A Work of Art

A/N: I wrote this story for sihaya_, who supplied the summary as a prompt for saeva's genficathon on Live Journal.

April, 1972

Slughorn never mentioned how much paperwork a Healer has to do, Rabastan Lestrange reflected wryly as he headed back to his desk. He had just finished his rounds, and was looking forward to a cup of coffee and the chance to catch up on some of that paperwork when he heard someone call his name.

"Rabastan." He turned to see Chief Healer Humility Marsh standing in a doorway. "Do you have a minute?"

Damn. "Sure, Milly. What can I do for you?"

"What else? I need your special talent."

Rabastan had discovered his "special talent" at the age of five. He and his mother had taken his sick kitten to the specialist at Black Cat. Co., and he'd told the man he could see the "ouch" in Nimue's ear. The man had been amused--until he'd discovered the cat had an ear infection.

Rabastan usually described his magical gift in terms of sight, because it seemed easier for other people to understand that way. But in reality, he "saw" disease with all of his senses. Not always all at once; occasionally it was just a strong smell of decay, or a great heat that radiated from the person. But those were always extreme cases, things he could sense even when he wasn't looking for them. Nothing about Milly's unconscious patient immediately struck Rabastan when they entered the recovery room. Except, of course, for the fact that the man's right arm, hidden beneath the bedsheet, was much shorter than his left.

"What happened to him? An accident, I suppose?" The man looked no more than twenty, so the amputation was unlikely to be the result of complications from some long-term disease.

"His hand was hit with some sort of cancer-inducing curse. You won't believe how fast it spread; I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen it. On Tuesday we cut out all the tumors; on Wednesday they were back and had spread past his wrist. It was like we'd done nothing."

"Merlin's beard. What did you do?"

"What do you think? We cut them out again. And I flooed every cancer and curse specialist in Europe and North America. Joshua Rosenberg left a Paris conference early to come take a look."

Rabastan was momentarily distracted by this news; Rosenberg was internationally famous for his cancer research. "You're joking! I've wanted to meet him for ages! Just my luck he'd turn up while I was on holiday. What was he like?"

"Arrogant, condescending, lousy bedside manner. Just your typical Research Healer," Milly answered wryly.

Rabastan wanted to do research himself, but he let it pass. "What did he say?"

"He said he was impressed with whoever created this curse. I'm not sure I'd say that, but I see his point--whoever did this adjusted the cancer cells' reproduction rate, and it's never been done before. He called it a big breakthrough--if the reproduction rate can be magically accelerated so much, it can also be magically slowed. We never thought of that, of course." Milly rolled her eyes. "But every slowing and stasis spell we tried seemed to aggravate the condition."

"So he couldn't help?" Rabastan asked, startled.

"No. But he did try everything he knew, which was more than I do," she answered grudgingly. "Stayed for three days, and would have stayed longer, I think, except by that time the cancer was more than halfway up the forearm, in spite of everything we'd done. That's why we decided to amputate. This way at least he's still got use of his elbow." They looked down at the patient's right arm, which stopped so abruptly beneath the sheet. "His wife says he's left-handed. That's lucky, at least."

Lucky indeed. If the poor sod had been hit in the torso, say near the liver or a kidney, he'd doubtless be dead by now. "Aren't you worried that some cells might have got into the bloodstream and been carried somewhere else?"

Milly gave him a long look, and it hit him. "That's what I'm looking for, isn't it."

"That's it."

"Right." Feeling foolish, Rabastan took the patient's hand in his own and said, "This will take a few minutes." Then he closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply. In, out. In, out. When he examined someone, he opened his entire mind to their body, experiencing its state with all his senses. The even breaths helped him focus. In a few moments, he could sense

the rhythmic sound of muscles flexing, relaxing

the metallic tang of the patient's blood as it roared through the body

the bones, hard but not brittle and slightly rough

the nerves pulsing beneath his fingers, up his arm, in his mind's eye where the pulses appeared as light patterns, ever complex, unique, and beautiful

Finally he opened his eyes and said, "He's clean."

Milly nodded. "Thank you. I thought he must be--I was sure we'd have seen the cancer by now if he weren't--but I wanted to be certain."

As they left the recovery room, Milly added, "I hope I never see this curse again. It's a miracle Mr. Tonks came through all right."

Rabastan stopped walking abruptly. "Tonks? Not Ted Tonks?" he asked.

"Yes," Milly said in surprise. "Do you know him?"

"I've never met him, but I know his wife."

"Oh. Well, I'm meeting with her shortly if you'd like to come and say--"

"No." Milly's brows shot up, and Rabastan realized he'd been a bit too forceful. "It's just that . . . there was some conflict in her family when they married. My brother is engaged to her sister, and seeing me would be an unpleasant reminder."

"Ah. Well then, I just won't mention you were involved at all, shall I?"

"Thanks."

* * *

The rest of Rabastan's day was relatively quiet; he visited patients, went through his in-tray, filled out a lot of forms, and drank more coffee than was healthy. But there was a tickle in his subconscious, a whisper that he knew something important. He pushed it to the back of his mind so it wouldn't distract him from his work, but as he poured himself a glass of firewhiskey after dinner that evening, the whisper grew louder. . . .

* * *

Nine months earlier

Firewhiskey in hand, Rabastan stood at the end of the patio and watched his younger cousins set up croquet hoops on his parents' immaculately groomed lawn. He was absorbed by the antics of the two youngest, who were trying to round up the flamingo mallets without much success.

"You could offer to help, you know."

He turned to see Bellatrix Black, his brother's fiancée, coming toward him. He smiled and said, "I could."

"But you won't."

"I'm rather enjoying the chase. What's that you're drinking?"

"An Edinburgh butterbeer. Your father made it for me."

"Are you mad? He makes them strong enough to knock out a troll. Rodolphus will have to carry you to bed."

"That's the idea," she said wickedly. "Besides, everybody gets blotto at your mother's garden parties. It's practically traditional."

He laughed. "Wish I could myself, but I have to take it easy this time. I have an early shift tomorrow, and I really can't go in with a hangover."

There was a comfortable silence as they sipped their drinks and watched young Malvolio make a dive for a flamingo. Then Bellatrix asked, "Do you like being a Healer?"

"Yeah, I do. It's not always fun, obviously, but the good parts are worth it. Just yesterday I had a patient come in with a bad case of operatic flu. He was spewing a new aria every few minutes, and I was able to get him sorted in a couple of hours. That was very satisfying."

"To his family, at least," Bellatrix replied, and they both laughed. Then she said, "But I thought operatic flu wasn't that big a deal. It's just a nuisance, isn't it?"

"You'd be surprised; if it goes untreated for too long, it can do terrible damage to the vocal chords. But you're right that it's not much of a challenge."

"Not for you, anyway." She gave him an arch look. "I thought you'd be working on more complicated stuff by now. I'm beginning to think you left your ambition behind in Slytherin House."

Rabastan was amused. "We heal whoever comes in, Bella, not just the ones who have something flashy. Besides," he added, "I'm only a Junior Healer. I can't pick my cases yet. But eventually, I'd like to do research."

"You mean look for better cures, that sort of thing?"

"Exactly. We can reverse the effects of most magical illnesses, and we have good treatments for a lot of non-magical ones, but there are still some we can't cure."

"Like what, for instance?"

"Well, cancer, for one."

She laughed a little, and at his quizzical look, said, "Sorry, it's just-- I know this will sound completely stupid, but I don't understand what makes cancer so difficult to heal."

Rabastan explained, going into great detail as she prompted him with questions. She was surprisingly attentive, especially when he described how the disease spread and how long it generally took before someone was beyond hope. After he finished there was a long pause while she seemed lost in thought.

"I hope you're not worried about someone," he said finally.

She started, then smiled. "Oh no, I'm not. I was just . . . thinking."

* * *

Rabastan downed the rest of his firewhiskey in one gulp, and got up to pour himself another. The whole idea was absurd. Bella hardly knew first aid; there was no way she could have invented a fast-spreading cancer curse. So what if it had hit her Mudblood brother-in-law? It probably wasn't meant for him anyway; he'd just been unlucky and got in the way.

But the whisper wouldn't let him believe it. Bellatrix was clever and ruthless, and she hated Ted Tonks. And though she kept it hidden from most people, he knew she had a cruel streak. If she wanted to kill someone that much, she'd also want them to suffer.

As Rabastan lifted his glass, his left sleeve fell, exposing the tattoo on his forearm. For a moment he gazed at it thoughtfully.

Yes. It was time for her to meet the Dark Lord.

* * *

Bellatrix had never been to Rabastan's apartment before. As he fixed her a drink, she stood by the bar cabinet and observed the sitting room carefully. It was very modern-looking, and aside from the silver lamps and black-painted wood, almost everything was some shade of avocado. But there were a few marigold accents, which prompted her to say, "Interesting color choices, Rabastan. Are you dating a Hufflepuff now?"

"I wouldn't call it dating," he replied easily. "I'm just shagging her now and then out of pity." He handed her an Obliviator, her favorite cocktail, and told her to have a seat.

Bella perched on the edge of an uncomfortable armchair and took a sip of her drink. "So when will your mystery man get here?"

"It won't be long now."

"I'm a little nervous about this, Rabastan. I know you've told me he's wonderful, but what's his game? I mean, why does he want to meet me?"

"He's an activist. He thinks you'd be a great help to his cause."

"Which is . . . ?"

But the doorbell rang before he could answer. A minute later Rabastan was introducing her to the mysterious Lord Voldemort.

He was tall, with dark hair and skin so pale it looked unnatural in the light of Rabastan's fire. Bella was struck at once by the power of his presence; even if the room had been crowded, she thought she would hardly have noticed anyone else. And there was something unnerving about his gaze; after meeting his eyes for a few moments, Bellatrix couldn't help lowering her own.

Voldemort spoke pleasantly to Rabastan as the latter fixed him a drink, but Bellatrix was surprised by how much Rabastan deferred to him. And when Voldemort said, "Rabastan, I wish to speak with Miss Black alone," Rabastan immediately said, "Yes, my lord," and withdrew, even though he was in his own home. Voldemort clearly had more of a hold over her friend than she had realized.

She eyed him warily as he sipped his wine. He smiled at her and raised his glass. "To our long and profitable association, Miss Black."

"That's very flattering, but I'm afraid I don't understand you."

Voldemort had been standing by the fireplace during this exchange; now he sat down in the armchair across from her and looked directly in her face as he explained. "Miss Black, I am the leader of a small, select group--a club, you might say--for people interested in pushing the boundaries of magic. We advocate research and experimentation that some find unorthodox, but we feel this work can improve the lives of witches and wizards everywhere."

"I see. And you're inviting me to join this club?"

"Yes. I think we have many common goals."

"What kind of goals? Rabastan never got a chance to tell me about them."

"You may have noticed that wizarding population numbers are down. At times like this, the more unsavory elements of our society gain greater prominence. I refer, of course, to the Mudbloods, who are infiltrating our government, our workplaces, even our families." He smiled faintly. "I am sure you agree, Miss Black, that something needs to be done about it."

* * *

Bellatrix leaned over the café table, as if by moving closer to her sister she would become more persuasive. "Andi, I know this will all blow over if you just leave him. Mother and Father will accept that you made a mistake."

"Oh yes, they'll accept a 'mistake,'" Andromeda said bitterly. "Just not a Muggleborn husband."

"He's not good enough for you!"

"You liked him well enough when he was a Quidditch champion. He told me, Bella."

"Don't be an idiot, Andi." Bellatrix snapped. "I wanted a fling, nothing more. I'd never be fool enough to marry a Muggleborn. They're not like us."

"I'm not discussing this with you anymore." Andromeda pulled a few Sickles from her purse, stacked them on the table, and got up to leave.

Bellatrix stood and grabbed her hand. "Andi, don't do this to me. Please. You're my sister. I don't want to lose you."

"You're welcome to my home, Bella. If you feel you can't see me, that's your choice. But I love Ted, and I'm not going to leave him for anyone--not our parents, not Cissy, not even you."

"Andi, we're your family!"

Andromeda's face was sad as she pulled her hand free. "He's my family now."

* * *

Bella's hand was clenched so tightly around her goblet, the etched design was cutting into her palm. "I agree that it's a problem. What's your solution?"

"We take back what's ours. Peacefully, if possible, but if not . . ." He paused, then waved his hand as if in regret. "Then we use whatever means necessary."

The thought was chilling, but Bella found it exciting as well. Things needed to change; Mudbloods were well enough in their place, but she knew of too many good people who'd been overshadowed at Hogwarts or the Ministry by upstarts who had no concept of proper wizarding behavior. It was intolerable.

Yet something about this didn't make sense. It sounded like he was prepared to go as far as revolution; why did he want her to join his conspiracy? She had no influence at the Ministry or the Prophet that could be of use to him. And though she'd achieved an O in her Defense NEWT, she certainly wasn't a trained warrior.

There was a pause while she considered this. Finally Voldemort said, "You think I am hiding something from you, don't you."

She started. "Of course not," she lied. "I'm just wondering . . . I mean, I don't think I have much to offer your group."

"Rabastan tells me you are a very gifted witch."

She smiled. "He's very sweet to say it, but of course he's biased. We've known each other for years, and since I got engaged to his brother, Rodolphus, we've become very good friends."

"You have known Rabastan longer than I, but in my experience, he does not exaggerate. He believes you have attained a breakthrough with a disease that even the most celebrated Healers struggle with."

Bella felt herself go still. She forced herself to smile and sip her drink. "Does he?" she replied lightly. "Rabastan certainly thinks highly of me. I thought Rodolphus was my biggest fan, but maybe I was wrong."

"There is no need for false modesty. I already know what you have accomplished, and I am greatly impressed. Few witches and wizards of your age could develop a curse of that magnitude, and I understand you did so in spite of having little formal training in the Dark Arts."

"I don't know what you mean," she said quickly. Too quickly.

Voldemort's voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. "Oh, I think you do. You have been secretly experimenting for months. Why else would a woman of your background buy so many rats?"

"I was breeding them," Bellatrix answered defensively. "It's my hobby."

"Your hobby?" His laugh was high and cold. "You cannot lie to me, Miss Black. It was necessity."

* * *

Breeding had never been part of her plan, but she couldn't keep buying the rats she needed without arousing suspicion. So she had tackled the task with her usual ruthless efficiency, and she was proud of the results.

She removed a rat from one of the stacked cages (now covering a whole wall of the windowless room in which she worked) and placed it on the floor within the circular barrier she had constructed for her experiments. The circle was four feet in diameter, so the rats had plenty of room, but the two-foot barrier kept them from getting away. She stepped back, pulled out her wand, and aimed it at the rat.

"Pullulatus!"

The rat screeched as the spell hit. It pressed itself against the barrier and watched the open space warily.

Several minutes passed, and then its fur began to ripple. Lumps were forming on its back. It seemed slow to Bellatrix as she watched, but she knew the lumps were growing many times faster than was natural.

It died a day later.

She was sure a grown man wouldn't last much longer.

* * *

Bella's mouth had gone dry, but she feigned unconcern as she replied, "That's ridiculous. Even if I could do all that, why would I go to so much trouble?

"For the same reason you went to Diagon Alley last Thursday under Polyjuice Potion." Bella felt the blood drain from her face. "To kill Ted Tonks."

* * *

From somewhere deep in her subconscious, a memory had surfaced of Ted saying that what he missed most at Hogwarts was Indian food. In the weeks since, she'd come to Diagon Alley every day during the lunch rush to observe its Indian restaurants.

Her patience was rewarded. She saw that on Thursdays, without fail, Ted got takeaway from Patil's. They must have had some dish available only that day, and it must have been popular, because although she had seen Ted getting lunch at different times on other days, he was always at Patil's by noon.

Which is why she was in Flourish and Blott's at 11:55 on a Thursday morning, Polyjuiced to look like plump blond Marjorie Greengrass. She was pretending to page through a bodice-ripper, but was really watching the front of Patil's. Even from the bookstore she could see a queue beginning to form inside.

And there he was, wearing as always something weird and obviously Muggle. (Today it was a pair of baggy pants in a blobby green pattern.) He joined the queue, and from its length, Bellatrix guessed she had about fifteen minutes before he came out.

She bought the book and tucked it under her arm as she sauntered up the street, stopping right in front of Eeylops where she could see the door to Patil's reflected in the window. She slipped her wand between the book's pages so that the tip barely protruded from the back edge but the handle extended well beyond the front edge so she could grip it properly.

She had practiced her aim using her wardrobe's mirror, but would it be enough? Ted was in Auror training; she'd only get one shot at him unaware.

And then he was opening the door. She took careful aim at his torso. One step, two, three . . .

"Pullulatus!"

Ted stopped and lifted the takeaway bag up to look inside just as the red light shot from her wand. Instead of hitting his side, the curse hit his hand.

Cursing under her breath, Bellatrix forced herself to stand unmoving for another ten seconds before turning to walk--slowly, slowly--up the street toward the public floo grates and escape.

* * *

He knew. He knew.

"But merely killing him was not enough. No, you went to so much trouble because you wanted him to die in terrible agony--to suffer for the damage he did your family."

There was nothing Bella could do, nowhere she could run. Voldemort was between her and the door, and she knew instinctively that any move for her wand might be her last. Her throat felt thick, her stomach clenched; every nerve seemed to be vibrating like a harp string. Gripping the armrests tightly, she pushed her body as deeply into her chair as it could go.

Suddenly she realized what she was doing: She was putting her back to the wall in a blind panic, just like one of her rats.

No.

She was beaten, but she wasn't broken.

"Yes. Yes, I did." She raised her chin defiantly. "And what, my lord, do you intend to do about it?"

* * *

Lord Voldemort let the silence stretch, reveling in her fear. He had tasted many pleasures, but none sweeter than this, the moment she realized she was in his power. It was more intoxicating than any wine. But like wine, it was best savored in sips.

"Do? I intend to do nothing. Why should I? Many people have attempted murder, Miss Black. You are not unique."

She did not even attempt to hide her disbelief. "So after all this, you're just going to let me go?"

"Certainly. I am not here to blackmail you. I only mentioned your recent activities to explain my interest in you." It wasn't even a lie, at least not entirely. He would have Bellatrix Black eventually, but he did not want her by coercion. Even in her fear she was defiant; she would only begin looking for a means of escape, and then he would have to kill her. He could break her, of course, but that too would be a waste of her talents. Broken, she would lack the passion and nerve that made her valuable.

No, he wanted her by her own choice. He wanted her devotion. And he knew the best way to gain that was to follow the example of the man with more converts than any wizard he had ever met: Albus Dumbledore.

"Your curse is a work of art, Miss Black, and I like to encourage such artistry. I see in you the potential to be one of the greatest witches of our time. But you still lack some of the skills that could enable you to achieve this."

She leaned forward slightly. "Could you teach me these skills?"

"I can. And if you join me, I will."

There was a moment's pause, and as she gazed at him he could see both fear and hunger in her eyes. Then in their depths he saw an image of a Bellatrix radiant with power.

Oh yes. He would enjoy teaching her.