn't come to her. Her face wrinkled in desperation for the words but found none. Her master raised a hand under her chin and angled her head, looking away from Him. He leaned in, his voice a low, mocking tone that made her skin crawl and her stomach jump and hissed the words into her ear,

"You want me to teach you how to control it? Is that why you've returned? Because I, Lord Voldemort, am the epitome of the Dark Arts—I who have mastered it and understand it most…"

Rita didn't understand the heat of her blood that seemed to rush through her veins at his words; nor did she understand why she felt as if the Dark Lord's close proximity made her react the way she did. The Dark Lord knows. He always knows.

"Have you ever considered," the Dark Lord said thoughtfully, "that you are a sadist, and you actually enjoy the reward that performing such black magic brings?"

Well, actually no…Rita thought. I've never used the Darker Arts on people, just conjurations of creatures.

"What do sadists feel when they inflict pain on others, Rita?"

She had an inkling that the Dark Lord was talking her through the process; and what came out of her mouth, she hadn't expected to say out loud,

"Sexual gratification…"

"If I inflict pain on you," said the Dark Lord quietly, lowering his hand from her face, "Will that bring out the best in you, or the worst?"

Rita turned her head, and she felt a gulp hitch in her throat; her mouth went dry, and feeling left her hands. She was once more reminded that she was standing before him, covered only by her bathrobe; but she was certain that a naked, red flush had come over her. Her body was hot; and she wanted to leave—Whatever was happening, whatever she was feeling—if the Dark Lord caught on—

"I imagine both, My Lord," answered Rita dryly.

He tapped her hands with one of his, "You've been suppressing your better self all these years, and for what? Acting in a role that was below you, engaging in company that is beneath you, and trying to convince the Wizarding World that you could walk the 'straight and narrow' path—You can change what you do. But you can't change what you want."

He had a prophetical way about Him; and although she felt as if He thought she had been two-faced while He was in hiding after all these years—He certainly was not the only one whom believed it either—there was a certain berating in His voice, and of course He was right. There was shame in that: it was why she had been furious with Remus Lupin for his hope that she was "good"; for her husband's warning to keep out of the Forbidden Forest, lest she be caught performing the Dark Arts. The reason why she had returned to the Dark Lord was because He understood her attraction to it, and that despite whatever atrocities that Rita would face, it wouldn't stop her from wanting to imbibe in just the taste of dark magic just out of reach of her inked fingertips.

"Show me?" she requested in a voice that didn't sound like her own.

"Show me?" He repeated her words. "So eager, as ever. You will show me what you're capable of, Rita. And it won't be so easy as doing it to an animal. I want to see your potential; and I'm concerned that the last few years have made you soft."

"I'm not." Rita was surprised to hear the defiance in her voice.

"No?" The Dark Lord chuckled. "Then let's see what you can do to a person when no one is around to hold you back."

Rita's brow furrowed, though she couldn't deny that her interest was piqued. He gestured with a lazy hand, and Rita's mouth fell open slightly at the sight before her:

Her sixth year, now seventh year student, Melanie Calbot—It wasn't her, but she looked just like her. A floating body, bound and gagged, levitated from a hiding spot and the Dark Lord placed the body in front of her. Rita's surprise was well-noted,

"This is Miss Calbot. Her daughter attends Hogwarts, no doubt you've had your share of educating her. I have no interest in her youngling; however, I am interested in her role in the Ministry of Magic, the Department of Mysteries." The Dark Lord released his magical hold on Melanie's mother and dropped her like deadweight. Rita ignored the woman's cries and frantic hyperventilating through the mess of rags in her mouth, turning to the Dark Lord. "I would like you to extract the information that you can out of her, and then kill her. Creatively."

Rita had been prepared to do something like this in order to prove herself to the Dark Lord; though she had expected to be taking on a band of Aurors on the hunt, not an innocent woman whose only role in the Dark Lord's kidnapping was because she happened to work at the Ministry. And I know her daughter, Rita had an afterthought. But she had told herself to forget her students, that it would it would make it easier if she did, for this reason.

The Dark Lord waited, as if to see if Rita would refuse; however, she offered Him a respectful nod, and then turned to face Miss Calbot. The woman in question was tied by her hands and legs, lying on the floor like a deer over a vehicle's hood. Tears ran down her face, and she was crying loudly.

Rita withdrew her wand, bending at her knees, and wrapped her robe tightly around her chest. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, where Miss Calbot glanced over frantically between Rita and the Dark Lord.

"What do you know about the Department of Mysteries?" asked Rita softly. I'll be gentle. I'll be kind. If she answers me, it can be a quick death. I promise. She pulled at the rags from Miss Calbot's mouth gingerly.

"Please, let me go, I don't know, I don't know. I have a child; I have a child…"

"What do you know about the Department of Mysteries?" Rita repeated. "Tell me and I'll let you go."

"I don't know anything," she pleaded.

Rita frowned at her. "You do, but you won't tell me, why?"

"I won't tell anyone I've seen you, I won't. I'll keep my mouth shut. Please, please, they say you're good; they said so. Please—"

A moment of impatience overtook her; Rita reached out and slapped Miss Calbot's face really hard. SMACK! The woman cried out, uttering whimpers of overwhelming sadness and heartache, the little mewls of wanting to see her daughter again. Rita's hand tingled from the contact, just tell me what you know! From behind her, Rita heard the Dark Lord utter a harsh inhale of amusement, but His looming presence was a foreshadow.

"Pull yourself together, woman," Rita said, though she tried to make her voice sound compassionate. "Tell me, what do you know about—?"

"I won't tell you anything." Miss Calbot moaned, her voice was thick, as a trail of blood escaped the corner of her mouth.

Rita's frown deepened. "So, you do know something, don't you? Tell me."

Miss Calbot uttered an objection, cut quickly by Rita's wand as sparks flew out of the tip. Rita held her hands up, closed her eyes, trying to calm down to get whatever information the Dark Lord needed out of Miss Calbot before she would lose her temper; but the woman—this woman—wasn't making it easy.

"Tell me." Rita repeated, "what you know—"

Miss Calbot, as if hardened by the idea that she wasn't going to get out alive, shook her head and then a wad of mucus shot from her mouth and landed in Rita's face. Rita wretched, rising to her feet in disgust, and pulled at her sleeve to wipe the lump of phlegm from her cheek. When she turned, she caught the look from her master; and then a rage that Rita had been suppressing for years fired in her chest. In a low sigh of resignation, Rita pocketed her wand, and she turned to Miss Calbot.

"One last chance," Rita breathed. "Tell me about the Department of Mysteries, and I swear, I'll make it quick."

Miss Calbot shook her head, and to Rita's surprise, she heard her say, "Long live Albus Dumbledore."

The Dark Lord sighed, "Pity. It is quite disheartening to spill magical blood…"

Rita extended her hand to Miss Calbot, whom stared at her in wide, fearful eyes—And how she liked it, the look of a person being afraid of her was someone who understood that she was a threat, someone to be very afraid of—and a strange feeling tingled in the nest of nerves just beneath her abdomen, a familiar throbbing…an ache.

With the sound of a crunch, Miss Calbot howled; and a green smoke came from Rita's fingertips, the trail beginning to weave in and around her blackened digits as the sound of a masticating break echoed in the living room; and the smoke was bright and glowing compared to the rest of the dark environment aside from the flames cracking in the fireplace.

Miss Calbot's arms broke in an unsettling angle; her fingers went one way, and her elbows went the other. Miss Calbot's cries turning into strangled gasps, unable to deal with the assault of her body snapping and twitching under Rita's control. The Dark Lord, whom had resumed to prop himself against the mantle of the fireplace, stepped forward with an interested smirk on his face, coming to stand behind Rita to get a closer look of her Dark masterpiece.

Rita, whom the Dark Lord must have expected to see a large grin on her face, looked enraged—her nose crinkled, her jaw clenched; and her upper lip twitched like a snarling dog. At the sound of another snap, another break, another crack, a small smile tugged at the corner of red lips with undeniable exhilaration—The Dark Lord won't stop me, no one will hold me back, this is my design—

Although inflicting pain was surprisingly gratifying—I'll wrap my head around this discovery later—an acidic, white pain, as if someone were rubbing lye and soap inside a wound along her knuckles, enveloped her and Rita winced, uttering her own stream of agony as the battle of the moral high ground and the swarming darkness raged within.

Her knuckles, which had turned white, began to ashen, turn dark—decomposing—amidst Miss Calbot's shrieks of agony, of pleas and gasping whispers of mercy—

The Dark Lord stepped directly behind Rita, and her lungs felt cold and her heart hammered inside her chest as his head rested on her shoulder, and his voice spoke tenderly as if to guide her: "Don't question why, just feel it."

So…He could see her struggling with the revelation that she was as Dark as she claimed, that she heard Miss Calbot's pleas and still wanted to break her body; Interestingly enough, she felt an unsettling feeling as the throb turned into wetness between her legs—This is different, wait, I am not like this, I am—The Dark Lord's words were louder than ones in her head:

"You think you aren't given the right to do this; this is necessary. We are not given the right; we take it."

Rita clenched her fingers tight on command of his encouraging words, and Miss Calbot's back broke in half, like a piece of paper being shaped into an origami—Rita bit her bottom lip, the sound bringing something dark to the light.

"Good girl…"

Rita's eyes widened, hearing His praise against her ear was a thousand times over better than being rewarded any silver hand she could have received—any title of general—and something in her clicked: I'm sexually aroused…not only by the Dark Arts…but the Dark Lord Himself…She loosened her hand and Miss Calbot cried out in one last caterwaul for mercy; so, Rita withdrew her wand, aimed it at Miss Calbot's bloody and broken body, and fired,

"Avada Kedavra."