The Drum

He beat through her blood since the day she met him. A strong, reassuring throb, driving her, giving her purpose. Channeling her resources, ordering her soul, harnessing her power. He had been her obsession for so long, all else had faded. There was still a husband. A family. Perhaps friends. It all paled compared to the glorious power he had fed her, pushed through her, made her pulsate with.

And then he had left her.

For fifteen years, his pulse had been weak, sometime fading to maddening silence, leaving her alone and lost. She screamed and tore at the stone walls, impassioned for a few moments, before falling silent and listening, listening, waiting to feel the familiar beat.

When she felt it, no matter how faint or quiet, she would bare her teeth and shut her eyes, lost in the momentary ecstasy of knowing he was still there. That light was snuffed quickly by her guards, and all that was left was the beat, keeping her company through the long years she was imprisoned in her mind.

Time passed.

She woke from her stupor of despair when the beat resounded loudly. From the masses of the dark years piled upon each other, years spent straining to hear the faint drum, there came the strong pulse. She shook in the darkness of her cell, her mind seized with familiarity, taking her back to the days before. The beat grew, grew until her blood boiled with it and her fists clenched, and she cackled, a harsh sound in the silence, and she floated, rocked by the steady presence of his force.

She waited now. She was awake and waiting.

He would come for her, and rip away this veil of darkness and misery.

He would break open her tomb and bring her back to life.

No matter how long it would take, it would happen. And until then...

There was the beat.

She was right.

She led them. The ten who had been saved, she led them. She walked before them, head held high, her deathly pallor shining in the forgotten sunlight. Her robes hung loosely around her skeletal frame but her eyes burned with zealous fire, she walked in time to the drum of her god, the drum that beat within her.

She drew closer, her stomach fluttered, bloodthirsty butterflies paying homage to their dark creator. Her legs trembled, temporary weakness from knowledge of his strength.

They made her wait, the infidels, the betrayers. They made her a bed and told her to sleep. They cited his name to their actions. She lay awake all night, counting the beats in her head, feeling him draw closer, awaiting their reunion.

Pupil and teacher.

Soldier and general.

Servant and master.

Worshipper and god.

She would not change her clothes, they were a mark of her sacrifice to him. She would not touch her hair, her premature grey an offering on his altar. She would offer her suffering to him, the last fifteen years a gift to him, all she had, she would give to him.

She fell to her knees before him, the drum obscuring all sound but his voice. She gazed, at last, upon his face, revered, idolized, beloved.

He reached out a pale hand to her, touching her sunken cheeks.

"Bella," he said to her.

She looked down, ashamed to have dared to look upon his face.

"Bella, my loyal demoness."

"My lord," she said.

"Bella, Bella, all these years we have been parted. Will you wield death for me again, raining destruction upon the filth that contaminate the wizarding world?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Will serve me with the dedication you showed before I fell?"

"Always, my lord."

He tipped her chin up, red eyes meeting dark eyes.

"Your will, master, " she said. He smiled, and spoke. The rhythm altered. She had her orders. She rose and walked away, devotion singing through her pure blood, his words driving her, giving her strength and sanity.

Lord Voldemort beat through Bellatrix's blood since the day she met him. He drove her, owned her, wielded her.

I am your sword, your pupil, your soldier, your servant, your follower. You are my lord, my god, my pulse, my only.

You are my master, I am your Bellatrix.