Sacrilege

I

No one, all her life, has been able to make Bellatrix tremble. For no one has she ever felt fear: not of her father, nor her professors, nor any of her peers. She thought her soul unshakeable, never to quiver before any force, of man or nature.

She had not yet met Him.

Brought to face shining red eyes and an aura of power so intense it is nearly tangible, Bella feels for the first time, the faintest tremor in her heart. Unable to tear her gaze from this wonder and horror, she falls to her knees, whispering, "My Lord..."

II

It is only a symbol, but one with such power. Only an etching, but evocative beyond the greatest of masterpieces. It represents the ability to inspire awe, breed fear, draw power from pain, and control the forces of life and death themselves. It marks the bearer as one of the Elite, one of the Chosen, talents and devotion recognised. It is bestowed upon those who have proved themselves worthy, the truest followers, the bravest and most loyal.

Bellatrix raises her arm, with the glorious pain still electrifying her nerves, and looks upon the midnight-black skull emblazoned there with a smile.

III

She enters with her wand level with his chest. He's waited for this moment, but somehow he hadn't expected her. Perhaps he should have, though; her loyalties were always so staunch. "Bellatrix."

"Don't you say my name," she hisses. "You're not fit to."

"Bellatrix--"

She advances. "Traitor."

"Bella, I--"

"Oathbreaker."

"Bella, please listen, I--"

"Crucio!"

Her favourite, of course. She holds the spell while he writhes, and vindictively says, "It will be a long time before you die, Regulus. You swore a vow. I'll show you what happens to those who break faith with the Dark Lord."

IV

Only when she finally wanders outside does Bellatrix realise morning has come. Somehow she had missed the sun prying through the living room curtains. Well, her attention was on other things. The spring air is warm and sweet, and a bird chirps a friendly hello to her as church bells ring somewhere in the nearby village. Bellatrix turns her face to the sun, feeling refreshed by the gentle breeze that brushes the close-clipped grass, as the air inside had gone quite stale. Then she slips her mask back on, raises her wand to the clear morning sky, and whispers, "Morsmordre."

V

When Orion leaves the room, Bellatrix looks expectantly at her mother, whose pale gaze rests on the brand-new black Mark. "Do not expect me to be glad of this," she says, in a voice cool and strong. Bella's dark eyes widen; she had expected equal adulation from both parents. "It is unseemly in the highest," Clytemnestra continues. "A witch your age should be finding a suitable husband, not cavorting with Merlin-knows-who in graveyards at midnight."

Bellatrix's lower lip quivers for a moment, in rage far more than hurt. "I'm not Cissy, Mother," she says, "and would never want to be."

VI

He is no-one. No-one important, just some Muggle, some disgusting Muggle who had married a witch of good breeding, who had insinuated his pathetic, inferior genes with hers. He proves poor sport, unable to scream loud enough or long enough, and when he ceases to be amusing, he ceases to have any purpose whatsoever.

He is no-one, but he is the first. On command, she raises her wand, focuses all her energy and power, and forces the soul right out of him.

"How do you feel, Bella?" asks the voice belonging to red eyes.

"Alive," she whispers to the darkness.

VII

She is everything he doesn't want in a woman, and yet, any time they're sent on a mission together, they wind up like this afterwards. Mayhem, torture, and death heat Bellatrix's blood in a way he's sure he ought to find disturbing, and in that state of gore and glory, she always manages to entice him.

She never stays, and for that, he is glad. Lucius couldn't imagine waking up with that head of raven curls next to him, and isn't entirely sure that, were he to fall asleep in her presence, he'd be likely to wake up at all.

VIII

Five days, and frustration is taking its toll. Bellatrix runs a hand through her tangled hair, unconsciously clenching her fingers and pulling slightly.

Her husband looks over from where he leans against a wall. "They're not--"

"I know!" she yells. They're running out of options and time, and a fierce determination sparks behind her eyes. "Fine. Maybe they don't know anything, but then they're going to pay dearly for wasting our time. We'll rob them of every last shred of sanity they've got." Her jaw tightens, and she drops her hand again to her wand. "They're going to pay."

IX

If it had been anyone else, Bellatrix would have spoken out. She'd have sworn out a testimony in seconds, freeing the accused of all charges. It would have galled her to think of someone unworthy associated with the Death Eaters, with her Lord, and she would not have tolerated it.

If it were anyone else.

It isn't, though, and she holds her silence. She's willing to let this insult pass, for the greater gain of having revenge for a betrayal. If it keeps him in Azkaban, drives him to madness like all the others, it's worth the sin of omission.

X

She's always had admirers, but since her wedding, they've had to watch from a distance, had to keep their longings quieted. Still, though, their eyes follow her as she moves about a room, lingering on the curves at her breasts and hips, on the narrowness of her waist. It amuses Bellatrix to encourage them, not only because she likes the attention, but because of how it aggravates Rodolphus. She can't believe she didn't know before how possessively angry he could get, but she's delighted. It makes for an amusing toy, and fury is far more exciting than tolerance would be.