Memory

Memory

By WhK

Bellatrix has always had a flawless memory. She can draw back scenes from her life as vividly as they happened, and she doesn’t need a pensieve to do so. Because of it, he says, she is valuable. She can remember details he cannot.

Tonight, Bellatrix tries to keep her face vacant, just like every other night, as He gazes into the deep basin filled with her memories.

Tonight, Bellatrix wishes she didn’t remember quite so well.

---

She loved pleasing people. Her mother, her friends—everyone has always told her so. It has simply been her nature to satisfy those she cared about.

She was barely even a woman then. More just a young and verdant girl, really, not knowing much about anything.

And back then no one had known who Voldemort was.

She remembers meeting him for the first time. Meeting Lord Voldemort on the streets as if he had been some commoner still makes her laugh sometimes, if she is sad enough.

He was stumbling past her like some dead and lost man in the middle of a scorching desert, eyes glazed and gazing upon nothing but thin air. She had shot him the dirtiest of looks as he bumped into her shoulder, disgusted at his filthy state of dress and thinking him a common beggar.

But later that week she spotted him again, this time at a dinner party. Her eyes blinked over and over again as she saw him sitting poised yet rigid at a table comprised of the most honorable men (or so she thought). It was here that she first received an impression of Tom Riddle, a charming, reserved gentleman, she thought. And a small smile curved her lips.

She first got a chance to speak to him on the veranda after dinner. Boldly, she stuck out her hand in greeting. For a moment, he seemed surprised.

“Bellatrix Black,” she said politely. It took him a second to answer her greeting, and she almost thought he would laugh at her and turn to go back inside. He didn’t.

His hand seemed hard, although not calloused. Simply stiff, just like the rest of him. His eyes finally landed on hers as they shook; they were a dark, slate color.

“Tom Riddle,” he said somewhat disdainfully, as if the reminder of his identity scarred him. Then he murmured something that she did not catch. She raised an eyebrow.

“Come again?”

“Nothing,” he said unconvincingly, but something about the way he stared at her dissuaded her to pursue the matter. Immediately, Bellatrix had noticed a powerful, willful resonance around the quiet man. It nearly made him seem mysterious. For a good minute or two, the two of them stood there side by side with nothing to say. Bellatrix gave a small sigh and contented herself to look at the strangely barren night sky. His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be out at a party this late?” Bellatrix gave a bemused grin.

“Not if it’s your parents who’re hosting the party.”

Tom nodded.

“That’s right. You said you were a Black.” He seemed almost too pleased with the fact. Almost jealous. Bellatrix shrugged.

“And besides, I’m not that young.”

“But exactly how young are you, then?” he half jested.

“Fifteen,” she said somewhat ashamedly. At Tom’s appalled glance, she added, “ And a half. I’m also quite mature for my age, if you didn’t know. You thought I was older.”

“Hmm. I didn’t.” He made his voice sound skeptical, but Bellatrix knew she had won him over. She always won people over, because people liked her.

And the two of them continued to talk there, where it wasn’t so hot and stuffy as it was in the ballroom. She admits that she cannot remember all that they talked about, but she knows that eventually, the conversation led back to her family. She found out even later on why he kept bringing the Blacks up in conversation—and when she did find out about his marvelous dreams, goals, and pursuits, it became more apparent—

More than anyone else in the universe, she wanted to please Tom Riddle.

She must have been succeeding though, because it wasn’t long until he was more willing to confide in her what he was up to. Sometimes, she admitted, the things he did frightened her. The transformations, most of all, because they all sounded so horrible and disfiguring. Sometimes, she would run her hands down the side of his face to search for any changes in his handsome appearance, but she never saw any. She wondered then, if perhaps the transformation was simply on the inside, and if perhaps sometimes those ugly transformations permeated to the outside—was that why his cheeks were always so frozen?

But Bellatrix believed in his beliefs—and above all else, she began to believe solely on him. She almost believed him as an immortal omnipotent of sorts.

“I have great plans for myself in the future, you know,” he said darkly. He seemed tired, but at the same time, a furious energy emanated from his very eyes. She shuddered slightly.

“What kind of plans?” she asked. He sighed.

“You know, Bellatrix. I’ve told you over and over again.” His tone softened, and he crouched down low to where she sat. “ But they’re beginning to work. People are beginning to notice me, Bella.” His long fingers touched her face. She closed her eyes at the touch. He drew back, and they fluttered open immediately.

“One day, Bella,” he preached. “ I’ll have my way with this world.”

And she respected him. Beyond anyone, she admired him and adored him and worshipped him for his charisma, for his will—but she also pitied him. He was, after all, always alone in that dark cellar of a room.

“Is it always so cold in your chambers?” she had asked once. He rounded on her angrily, and she hadn’t understood why.

“I don’t think it’s all that chilly,” he bit out harshly. “ But if it is, you might want to get used to it.”

Tom Riddle had his days. Some days, days when another witch or wizard joined his growing following, those kinds of days were the ones that he allowed himself to smile once in a while. Those were the ones that made her heart float with joy.

But there were the hopeless ones, too. The special days that were just for despairing. He never despaired, oh, no. His eyes spit fire, and his fist clenched over and over again as if to suffocate to death his ill news--but on those days, he never spoke a single word. And though he did not make a sound, she knew a hundred million thoughts were in his head, all yelling and shouting explosively. There he would sit for centuries, warring with himself. Those were the days she realized just how lonely Tom Riddle was.

She had been utterly wrong to pity him. Soon she began to know that her pity would never get him anywhere, nor would it get her anywhere. She loved the man so much wiser than her to a fault, that it blinded her—blinded all her senses into one. The sense to put Tom first and foremost.

He was so close. So very close to getting where he needed to be. So very close to being ready to let himself known. By now, many heaps of people whispered his name, almost like a fragile dream. Did they follow this no-name man for his heritage? No. They followed him because he commanded power. She saw this silent power every second she spent with him, and all the more for her admiration. He was a kind of person she dreamed to be. He was the kind of man she could follow. And this had been, in a sense, the beginning. The beginning of her unselfish devotion.

His transformation was almost complete—his following almost invincible.

But it was still missing one person.

And he confronted her, one stormy night.

“Bella,” he called, and she always answered. “ Bella, my darling.”

“What is it, Tom?” He seemed frustrated in a serene, hidden kind of way.

“You know that we have arranged our first raid tomorrow?” he asked almost casually. He was speaking of their several planned attacks to begin to purify, of course. Bellatrix nodded.

“And will you be by my side, as you have always?” She nodded again. He bent down low to her level.

“Do I have your respect, Bella?” he asked solemnly. Bella resisted the urge to laugh at the question.

“Of course!” she shook her head, outraged.

“Do I have your loyalty?”

“Why, of course! Above all, Tom—I’m your friend, for heaven’s sake—“ Tom shook his head.

“But that’s just it,” he said softly. The air stilled. He stared at her without an ounce of regret, and then spoke, slowly.

“You cannot remain with me while you are my friend. A confidant, perhaps, but never my friend.”

His eyes glinted darkly in the dim light. Bellatrix struggled to grasp his meaning.

“In this plan, I didn’t leave any room for friends,” he tried to explain. “I have your respect yes, and I have your loyalty too. But are you yet fit to be by my side, Bella?”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes.

“Then what do you need?” she scoffed. “ A servant? Someone who would do your every bidding, no matter the quest, no matter the price? What more could you need than a friend?” She expected him to quickly shake his head no, so she could delve into further confusion—but he merely hung his head and did nothing.

The silence filled in all the missing gaps. For a while, Bellatrix thought herself paralyzed. Paralyzed with knowledge, with understanding.

“I see,” was all she could say.

And Tom Riddle was much too proud to apologize. Such a thing was unheard of, and she supposed she should have understood. She supposed she should not have been so foolish to think the great Tom Riddle could ever be her equal, could ever be her friend, or even, as she had begun to entertain, anything more. His plans for life were far too large for that. But her heart hurt awfully despite it.

Avoiding her glance, he rose and sat next to her on the bed. They sat that way for what seemed like hours, feeling awkward, encased in nothing but a dim candle beginning to go out.

“It’s getting late,” he said finally. “You should go.” Bellatrix could barely make out his face. It was always so dark and cold and gloomy everywhere here. But she could see the profile of his face—his sharp nose, pointed up ever so slightly, his thin lips, his dark hair and eyes, and his clenched jaw. She felt her heart twist, and she stupidly reached for him. He recoiled as soon as her hand touched his.

“No, Bellatrix,” he said firmly, but his voice was still soft. “Don’t.”

“Why? Why, shouldn’t I?” Fueled by anger and humiliation, she continued, moving closer to Tom and instead of reaching for his hand, she reached to caress the nape of his neck, where she embraced him as if this were her Tom. And in a sense, she had grown to think of him as hers. She bit her lip and let her head fall to his shoulder, inhaling the smell of his sweater. Smelled like Tom. Slightly sharp, slightly bitter. She felt his hands attempt to push her away again. She let herself be pushed away, but only for a moment.

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she watched him, as she swung her own sweater over her head and began at the top button of her blouse.

“Stop,” he said and looked away, lips set in a very thin line. “ You are much too young for me, Bella. Go--” She turned his head her way again, and kissed him, closing her eyes as the tears fell, touching Tom’s own cheeks in a salty, wet mess.

She was beginning to feel dizzy. Dizzy from what she wanted, dizzy from feeling so hurt—dizzy from him. He was kissing her back, slowly and carefully like a breeze barely there. She did not feel content. He was giving in, and isn’t that what she wanted? She pulled back and quickly finished unbuttoning her blouse.

And Tom watched her, seeming nearly bewildered—but then again, he was never surprised. Amused, maybe.

“Don’t say anything,” Bellatrix ordered breathlessly as she tossed the garment away. In one fluid moment, she had pushed him down on his back. She smiled at his vulnerability now. “ This is what I want.”

She dipped back down to kiss him again, this time furiously rushed and passionately, her hands dancing over his body as if she didn’t know what to do with them. Her heart nearly beat out of her ribcage as his hands wrapped around her waist, pushing her even closer. They created a beautiful molded image, the candlelight flittering over their bodies in rich shades of gold.

In time, he stopped, and if he was as out of breath as she was, he didn’t show it. Flipping over smoothly, Bellatrix now lay panting on the bed, her chest heaving up and down as she did so. He stared down at her broodingly, and her heart did a million a minute.

“I-I’ve never down this before,” she said suddenly, as if this were the opportune moment to say so. “But I want to. Oh, God, Tom I want to.”

Tom seemed caught between complying and laughing insanely. Bellatrix reached up to touch his chest. He cast his eyes down, before wriggling out of his sweater, and then his undershirt. Half naked, he put out his arms on either side of her, as if to trap her.

“You mean to tell me that you want your master to bend to your will?”

“No, of course not,” Bellatrix replied quickly, a sliver of contempt in her voice at the cruel, indifferent manner he answered her. “I only mean to please you, master. As your loyal servant.” Would that suffice for him? Tom chuckled, and bent down to her ear.

“You can’t please me, Bella,” he told her, before kissing her cheek.

--

With a small moan of exhaustion, Tom slipped out of her and rolled over next to her. She was beginning to feel cold again. Bellatrix smiled at him even as her heart seemed to ache.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ears, like a sweet secret. He did not answer. “Did you like that, Tom?” she asked desperately. His face was so unfeeling, so unreadable, like a wax figurine. “Did you enjoy that?” she sobbed, frustrated.

Tom opened his eyes and sat upright. Reaching over her for his discarded clothes, he placed a fleeting kiss on her lips.

“Good night, Bellatrix.”

And Bellatrix didn’t.

All through that night, the loneliest night of her life, she lay there feeling too young and too stupid and too in love to realize that she could never, never satisfy her lord.

Never.

---

Bellatrix stands in front of the dark lord, her eyes wide and unblinking even as the tears roll freely down her cheeks, making them seem out of place against her blank face. She curses them for betraying her. But than again, perhaps he mightn’t punish her too much. Perhaps he will let her go just this once.

“Crucio!” She is wrong. The pain tears through her; his anger tears through her. She gasps when he lifts his wand, standing before her in dark robes, unrecognizable as the man she had loved.

“You have failed me, Bellatrix,” comes his monotone voice. He has become so good at masking emotion now, most of all. But for the briefest of moments, she imagines Tom saying it. Bellatrix’s face contorts nastily. She has failed him, he said, but the words sound silly now.

“Did you not like that, my lord? Did you not enjoy it?”

His red eyes glow angrily. And he raises his wand mercilessly, before the knives tear into the deepest places of her soul again.

She slips into a dark, swirling world of unreachable, incomprehensible agony and there she stays, until it seems eras later, when the lord waves his wand away with a simple, bored expression.

She squints her eyes to look in front of her; he has left already. The contents of the pensieve are on the floor. From one of the silvery puddles, she catches the image of a dark haired young man, someone who puts an arrow to her heart. Someone who hurts her more than a cruciatus.

But she tells herself to stop thinking now, because none of it matters. That he is someone she almost doesn’t know now. That he is someone in another life, it seems, too long ago in the past to make a difference.

Her fingers weave through the silver substance, as if to pick it up and put the pieces back together. And she has to remind herself once more.

It is just a memory.