The Most Faithful

They called her traitor, though she knew it wasn't true. Pale and dirty they reached through iron bars, grabbing for her robes, hoping to touch her skin. Their disembodied voices screamed from the darkness, cursing her name, spitting at her as she passed.

"Your loyal subjects, Mrs. Lestrange."

Aurors were always so much more arrogant when they were the captors. She had a particularly fond memory of casting the Cruciatus, over and over again on a certain Auror. Over and over until blood gushed like a fountain from his nose and ears. Then the eyes had turned red, watery with bloody tears. His screams had echoed off the dungeon walls, bouncing back to make a melody of sound. She had traced patterns on the floor. Bright red circles, bloody arcs that crisscrossed the stones. The night had started to pass into day, the body growing cold when Severus had found her.

"Elsibeth." His silky whisper.

And she had been rubbing her finger raw, dragging it through the dried blood, the flakes rusty red as they chipped off. She had always had a fondness for blood, the shadows in its depths, the way it colored pale skin when spilt. It had taken Severus' offer of the canvas of his own body to tear her away from the dungeons.

She buried the memory, down, down, down where the Dementors couldn't get it. Hundreds of other memories had been sacrificed, but not that one. In her darkest moments she would call it up, experiencing it all over again; how his chest had heaved with the strain and the blood had spread across that alabaster skin, syrupy red and just as sweet.

What beautiful magic they had made together.

And when the Dementors came, as they always did, she would shove the memory back down, clearing her mind. But sometimes she wasn't fast enough; sometimes they caught on and came slobbering to her cell like mad dogs. When that happened she always offered up some other memory, her wedding day or some other less cherished recollection.

Her wedding had been like a birthday, an official ceremony inducting her into a world she had already lived in for eight years. She had gone in with one name and come out with a new one: 'Mrs. Elsibeth Lestrange'.

The Lestranges were an old family, a rich family, like the Malfoys. The name commanded attention and fear. They were all powerful wizards and witches. Not at all like her family, squibs and fools the lot of them. She had been a queen among paupers, a noble who lacked only the name.

But now, now after all that had happened, when they heard the name 'Lestrange', they trembled in fear.

They fell to their hands and knees and worshipped her.

Her dark beauty had ensnared countless victims, willing and unwilling. But she had also learned that some people were off-limits. Her brief and fruitless affair with James Potter had been the best example of that. She'd learned then that she was better suited for the Darker paths of life. Better suited for the Lucius Malfoys of the world, for the Severus Snapes.

"The throne room, your majesty." A hand at the middle of her back shoved her to the floor. Even without looking up she knew where she was. Only one place had such a high concentration of Dementors, the anteroom of Azkaban's courtroom. The coldness settled on her, the presence of the Dementors pulling at her consciousness. She blanked her mind, suddenly having to shove all those memories back down. On her hands and knees on the stone floor she busied herself with thinking about nothing. A warm hand under her elbow to help her stand and when she managed to lift her eyes, her husband's face swam in the tears.

"Geoffrey," she whispered.

One of the Dementors darted forward, eager for a taste of her happiness. She quickly looked away from her husband, blanking her mind once again. A shudder ran through her, the temperature dropped, and she realised she hadn't been fast enough.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked, careful to phrase the question to the room in general and not to think of her husband.

No one had to answer though because the door chose that moment to open, another body shoved through. When she saw who it was, realisation dawned pleasantly over her.

"Five months," she said haughtily. "Five months of waiting and we finally get our trial."

Crouch the younger was shaking next to her, eyes wide as he took in the Dementors. "They're going to kill us," he whispered, clutching with cold, dirty fingers at her arm.

"You father is the head of the Department, is he not?" Her husband's voice was just as melodious as she remembered. Musical and soft.

"My father doesn't care whether I live or die." He clutched at her arm again, fingers digging into her flesh.

She should have known what a terrible father the man would be. He was too obsessed, too singular in purpose.

She patted the boy's arm. "Tell them nothing and the Dark Lord will reward us beyond our wildest dreams. Of them all, we alone remain faithful."

The door to the courtroom opened and the Dementors moved forward to separate them.

"Stand tall," she hissed at the boy. "You have the Old Blood flowing through your veins. Rely on that."

She held her head high as the Dementors led them into the courtroom. And when the boy lost it and begged for mercy, she said nothing. The five months that she had spent in the presence of the Dementors had dulled her senses. She felt tired and old. The trial passed in a blur, punctuated by the boy's cries and denials.

They never had a chance to defend themselves, not that she had expected they would. And no matter how much the boy begged and pleaded, his father ignored him. Instead, the esteemed Mr. Crouch looked coldly down on them and deigned to judge them, to threaten them with imprisonment. As if they feared imprisonment. As if they feared the wait. When the Dark Lord came again, they would be rewarded. Their captors would suffer in the most painful and inventive ways. Blood would flow, syrupy and sweet, just as she remembered. And she would sit at the Dark Lord's right hand. Her place in the world among the powerful and the strong, her rightful place, would be assured.

The Dementors came back in and she rose smoothly to her feet. Head held high, she looked straight into Crouch's eyes.

"The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us; he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!" [¹]

Crouch glared down at her and said nothing. She turned back towards the door while the boy struggled next to her. He was crying in earnest now, screaming up at his father.

Clutching at her thin robes as if they were the finest silk, she turned back towards the dungeons. The boy continued crying behind her as she allowed the Dementor to lead her back to her cell. The stones were cold against her bare feet but she refused to let the shudder run through her. The other prisoners began cursing at her again, reaching for her robes. Let them try to touch her, let them curse her name until the day they died. And die they would. She would be there when it happened, when the world ended for Dumbledore and all the other enemies of the Dark Lord.

An Auror was waiting for her at her cell, the same one as before. He grabbed her arm, fingers digging painfully in her arm. Another fond memory, Lucius Malfoy slamming her against the wall delivering a bruising kiss, and she, responding in kind.

"Frank Longbottom was my best friend," the Auror hissed in her ear. "I will watch you rot away in here, I'll memorise every scream, every plea for mercy."

"Good," she said. "I certainly remember his."

They called her traitor.

She, the most faithful of them all.

-finis-

[¹]-Entire paragraph Copyright J.K. Rowling

08/02/02