Flames

Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Don McClean -Starry, Starry Night

*

The traditional marital bed of the House of Black creaked as I sat upon the edge, like the sighs of so many past lovers. A plaque above the headboard informed me, in flashing silver letters, that the bed had been in use to newlyweds since 1486. Underneath, the words Amour Pur stood watch with a cold, fixed smile. On the opposite wall, a tapestry of all the couples who had spent their first night beneath the guarding silver letters. The latest addition was Lucius and Narcissa, weaved in white. I nodded, approving. Lucius needed an heir.

The room seemed to contain a reverent hush, as if it waited holding its breath for every new couple. The throb of music and laughter downstairs heightened the explosive atmosphere; silent alarm bells shattered the air like fine frosted glass in an earthquake. The clock struck midnight. It was time.

I haven't seen water in so long. I don't mean the salt encrusted violence of the sea, nor the brown dribble served at mealtimes in Azkaban. I mean pure, clean, real water you can drink without choking, wash in without drowning, throw yourself into without scraping scratches from the grainy friction. So when I catch sight of a room marked 'private', and find it to be a huge cathedral of a bathroom, I know exactly what I'm going to do. One darting glance down the empty corridor confirms he will find me, just following the trail of smoking footsteps. I place my hand squarely in the centre of the door and push, feeling ancient wood crackle and melt beneath my fingers like Rodolphus on that first night. With a twitching smirk, I slide the hand away, leaving a long, indented wipe mark, as if I died and slipped downwards in choking, futile submission.

I travel through and am immediately sealed inside. The candles flicker to life in harsh, illuminating white. I wince. I am too used to dark crevices and crouching shackled to endure this interrogation.

Red, I mutter.

That's better. A soft, pre-mass glow fills the church, bloodying the gold of the taps and flushing the skin of each darkly carved surface. I pick my way across the chilled flagstones, feel their cold slumber creep up through my body, hear the gentle hiss of my heated flesh slowly cool and pucker pallid blue. What used to be full, ripe, magnificent has shrunken and shrivelled pitifully.

Once I told him Pain is Beauty. And it is. All too late, I realise the absence of pain may equal the absence of all it brings. Purple jointed, translucent and drooping, I descend the marble stairs into the empty bath, hoping for rejuvenation.

Possession. Power. Soon, I will possess all. Soon, I will control where the wind blows, I will call the moths from their chrysalises, I will tell the fire how high to burn. I have been delayed for too long. My fury has been allowed to mount to innumerable levels. My fury has possessed my self. I am a moulded cacophony of anger and hate and power. I should have risen to the ultimate height by now, for too long fools who have claimed to be my followers have ruined my plans. The Potter boy should be in his grave by now, but still he walks, and still he interferes. No more. I will create the perfect possession. The only possession that will be truly faithful, the only possession whose loyalty could never waver, or dedication tire. A possession working not in greed of greater power, but under the manipulation of unflinching love for his father. My son. My heir. And the one who owes me the most will be the one who will give him to me. Bellatrix.

I remembered as the clock struck midnight, as I was lifting the last slice of wedding cake to my lips and feeling it softly squidge between my fingers. What had been a twitching, golden egg in the back of my mind suddenly cracked and burst forth a pair of insistent wings and an urgent call. Time to go to the real ceremony.

Taking Rodolphus's small, bony hand, I made my way through the chattering guests and the colourful lights and the fountain of firewhiskey to the staircase.

Where are we going? He whispered. My mother's over there, she wants to-

Upstairs, I said. The Dark Lord is waiting. I am to become a Death Eater.

He stopped, dead still. His eyes flashed brightly.

-Darling...that's amazing. He's performing the ceremony now? I had to go through all sorts of tests before he thought me worthy. He must have a very strong feeling about you...

His voice was tinged green, and in the eerie candlelight of the staircase his face seemed to have twisted in distaste. I tugged insistently on his hand, feeling the limp, jelly-rind skin beneath my touch fold loosely.

-He said to meet in our bedroom at midnight. Quickly, let's go. I don't wish to displeasure him so soon.

A wave of fear flitted across Rodolphus's weakened face.

-Come on then.

He was sitting on the bed when we entered, a large raven balanced on the finest white silk. Though the room had been in darkness before, the mute flick of his wand sent low, blue flames to the surrounding candles, lighting the room to reveal heavy dark furniture and an arrangement of heart-shaped crystal bottles balanced upon the bedside table, each containing a different coloured liquid. I suspected they were to act as some kind of aid to the future events of the evening, placed there by doting mothers who did not want any kind of hitch in proceedings. Sure enough, at closer inspection, they boasted labels such as 'confidence', 'fertility' and 'stamina'. I felt it would be unwise to laugh.

The Dark Lord stood.

-Bellatrix Ursula Lestrange, you know why you have come to me tonight. You chose wisely to accept the power of Lord Voldemort, for only he can ensure your survival...as long as you ensure his. A Death Eater will be asked to perform many duties that will not be seen as lawful in the eyes of Ministry and common wizards but will be essential to the rise of your master. You will be faithful to my command, or face torture and painful death. Do you understand?

Yes master, I said, my head high, staring into his eyes.

He paused, holding my gaze.

-From now on, Bellatrix, you will wear my chosen colour for you.

In two steps he was in front of me with his hands on my chest, over my heart as I had so wanted back in the kitchen. Slowly, like blood from a wound, the deepest red soaked from where he touched, spreading over the pale material until it was drenched. His hands slid from my heart to my left forearm, and closed over the skin like a clamp on packed snow.

I assure you, this will hurt, he sneered.

I assure you, I will like it, I replied.

Follow the path. Follow the footprints to your future possession, follow the new road to your untapped power. Fools who love are my greatest weapon. Those who love see the object of their affection as the sun, and like a rooted, crushable flower, follow that sun. Without it, they cannot survive. If the sun moved further away, the flower would only crane higher, not caring it was making itself a target, blind to anything but its life-giver's light.

In the past, this reason is exactly why I have prohibited my followers from loving. Intercourse is allowed solely for the purpose of reproduction, the creation of new followers. My son will be the greatest follower of all. His love for me will be so fierce, so blinkered and pathetic, nothing could stop him from doing my bidding. When I tell him to kill Potter, he will kill him. When I tell him to tear apart the Ministry, he will do it. His belief in his love for me will be such protection that his only destruction could be at my hands, when I have no use for him any more and I reveal to him the lie his life has been.