Persephone Descending

Chapter 8: Monomania

"A scheme is not a vision, and you never have been tempted by a demon or a god."--Leonard Cohen, Song of Isaac

She was asleep, the pedestrian white sheets of the hotel bed twining around her limbs, her mind tormented with dreams of darkness and death.

In the quiet dark of the Chamber of Secrets, Voldemort smiled.

He was content to merely revel in her distress; there was no need to torment her further with images and words of despair, although he certainly had plenty. She was suffering from the actions she had committed; as she had done his will, and it was a sweet knowledge running through his blood. Tonight he remained hidden from her dreaming self, watching her distress with no small amount of pleasure. It was addictive, really; her silent cries were like the sweetest of wines on his tongue. Nagini hissed beside him, tasting his pleasure on the air.

You are pleased.

Voldemort did not turn his smile on his familiar, but answered only, I am, in the language he shared with only one other. Usually that thought was enough to infuriate him--his gift from his ancestor, and his alone until his curse had rebounded off that boy, shared now with some ungrateful whelp that did not have enough sense to know how to use the talent he'd been given. It disgusted him, but today he was too replete in his newest victory to care overmuch. Besides, the Order was all but decimated; Potter was nowhere to be found, and the last great hope of the Boy Who Lived lay drenched in sweat in her bed, defenseless...

He hissed again, but it was a wordless exclamation and his familiar only blinked lazily, settling at his feet. Several moments passed in exquisite silence, as he reveled in the texture of her pain flowing around him, sharp and sweet. He might have stood there for the duration of the night, luxuriating in the experience, if Nagini had not hissed a warning to him. Someone approaches.

His mind sharpened immediately and pulled away from the girl and her torment, to focus back on the task at hand and his surroundings. Who is it?

The one who burns, his serpent answered, and Voldemort inclined his head briefly as the door to the chamber opened.

"Master?" The voice, husky and low, carried through the room to where he stood in the shadows. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"You are not, Bella," he said. "You may approach me."

She nodded and walked towards him. None would ever hear it, of course, but there was as much affection as he was able to feel in his voice when he said her name. The only woman who had ever proven herself, Bellatrix Lestrange was his most faithful servant. The woman who burns. Nagini spoke in the language of serpents, and the name she had gifted Bellatrix with was incredibly apt.

Bellatrix bowed reverently before him, her eyes glowing with that inner fire he knew they called fanaticism--out of her earshot, of course. His Death Eaters might say she was insane, but her skill was never doubted among them. He remembered her years ago, as she knelt before him; when her hair was still lustrous and shining, her face fuller and the madness not so firmly etched in her face, her eyes, and her very limbs. She'd been so lush and beautiful, Bella, eager for the promises he made to her. His Bella, who had been faithful to him even when the others had denounced him. He reached a hand out as if to touch her, but he did not. Voldemort seldom touched anyone, unused to casual affection from his youngest days and disgusted with most expressions of warmth. He slowly let his fingers curl back into his palm and lowered his hand to his side. His faithful acolyte shuddered briefly, as if he had indeed touched her, eyes half-closed almost rapturously at the aborted caress.

He knew what they called her, of course he did. The Dark Lord's concubine, Death Eater's whore. As far as he knew, Bellatrix gave her body only to her husband Rodolphus; and he certainly had never touched her. Rather, he amended, he'd never touched her body. His Mark was as indelible on her soul as it was on the skin he'd branded. He'd taught her the Dark Arts himself, all that he had learned from almost a lifetime of study. In his infrequent moments of quiet introspection, he thought of her as the daughter of his soul; if I even still have one. Regardless, he'd never once lain with her, and he would not. He had no time for such things.

Women to him were always somewhat of a nuisance...soft, weak creatures so easily broken. It was why Lily Potter's bravery had taken him by surprise, as much as he hated to admit it--that she would face him down, eyes spitting fire from a face that had mocked him over the past few years. He'd given her a chance to step aside--he would not be so sentimental to think it was in memory of his own mother, long since dead--but he had never once made that mistake again. Few women were worthy of his attentions, it was a shame Lily Potter had been so corrupted by goodness. She would have made a fearsome ally. Any woman willing to face down the dread Dark Lord in defiance...it was a pity he had to kill her, but he did not particularly regret it. She'd made her choice, and now she could repent beyond the Veil if she so chose, because he certainly would not.

He allowed his Death Eaters their diversions with women if they wished--and many of them did, whether it was through marriage or sport with the Muggle filth they captured. He had not availed himself of either--such sport could take down a man's defenses, and he could not afford that. Lucius Malfoy was another who did not care to partake in such play, and while he sneered and claimed it was because he refused to sully himself with Muggles, Voldemort knew better. Lucius could argue all he wanted, but he was a devoted husband to his wife. It was one reason Voldemort had been so forgiving (if one could count the hours of Crucio he'd subjected Lucius to following his return to power in the graveyard "forgiving") of his deception, Malfoy might have lied to keep himself out of trouble, but the man kept his word. His wife was an asset as well--cool and collected, she'd been invaluable to their intelligence gathering even though she'd never bowed before him as her sister did.

Bellatrix. The only woman to serve him as a Death Eater had earned her brutal reputation without question. He thought of the way she had tortured those Aurors, the Longbottoms, in her frantic search for him when he'd fallen to Lily Potter's sacrifice, and he smiled again. She was a fearsome force of nature, his Bella. When Potter had felt that surge of happiness from him on the night of her release from prison, the boy had assumed it was because ten of Lord Voldemort's faithful were finally free to return to their lord. While this was true, there was another reason for his jubilation; he was as connected to his Death Eaters as they were to him through his Mark, and most of what he felt that night was Bellatrix. Bella's joy in feeling the cold night air on her face, at staring up at the stars unfettered and unchained, was transmitted to him and then, of course, to Potter. It had been a sublime moment.

She stood before him now, physically a shadow of the beauty he remembered so vividly from their past. Dark hair no longer lank and lifeless as it was when she had first escaped, but it was still dulled, as if the years she had spent locked away stripped it of some essential element needed for it to shine as it once did. In fact, that could be said of Bellatrix herself as well. But her heavy-lidded dark eyes were still beautiful, and the dark loyalty in her eyes as fervent as it always had been.

"They say we've defeated them, master. Is it true?" Her voice had a pulsing satisfaction--their victory would vindicate her years of suffering in Azkaban. Voldemort was aware their triumph meant almost as much to her as it did to him. Almost.

"Nearly, Bella. Their precious Order lies in ruins, it is true. My compliments to your ingenuity in dealing with the Weasley family."
Bella preened under his compliments like a cat being stroked by its master. "I knew you would be pleased," she purred. A hard edge came into her voice when she said, "And I knew Malfoy would be most displeased he had to miss it. I know he detested the entire family. Only the mad one is left alive. If he is deserving, perhaps I'll let Malfoy take care of her." There was a long-standing feud between Malfoy and his sister-in-law. Although Voldemort was not privy to the details, he was aware of the struggle for dominance between them, as subtle as it usually was. He did recall a spectacular incidence years ago with the two of them in a wizarding duel which was one of the few times they had been outwardly hostile to the other. It had evened out, for the most part, as Malfoy was the strategist to Bella's assassin, but there were...tensions...still evident between them.

"Bella, Malfoy is useful in other ways. He did systematically destroy the rest of the Order's forces at King's Cross," Voldemort said, amused as he watched her eyes flicker with ire. That would provide an interesting interaction between them when he reconvened the inner circle. Voldemort enjoyed manipulating others for his own entertainment, and in their own separate ways, Lucius and Bellatrix were astonishingly easy to manipulate.

Most people were, really. Touching his mind briefly to Bella's, he was rewarded with a combination of fanatical devotion, irritation at her brother-in-law, and the lingering effects of whatever horrors she had performed on the remaining Weasley family before disposing of their worthless lives.

Violence often clung to her like a scent, and he did not need to see into her mind since he it wrapped around him, coating his tongue like fine, dark chocolate. A faint lingering essence of smoke from the fire she had set filled his nostrils and he felt a slight flare of amusement. The one who burns, indeed.

"And Granger? Did Malfoy manage to find her and bring her to you?" Bellatrix licked her thin lips, eyes narrowed as she stared at him. "Or did he allow her to get away like that prophecy he lost for you?" Few men would dare meet his eyes; this raven-haired witch dared much in doing so now. Her gall often amused him, but it was imperative she remember her place.

"Bellatrix," he said in his coldest of tones, watching with pleasure as her face paled slightly. "If you will recall correctly, Lucius was not the only one who failed me that night." There was a moment they both remembered it--her screaming and trapped beneath the fallen statue, and his rescue of her before Apparating them out of the Department of Mysteries. He'd almost left her there for her failure, but he had relented as he did not want to lose her again to Azkaban so soon after her escape. Lucius would survive his incarceration, but Bella's joy at her release suggested she would never again endure such captivity.

She bowed her head, hair falling over her face. The gesture was one she had used often, although he was fairly certain she was not hiding a smile as she usually did. "I am sorry for my impertinence, Master," she said quietly, and he nodded although she could not see him do so.

"Miss Granger is at the Leaky Cauldron, sleeping at the moment."

Bellatrix looked up, a brief flare in her dark eyes. "You no longer wish her to be brought to you, alive?" She ran one long finger over her cheek while a predatory smile twisted her lips. The scar was the result of a battle lost with Miss Granger several months prior; Voldemort knew Bellatrix longed to take revenge for the scar the younger witch had left. There were potions that would have fixed it, of course, but Bellatrix refused. I shall leave it, and give her a matching one on her neck, she'd said to Rodolphus. No doubt Voldemort's words to her now had excited her into thinking she could take her revenge with his approval.

"No," he said, holding a hand up. "I have decided she shall come to me."

Bellatrix arched a black brow, a slight grin on her face, and laughed. The sound was warm and amused; it made her look younger and reminded him of how she would laugh in delight when she tortured Muggles, in the days before Azkaban. "You think the high-and-mighty Miss Granger will ask to join with us, master? I thought those Gryffindors would rather die than do such a thing."

Voldemort moved away from her, Nagini following him silently. "You think so? Remember Wormtail, Bella. He too was in Gryffindor, if you will recall?"

She walked next to him no comma and said nothing, but he felt her resentment, sharp and hot no comma and heard her thoughts as if she spoke them aloud. Always he reminds me of that pathetic Wormtail, who serves out of fear when I serve out of love.

He stopped for a moment and reached out to catch her arm, and he wrapped long, cold fingers around the thin bones in her wrist. He squeezed hard enough to make her catch her breath--whether in fear or delight, he was not sure. "There are many reasons to serve," he hissed at her. "Do not discount Wormtail's motivations because they are different than your own." Dropping her hand, he paused in front of a door leading into the potions laboratory. "In the end, their loyalty to me is what matters most, not the grounds on which they give it."

She nodded once, rubbing the skin on her arm that was already forming a bruise from his harsh treatment. "Yes, my lord," she said quietly and turned to walk down the hallway. He paused a moment to see if she harbored any ill-will towards him, but the only thoughts currently in her head involved something intimate she had planned with Rodolphus, and he pulled his mind away to concentrate on his next task.

Pushing the door open, he faced the dark-haired, hook-nosed man who was working diligently over a softly boiling cauldron. The man did not look up when he entered, and as usual, his insouciance made Voldemort want to hex him. He was well-aware the man had taken a huge risk in returning to his service--and the former potions master of Hogwarts had paid dearly for that, it was certain. Snape was still recovering from the hours he had been subjected to torture for his crimes, his body still weak and entirely too thin for his tall frame.

When he raised his dark black eyes to his master, Voldemort saw a flash of deeply imbedded hatred and fear go through the younger man's gaze before he scowled and lowered his eyes respectfully. "My lord," he said gruffly, voice quiet.

I have not broken you, Severus. As much as you suffered under my command, you refuse to cower before me, even though I can taste your fear.

Snape's eyes met his again, and beneath the fear there was the same stoic resolve Voldemort thought the man must have been born with. No amount of the Cruciatus had managed to dispel that from Severus Snape's inner being. Voldemort thought it might well be the reason the man was still alive. His rage at Snape's duplicitous behavior had been fearsome indeed.

"Severus," Voldemort said evenly, watching the man's eyes flicker to Nagini, who curled languidly at the floor at the former professor's feet. "I was hoping you had made some progress on the potion we had discussed."

He still fears you, master, the snake hissed, amused, as Snape murmured something and went to find the bottle he had labeled, muttering about the properties of mandrake and the problem with ordering more hemlock.

Of course he does, Voldemort hissed back, seeing Severus' shoulders tense slightly as he heard the Dark Lord speaking in Parseltongue to his familiar. However, he hates me more.

As he had told Bellatrix, there were many reasons men chose to serve him, and he never discounted a single one of them. Severus, lost in his explanation, did not notice when Voldemort moved swiftly around him, so that he stood at his Death Eaters back.

I do not discount them, but I do not trust them, either.

Nagini hissed in the darkness; it might have been a laugh.