This Precious Thing

This Precious Thing

***

They all think that I'm mad, these new little ones- I can see it in their eyes, in the glints of fear struck by the moonlight in their sky blue, limpid brown, or hazel-green gazes. Silly children. They all still want bedtime stories, a mummy to hold them to her breast and whisper sweet nothings of comfort. But they know I'm no mother. Rather, they fear that I am precisely what's gone bump in the night, for they've heard tales of me; mere fractions of what I've done. And they quaver in fear, nerves hammering in their ears as their hearts pound in their chests.

All but one- the tall, willowy figure off to the left. He or she- gender is impossible to discern under the facade of black robes and hood- remains aloof from the other inductees, spine held taut, head turned away from the foolish posturing and fabricated fearlessness of the others.

A dark form breaks away from our main circle, gliding to the side of the one I'm watching. His hood falls from his head as he walks, the firelight gilding sylvan detail into the strands of his hair- my nephew, Draco. His hand rests on my subject's back, and as it slides lower than common decency would allow among friends, I know she's a woman, for the boy's preferences on that score were established long ago. As far as I'm able to observe, they don't speak; Draco just pushes up her sleeve, rubbing with his thumb the soft expanse of bare white flesh that will soon be smoothly pale no longer. There's a subtle eroticism to the way he touches her, and I can't keep myself from staring- it's the same exquisiteness that Lucius's fingers used to work on my skin during the late nights spent over star charts in the Astronomy Tower. A physicality with a wicked magic all its own.

The girl rises on tiptoes to whisper a confidence in Draco's ear, but before she gets very far they're interrupted by the blinding smoke and darkness of our Lord's arrival. The girl drops down to flat feet, and Draco hurriedly rejoins the circle, yanking hood and mask back into haphazard place.

We all make our obeisance to the Dark Lord, and he paces the circle, touching the tops of our heads in turn. His fingers lingering on my scalp prolong the blessed burning- there's a promise in his touch that makes me quake with anticipation. I have always been his favorite.

But then he pulls away, retreating to his seat in the middle of the circle. "Bring them," he commands, reedy voice sharp with greed-laden anticipation. This is his moment.

Meekly, the children step forward, and I can already pick out the ones that won't survive the ritual. That one there, with the slumped shoulders; another to the right, with shaking hands. A wicked smile cracks the mask of skin I wear beneath my heavy cloth one- these two shall be mine.

A broad-shouldered man- Lucius, by the powerful confidence of his stride- leaves the Dark Lord's side and takes the first inductee by the elbow, pushing up his sleeve. His stance is stalwart; he's likely to be accepted.

Lord Voldemort raises his wand, and a wetly sinister red beam shoots out the tip, sizzling sickly on the boy's cocoa-smooth flesh. His knees buckle as he swallows his scream, but he holds, and I lead the circle in extending him the Hand of Entrance- each of us reach out with an invisible hand of power to steady him, to feed on his pain. I shudder as I intake a sweet breath of misery; has it been so long?

"Bella," the Dark Lord says indulgently, interrupting my thoughts, and I realize I'm the only one still extended; the boy is writhing on the ground at Voldemort's feet. Sullenly, I drop the line of power, and Lucius hauls the shaking boy to his feet. He has passed- after his recovery, he will be a full Death Eater.

The rest continue as the first, though I'm careful to rein myself in- no use in irritating the Dark Lord so that he withholds the toys I so desperately desire. The new Death Eaters are carried off to the side, where Lorelei Goyle and Erriluxa Crabbe dutifully mop their sweaty foreheads and wipe the blood from their mouths- almost everyone bites through their lower lip during induction. The scar that forms there is often referred to in jest as the Second Dark Mark. Mine wasn't so deep before Azkaban, but I would worry at it during the long nights in my cell, and now the wound is jagged, rough-hewn, raw.

I realize I'm chewing it again- the metallic tang of blood courses through my senses, both scent and taste. And sight as well- my two new toys, the two I'd chosen from the line, are heaped together, unconscious, at the side of the circle. But there's no need to worry, for I shall wake them soon enough. The night is yet young.

Unsurprisingly, Draco's lithe willow is last; trust him to choose a girl with a flair for the dramatic. She walks to the center of the circle with no fear in her, and I feel a rush of contemptuous hate. Does she think she can survive the pain without scarring? Even if she doesn't mar her undoubtedly pretty little face, there are always the scars on the inside, the ones that can't be seen....

The Dark Lord smiles when this girl kneels before him, but it's not the feral smile of the invincible preying on the weak- it's a smile of genuine pleasure, and my hate is replaced by a jolt of snarling jealousy. Who is she, that he would look at her thus?

She pushes back her hood, and the cruel moonlight doesn't etch wrinkles into her flawless skin, doesn't shadow her eyes as it does mine. Instead, it throws highlights of gold into her sunset-colored hair, and pearlizes her skin so that it glows translucently. The man next to me- Nott, I think, or maybe McNair- inhales sharply, and I can imagine his thoughts: how did so blackened a trap catch so bright a firefly? But I just smile, imagining the Dark Mark emblazoned on that opalescent flesh. Soon, she'll twist and weep on the ground at his feet, just like all the rest.

The Dark Lord tucks two fingers underneath her chin, tilting her face up so he can examine her. "Ginny Weasley," he murmurs in that cruelly soft voice. "They stopped you from sacrificing yourself for me before. Are you here to try again?"

I glance to the side, where I know Draco is, and I see he's leaned forward, mask pulled down so he can watch more intently. His face is impassive, but his Adam's apple bobs erratically with each spastic breath- he's afraid. Afraid the Dark Lord will, in one way or another, rob him of this precious thing.

Ginny meets his gaze unflinchingly. She's either very brave or very stupid, I think, until I remember that she was a Gryffindor. Both, then. "If that be your request, my lord," she replies.

"Perhaps," Voldemort says, voice still soft, smile increasing. The envy inside me groans and writhes, longing to break out and squeeze that slender swan's neck until her eyes bleed and her tongue is black as silt. He offers her a hand, raising her to her feet. "But for now, I have a task for you greater than the gift of your suffering." Tenderly, almost like a lover, he slides her sleeve back down to her wrist.

My vision is red-tinged at the edges- is this what the world is like with rose-colored glasses?- and the rest of the evening coils away into a spiralled scarlet blur. The Dark Lord leaves, taking Lucius with him- neither spare a backward glance for me, and I chafe at this- but it gives me an opportunity to corner Draco and his sun-dappled firebird.

Passing the crumpled heap of toys the Dark Lord has left me, (left me- is that all I merit, now? Leavings?) I stalk toward my nephew and the girl. Once again, their heads are bent together, their lips moving in a fast-paced lovers' code. What I can decrypt has mainly to do with the mission Voldemort's given her to infiltrate the Ministry hierarchy- unsurprising that he would ask this of her, given her connections.

My priority should be the Dark Lord's cause- I should recognize the girl's value and let her be.

I don't know if it's the way Voldemort looked at her; or the way she murmurs in Draco's ear, reminding me of golden Narcissa and the way my sister took Lucius from me; or if it's just a fear of my own age, a fear of slipping. But I hate her. I want to use a file to remove her dried blood from beneath my fingernails, I want to bathe in her blood until my flesh is as red as the killing fields. I want someone other than sliming, snivelling Rodolphus to worship me as a precious thing.

It isn't hard to lure the girl away from Draco for a moment, plying him with the lie that men so easily believe- we just need a moment for "us girls." Ginny follows me, her movements gracefully supple, and I wonder- when I reach for her neck, will she snap like a brittle twig, or just bend and bend and bend, flexing greenly like the new shoot that she is?

There's but one way to find out....

We speak casually, the girl asking advice on her mission, and I offer the best I have, for it's no use having her smell a rat and escaping before I can touch her.

Now. She's vulnerable, her eyes are off to the far side of the clearing. I reach, and my hands encounter the smoothness of her, the silken neck where Draco kisses her, making his clumsy offerings. He's beneath this girl, really. She's wasted on Draco, and the Dark Lord knows this just as Draco does; Draco knows he'll lose this precious thing. I start to squeeze, but Ginny doesn't struggle, she just stares at me with her clover honey eyes.

She's mesmerizing, and I almost don't feel Draco's knife slip between my ribs; not until the wrenching sound of steel on bone. Ginny kneels beside me as I fall to the grass, her hands sticky with my blood. She stares at the red wetness, then carefully removes my clutching hands from her neck. "Thank you," she whispers. As if she's about to confide in me, she leans close. I can see the glimmer of madness in her eyes- it isn't difficult for me to recognize the trait we share. "He needs the blood of one who loves him, you know. Once, that blood was mine, but I can't perform the spell again; the bond is broken." She sighs softly. "But your blood, Bellatrix- Bella, as he calls you- your blood is still untainted, still pure."

My vision blurs entirely, and I can feel my life ebbing away into the jar Draco is holding beneath my wound. But just before I close my eyes, I hear Ginny's voice, echoing as though from the bottom of an old stone well: "Careful, Draco, not to spill any. Every drop is precious...."

***