The Many Moods of Voldemort and Bellatrix

Cookie #3: Broken (not a sequel, different scenario)

It was cold. Damp, too. Uncomfortable to the point of unbearable.

Where am I?

Bellatrix wasn't sure if she was asleep or awake, alive or dead. Her perception was obscured by a thick cloud of desensitizing agony. She couldn't open her eyes. The barest movement of any facial muscle pushed her on the outer edge of consciousness, that thin line where intellect and force of will don't dwell, dissolved by fatigue and pain into a confused, hazy state of being: gravity takes
over and bodies collapse to the ground. But she could feel she wasn't hitting the cold stone. Her brain, swimming in deep turmoil caused by the recent events, absurdly signaled to her that this was funny. She tried to laugh and found her lips were sticky and sealed. In a flash of lucidity, she knew it was because of dried blood. She could also feel a vague hurt around her wrists, then it
started to grow blissfully number by the minute. She passed out again.

The Dark Lord, leisurely leaning against the dungeon door, eyed his handiwork and smiled to himself. Red eyes almost glowing in the dark, he observed intently the shadow Bellatrix was casting against the wall in front of him. It flickered with the candlelight, although Bellatrix was perfectly still. Remarkable how shadows are apt at giving false impressions, he thought whimsically. The woman's wrists were constricted together by heavy chains, and those were in turn joined to another chain, fixed with an iron plaque to the ceiling. Bella was consequently suspended in midair, right in the center of the circular room. He'd let Avery and Nott take some liberties with her: trickles of blood ran down her face and neck, and one of her ankles exhibited an ugly gash, brought about by a vicious cutting charm cast by Lucius Malfoy. But the angry red marks around her wrists, caused by metal biting into her flesh, were his own pride: he'd charmed the chains to grow infinitesimally tighter every passing second, so that they would slowly penetrate under her skin, letting him enjoy the show. He was furious with her, and restless because the prophecy had been destroyed, but this was allowing him to forget for a moment and be marginally content.

After a while of watching the woman who worshipped him more than any other living being suffer in such an artful way, the one who gave herself to him with such wild, delirious abandon, he strode towards her hanging form. His eyes were level with her breasts. There has to be some irony in this situation. He walked around her, and gave her left shoulder a very hard shove, intended to make her spin on herself with momentum, and therefore grind her wrists into the chains in such a painful way that she would be shocked back to consciousness. Which happened.

The cuts on her lips burst open and fresh blood dripped from them when she gave a frightening cry upon being dragged to reality in such a torturous way. And she couldn't afford the luxury of fainting: he waved her wand at her and pronounced a long-lasting enervating spell. Her spinning had grown slower, and while all the cells in her body were calling for a quick, merciful death she felt herself being steadied from behind by two bony, chilly hands. The hands gave another sharp tug, and she screamed again, her eyes still closed. When she could manage to open them and see anything different from white-hot light, she didn't see anything but a dungeon wall a short way away.

"The prophecy has been destroyed. And it's all because of your disgusting selfishness. You chose trying to show your own personal valor in a battle over showing a dedication to the cause. You have no commitment, and not even this valor you pursue, seeing how two little boys and a piece of rock cornered you. I shall have to act accordingly".

The voice came from below her. She managed to bend her neck enough to see the Dark Lord. He was keeping her still, standing at arm's length. He was staring back up at her with liquid fire in his eyes. And it was a fire of anger, loathing, hate. She wasn't living to see another day. She had failed him and she was going to be killed. That simple. The sharp, uncompromising, truthful way that had made her consider the Death Eaters, among other factors. When you lose, you really lose. No silly forgiving. No demented, infuriating rehabilitation of those who are too stupid to win. She had been giving out final punishment to many people, and each of them was too weak to live. She lived by harsh justice, she would die by it. No pleading.

Speaking was difficult, so she kept to the bare minimum.

"My Lord. Kill me."

Voldemort gave her another shove, playful this time, and took a few steps back while she swung like a pendulum. He looked at her and gave her a smile that was like a double-edged saber. "But not at all, my dear. Not at all. I'm having the time of my life watching you like this. All bloodied and squealing in pain. I can't count the ways in which I can make you scream, and still you are proud as ever. You think I don't see through. You think I don't know that you think we always said only the strong deserve to survive. And you think you haven't been strong, so you must die. Which would also be really convenient, seeing how you're not really feeling well."

Bella nodded slightly, feeling all her tendons screech in the process.

"Well, first I'm not doing you that sort of favor. Second, Death Eater propaganda is just that: propaganda. Take it from the one who started it in the first place." A grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "More often than you think, principles need to be bent, broken, and thrown down the drain. Even the ones we hold dear. The only good principle is: Lord Voldemort needs to make the world his little playground, to abuse at will. To consume and burn down. Or whatever I will see fit. If I need to value the weak over the strong to achieve that, I will. I will give them every honor if corrupting them is necessary. Cannon fodder sometimes wins wars, clever generals sometimes spend their nights plotting riots. And don't even dare to tell me you feel deceived. Saying you thought I was really only picking the best will only make you look even more idiotic, not to mention conceited. And anyway, you'll get your share when the fight is over."

At the imperceptible widening of her bruised eyes, he snapped: "Cut the drama. I told you, you'll live. I'm not pleased, but you'll live. You've been stupid, presumptuous, and undeserving of the trust I placed in you, but you can still have a part in the war plan. Which one, it's for me to decide."

With that, he approached her and caught her in a tight embrace, his lips millimeters from her breasts. She could feel a very distant tingling, an awakening of lust mixed with the continuing agony. She involuntarily licked blood off her lips. This can't be happening. This is a bad nightmare. Soon I will be awake and Rodolphus will be at my side. She had no clue as to what her feelings were. This was just too much. She couldn't be feeling desire for her torturer. Getting turned on by him being so deliciously ("Deliciously?" Bella, what got into you, just what?) violent against Muggles and Muggle-loving wizards was one thing, but where was her increasing need coming from now?

As if he could sense her thoughts, he slipped one hand behind her back in a smooth, long caress. Only for some reason the tip of his hand felt pointy. As she was wondering, torn by the lack of sense of it all, she heard him say "Crucio" in a plain, detached tone, and her whole body contracted, devastated by horrible pain. He kept on holding her until he lifted the curse. Then he stepped back, and made her restraints disappear: she crumbled to the floor. Just as she was propping herself up, he made his way to the door, only to turn around at the last minute to regard her quite longingly, something like curiosity in his eyes.

"You know, Bella? The way you moved under the curse had a certain something of the way you spasm when I make love to you. Don't make me think you made a connection, or we shall do this more often."

Cookie #4: Remembrance (not a sequel, different scenario)

Narcissa sat on her bed, cross-legged. She looked worried, to the point of anxious. She regarded her sister, standing in front of the fireplace, with a look that held mixed feelings. It would be a long night.

Bella sighed theatrically. "Narcissa. Nothing but good can come out of this, and you know."

Narcissa shrugged. Of course she knew. But she still didn't like it. In this precise moment, her son would probably be having carnal knowledge of a Muggle woman, of all things. That was as close to disgusting as it could get, and as much as she wanted her only son to be in the right place at the right time, which of course implied what he was going through tonight, she didn't like to think of him as so weak that he should take out his urges on such filthy counterparts. Her kid reduced to touching Muggles in that way? She had always pictured nobody but the most beautiful pureblood young witches to share her boy's bed. Men were, indeed, kind of creepy at times. And she couldn't shake off the thought that her sweet little one was also a man, with all the downsides.

Bella somehow understood what her sister was going through. Of course, were she a mother she would have asked nothing better for her son than taking the Dark Mark right on his eighteenth birthday, but she could see how consorting with Muggles was squicking Narcissa. But it was a part of the ritual, imposing violent and public sex on a Muggle woman. Although imposing wasn't really the right word when it came to Draco: the lad had turned out such a beautiful specimen that the chosen girl couldn't but feel really good about needing to couple with him. Well, maybe on second thought a cheering gang of Death Eaters wasn't the most appropriate surrounding. She clumsily stifled a laugh at the thought of what kind of encouragements Avery was giving to the lad at the moment. Not to mention the painful longing that Rodolphus must be feeling, wishing so hard to take the place of the Muggle woman.

Narcissa shot her sister an angry look. "How can you laugh at my predicament? In the end it's my kid who's doing something rotten, so you can have fun, eh? I only wish you have to screw a Muggle very soon, then we'll see who laughs!".

Bella was struck by a brilliant thought. She was stuck in the same room with her sister for hours, with the boring duty of watching over her in such a troublesome night, and she could as well try to have some fun. "Speaking of which, sister, let's take a break from all this worrying - you aren't going to change anything anyway - and have some decent girl talk. Did you ever sleep with a Muggle?"

Narcissa looked horrified. "Bella! Aside from the fact that I can't remember us doing any girl talk since the summer you turned seventeen, how do you dare insinuate that I could do that? Of course not. That's just gross."

"Well, well. Relax. I wasn't implying that you did that. But you see, I took your mind off Draco for a second. You were too busy getting angry with me. So next question: Mudblood?"

"No, no and no. No. I would never touch anyone who is not a pureblood."

"Right. So, purebloods other than your amazing husband, currently running amok with your kid in search of young, untouched Muggle flesh?"

"You're horrible. But you're so horrible you are almost funny. And no, I've never cheated on Lucius, before or after marriage. I'm not like some people in the house of Black who'd gladly get with anything who's willing".

Bellatrix pulled a mock sanctimonious expression. "Now, now, don't be all judgmental about our poor cousin Sirius".

Her sister, for the first time in some hours, gave a small satisfied smile. "Sirius? But not at all. I was talking about you."

Bella was taken aback for a second, then regained her composure. That was fun. "I will overlook your offending words, on counts of you being the silliest Black sister ever produced - you just ramble, your words don't hold any meaning. What makes you think I sleep around?". Her expression was so suave that almost anyone would have believed her and launched into a sequence of apologies. But not her sister.

"I didn't say that. But I remember you showing a certain appreciation in fourth year for my amazing husband, as you so cleverly put it. And I wouldn't be surprised if he had jumped at the chance. Plus, rumor has it that in fifth year you had a threesome with Mulciber and Nott. You told me yourself about Goyle's extremely interesting anatomy. And might I remind you that you had an affair with a Gryffindor at the start of your sixth year, and that you abused Severus Snape when he was a minor. Then you got engaged with the fag that is now your husband and you must have chosen the praised ways of discretion since I didn't ever hear anything about your sex life anymore."

Bella was now laughing heartily. "Why did you never tell me? It wasn't Nott, it was Crabbe. The Goyle story is true. And as for Lucius, he was too young to get anything done. Snape, on the other hand, was pretty funny. The Gryffindor was a total bore, and you would be amazed on how many things a gay man can do in bed if you give him the right cue. Actually, your kid has so many fanboys in his year that I wouldn't be surprised if he knew that better than I do."

Narcissa, who had been looking quite entertained in the past few minutes, suddenly frowned, thinking of Draco again. In an effort not to get scared or depressed, she turned her attention back to the saucy conversation.

"Well, Bella, I guess I didn't get precise enough tabs on your activities. So now it's time for me to ask you: did you ever sleep with a Muggle?"

"Nope. No fun. I like the occasional charm in bed."

"Yeah, I can just imagine the kind of stuff you like. And no, don't tell me, I don't need it to add to my collection of disturbing mental images, thank you very much. I have enough at the moment. So, any Mudblood?"

Bellatrix wondered for the millionth time how could her sister be so unaware of what was going on outside of her little blond-haired family. She was so sharp at times, yet terribly dim in other circumstances.

"Why, yes, Narcissa."

The younger sister gave the older one a look of morbid fascination.

"And how was it? Are they any good?"

"It was incredible. Sinfully good. A dream come true. Or better yet, I should say it is incredible, sinfully good, a dream come true, and more, every single time. I have the best lover I could ask for, and although he wouldn't like to hear it, I'm afraid he technically is a Mudblood. This doesn't prevent him from great use of magic, and he's got a knack for certain Unforgivables that put the fun back in sex. But I digress..."

The look on Narcissa's face was priceless, as realization dawned on her. At the same time, Draco - who had just returned from the ceremony - burst into the room, overexcited and with his left sleeve rolled up, keen to show his Dark Mark to his mother. So confused she was that she pointed at her son and said "You... you are sleeping with Lord Voldemort."

It took Draco some moments to realize what Narcissa had said. Bella slipped out of the room: if Draco was back, then her lover was back too, and there was no time to be wasted.

"Mum? Dad told me you wouldn't have liked that part of the initiation, but I swear on my Mark it was a Muggle woman, definitely not Lord Voldemort."