To Play Dress Up

He had been left with one small memento of her, a fading black and white photograph with edges that had curled up and cracks running through image like the dried up streams in the far away hot countries he'd been fascinated with as a child. She had spent the last month of her life in the orphanage where he had been born and confessed she was a witch to Agnes and Mildred, swearing them both to secrecy. The photograph had been given to them as she lay dying in labour and told them to give it to him "when he goes to school." He was eleven years old, standing awkwardly on the platform of nine and three quarters watching the witches and wizards fluster and chase after their screaming, excited children, when Mildred passed him a brown paper parcel tied up with string and had drawn him into a hug, telling him to "Open it on the train, it's from your Ma." He'd taken the parcel from her and clambered onto the train, walking quickly down the carriages to find the first empty one and sat down in there, waiting for the train to pull off. It had waited for the last few idiots to get on and had pulled off slowly. With a brief wave to Mildred and Agnes, he had ripped the paper from the object and had had run his finger lightly over the image of his mother, smiling and waving at him, doing so for the rest of that journey. She had appeared to have giggled when he ran his finger over her and he had played a game of hide and seek with him, running behind the trees in the background and making him guess where she was. He hadn't cried or even felt the slightest bit of sorrow looking at her; he had merely felt cold and empty, a living corpse. From that day on she had stayed with him always, first placed in the pocket of his school shirt and now placed in a makeshift pocket of his robes. The irony was that for a being that delighted in the dark, someone who had destroyed families and denied many children the comfort of their parents' love, his own mother's image should be placed at the spot where his heart should be.

Bellatrix had first been told this story and seen the photo when she was seventeen years old and well on her way to becoming his most loyal servant. The Dark Lord had taken her away from the room that held the Death Eaters to his own private chambers and in those shadowy rooms where the image of serpent presided from every wall, he had told her that this would be the highest honour she would ever receive from him.

"This is an honour beyond any power, material or grace I could give you, Bella. Even Malfoy and others I favour have not seen it, they have neither earned it nor will they appreciate it as you will, " he told her as he removed it from the pocket at his breast and passed it to her. "I trust you will keep this honour to yourself, to see this you must be invited by me to do so. I do not want fools and deceivers to see her."

She had placed her two hands together, straight out and palms upwards, as if she were to receive communion. Within the curling edges of the image was a young woman, a girl barely older than Bellatrix herself. From the photograph she could see the girl had blonde hair and a pretty face that wore a shy, ineffectual look; the girl exhibited a gentleness that few possessed, herself included. The girl was wore dark, deeply old fashioned robes that not even the poorest of witches would wear nowadays. From within the picture, the girl was smiling at her shyly when she was not peering down at the floor and hiding her face behind her hands. As she glanced up at her master, who was lost in thought, Bellatrix knew that despite the seeming insignificance of the gesture, she had been chosen to view something that was priceless to her Dark Lord, beyond the power and fear he commanded. It was the view into the last remaining shreds of humanity he had left.

That, however; had been years ago and the world had changed, yet Bellatrix remembered the moment so clearly in her mind. She had been shown the photo many times since and she could remember every detail of his mother's face. No longer seventeen but a woman in her forties, she could ask to see the girl if she desired. Little had changed over the years. Her Master's face would show something similar to tenderness each time he gazed at the photograph that had dimmed even more as the years went on. Something today however, was reminiscent of that day. It was a different chamber, different looks and times but the base elements of that day were present today.

"My mother Her name was Horatia. She was eighteen when I was born, little more than a child. I was conceived during the Easter holidays of her final year at Hogwarts. She died in labour and she left me only this as a lasting token of herself. Sometimes I think I have never quite forgiven her for leaving me."

He tells Bellatrix this story every time she looks at the photograph and she has the sense not to tell him she already knows. Sometimes she hates the story and it irks her to hear it, other times, such as today, she likes to hear him speak about his mother, hearing his voice change as each word is said. He places the picture back in his pocket and begins to study Bellatrix for a while, as he often does. His long, thin fingers reach out and trace her cheeks, her mouth, her nose and eyes and she enjoys the lightness of his fingers. As he does so he starts to point out his mother had none of Bella's strong features. He has done this for years, ever since the first viewing of the photograph. Where Bellatrix is dark, his mother appears pale; where Bellatrix has strong, sharp features his mother's are soft and rounded; where Bellatrix's gaze is dominant and defiant, his mother's is submissive and shy. Where Bellatrix is beautiful, his mother is pretty.

"Often men speak of beauty as if it is something that deserves our attention when it is merely a fleeting instant of no significance. Sometimes however, it needs to be shown and compared to the element within," he told her. "To be beautiful is nothing. To tease and to smile can be faked by even the plainest of creatures. A woman can create beauty for herself and give the illusion she is a goddess. There are tools that can create beauty and women use them to good effect to seduce the watching world, convincing it that they are worthy of attention."

He stops and taps his chest where his mother's picture lays flat against where his heart should beat.

"But prettiness cannot be faked. To be pretty is the raw element that most women can only dream of. You cannot fake being pretty, it is beyond illusion. There are no elements to help a person achieve prettiness, like there is for beauty. Beauty on a woman is what they have when they cannot be pretty. My mother was pretty, was she not?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Her words are quiet and addressed to the dark wooden floor. The Dark Lord walks to her and pushes her chin up to him, so they are face to face and she can see her reflection in his cold eyes, with some sort of defiance in her eyes, for she knows what comes next.

"You, Bellatrix. You are the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life."

He smiles at her and runs his thumb against her lips gently, brushing against the cracks and the dry skin that her lips have become. He leans towards her and places a small kiss on the top of her dull, dark hair before stepping back, as if observing her finished appearance.

"But you are not pretty."

With that he steps towards her and taps her head lightly with his wand. A cold feeling rushes from her head to her feet, like she has been held under freezing water and she grits her teeth as it makes her body sharply tingle. When she is done she shakes her head to stop the buzzing in her ears and she must follow him to a dinner. She must take his arm and walk slightly behind him. It is a routine well followed, they walk along each dark corridor and the Death Eaters wait outside the door of the dining room, where she and the Dark Lord will dine alone. As the Death Eaters bow to her Master, Bellatrix stops at the last mirror, a large gold framed mirror that hasn't been cleaned in years. He stands behind her; she can see him glance over at her as she checks her appearance as best she can through the dust and the black spots that obscure her reflection. Her long, dark hair, uncut and wavy has been replaced by a mousy blonde that is shoulder length and straight. Her pale, dull cheeks now have a rosy red swept on them, almost artistically and yet natural all the same. Her sharp cheekbones, strong forehead and defined nose that Narcissa said could have cut ice have been replaced by a round face with delicate features and a small red mouth. Bellatrix has ceased to exist for now, all that remains is Horatia. He walks behind her and takes her hand in his, smiling triumphantly at her.

"Now you are pretty"

He takes one last look at her before sweeping into the dining room leaving her in his wake. She will be expected to follow him soon but for the moment she stares at the reflection that is not hers, reaching her pale arm out and running little fingers across the reflected mouth. She stands in the shadows, not merely the shadows of the sloping ceilings and the heavy ornaments of silver snakes, but also the shadow of a long dead woman who holds the place within her Master that Bellatrix so desperately wants.