Fic: Of Dark And Bright [Part Two ] (Sirius/Bellatrix)

[argosy]

And on to part two.



OF DARK AND BRIGHT
Part Two

Part One is here.

The noon sun glared ruthlessly onto Sirius’s pillow. He flung an arm over his eyes and turned his face to the wall.

He didn’t want to go downstairs. He might never go downstairs again. His mother and father were unlikely to notice except at dinner time -- and he could say he’d contracted a rare strain of Dragon Pox, or vanishing sickness, or the plague.

He would just stay in bed for the rest of his life. For excitement he would pull the covers over his head, or roll onto his left side.

He wouldn’t face Bellatrix, not when hours later his body was still running hot and cold. When his senses kept reliving the memory of her touches, and the feel of her tongue in his mouth.

He groaned and turned over again. If he could only stop thinking. He let out a bitter laugh -- thinking too much wasn’t something James or Moony, or Peter would have ever accused him of at Hogwarts. But now the thoughts hurtled through his mind unbidden -- a shirt being pushed down his shoulders, a nipple in his mouth, Bellatrix’s taunts in his ear.

He was sick to his stomach, and he was hard again, and he didn’t know which would win out -- the urge to retch, the more disturbing urge to wank, or both.

He’d had sex before, of course -- once, last term, with Veronique Vowell, the Ravenclaw Seeker, after a party in the Gryffindor common room. James had smuggled in a bottle of firewhiskey and Sirius and Veronique had gotten a little drunk and snuck off together. It had been rather unsatisfactory and they’d both agreed it wasn’t an experiment that needed repeating. Her hair had been short, and a dull brown.

He would forget about this. Stuff it down in an unused corner of his mind and never think about it again. After a while it would be like it never happened. He wouldn’t see Bellatrix when he was away at Hogwarts, and then he’d graduate and get as far away from his appalling family as possible. Any invitations he received for the Black Family Reunion would remain unopened.

Whether it was wrong, whether he’d enjoyed it -- these questions were unimportant. It would never happen again, so what did it matter?

“The portrait is coming along rather well, I think.” Mrs. Black helped herself to the night’s first course.

“Glad to hear it, my dear,” replied Mr. Black. “Do you agree, Professor?”

“The Signora is a most charming subject.” Even seated behind a tureen of steaming turtle soup, the professor somehow managed a neat bow.

She tittered like a Hufflepuff. Disgusting, thought Sirius.

He’d been unable to convince his mother he’d caught Kneazle-scratch fever, or been bitten by a wandering werewolf, so here he was, stuffed into his dress robes, enduring a family dinner he couldn’t eat. He felt feverish, and nauseated by the smell.

Bellatrix was seated to his left, a place she’d apparently commandeered permanently. He couldn’t look at her, but he felt himself flush hotly as he looked at the blonde girl across the table. He couldn’t shake the irrational feeling that he’d somehow injured Narcissa. He cast his eyes rigidly down, concentrating on the turtle soup -- the glutinous broth, the gray-green flesh. He was sure he’d be sick in a minute.

Bellatrix was so close to him. She’d touch him again in a moment, he knew, laying her spider-hand on his thigh. He felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. He knew he looked clammy and pale.

He dreaded her touch, but it would be a terrible relief. At least he wouldn’t have to endure the waiting, the horrible anticipation, any longer. A bead of sweat trickled down his back, leaving a thin cold trail. Why didn’t she just get it over with? She was going to touch him, he had no doubt. Why did she make him wait?

But she never touched him, not once, the whole meal, though he waited, every muscle tensed to snapping, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t scream.

“It never happened,” he said firmly, happening to meet her later, mostly by accident. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

“And,” he added, knowing he was being illogical and not caring, “it will never happen again.”

She stared at him a moment, silently, and he wondered if she’d go wide-eyed and pretend not to know what he was talking about.

But she merely smiled her knife-edge smile and replied seriously, “Of course, little Gryffindor,” before vanishing up the stairs.

He didn’t believe her, obviously. He knew she’d again be waiting for him in their hallway when he went up. Let her. What could she do to him? If he needed it, he’d have his wand.

He took a breath, firmed his resolution -- it can never happen again -- and headed upstairs to his room.

The corridor was empty. He blinked, not quite able to believe his eyes, and headed to his door. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder, half-expecting her to jump out at him from some shadowed recess.

But he entered his bedroom undisturbed. He lay down on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.

What he was feeling was relief. It was not, by any measure, disappointment.

The next few days passed in a dreamlike haze. Bellatrix was ignoring him, which was good, which was what he wanted, but his traitorous mind kept replaying that night -- how her pale skin had looked against his dark sheets, how she’d screamed as she’d come. His cock would grow hard, and he’d feel a million different things -- shame not always at the forefront.

He was feverish and muddy-headed. The sense of disconnection from his body was coming more and more often. He felt agitated, unable to stay in his room, but unable to do anything more than roam the house restlessly. His mother had screeched and threatened more than once to disown him when he’d found himself wandering absent-mindedly into the off-limits drawing room.

And if Bellatrix was ignoring him, that meant, of course, that Narcissa was too. The girls were always together now. He’d catch glimpses of them -- writing a letter in the morning room; crooning in a sweet harmony and a strange language in the music room; Conjuring perplexing flowers in the conservatory.

Now they had discovered the Blacks’ little-used library. He could see them, huddled close over an enormous antique spell book, long hair obscuring their faces as they bent over its pages. The blonde locks glowed brightly even in the wan sun diffused through the window’s thick glass; the black was so dark it seemed to absorb light, trapping the illumination in its raven tresses.

Every now and then Bellatrix would point out something on the page and smile in delight. Sirius shuddered from where he slouched in the doorway, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t watching. He knew what kind of books were in the Grimmauld Place collection; he knew the sort of magic that was amusing Bellatrix, provoking her silver-bell laugh. Narcissa just smiled gently, pleased to see her sister happy.

It had been a long time since the book had last been read and the loosened dust from the shelf drifted through the air. It reflected the light, sparkling as it floated through the room, dancing around the sisters. He felt his vision blur, until the room was all glinting molecules, and dark and bright hair.

He screwed his eyes shut tight, trying desperately to clear his head. His skull felt stuffed with cotton. If only he could shake this feeling that he was floating somewhere outside himself, unconnected to the creature in his skin. Why did he feel so separate from his body? These aren’t my legs, he thought recklessly. Not my arms, not my hands. That isn’t my heart pounding.

Bellatrix looked up from the spell book, staring straight through the doorway where he stood. She didn’t smile, she didn’t meet his eyes; she seemed not to even notice he was there. Sirius toyed with the idea that he’d become suddenly invisible. It wouldn’t have surprised him, somehow.

She leaned over to whisper something to the other girl. She stood, taking a moment to tuck an errant golden lock behind her sister’s ear, then walked towards the door, towards him. Sirius saw Narcissa’s blonde head lift up briefly, following the older girl, before dipping down to the book again.

Bellatrix still wasn’t looking at him, and gave every impression that she was going to walk right through him. Sirius took a step back into the hall.

The instant she crossed the threshold, he caught her arm and pushed her against the wall, gluing his mouth to hers and fisting his hands in her black hair. He didn’t care if his mother, or the house-elves, or the whole Gryffindor common room saw him. He needed to clear his head; he needed to get back into his skin.

She kissed him back eagerly. His head already felt clearer. That was his hand cupping her breast, his tongue battling hers for dominance, his cock rubbing against her hip, seeking the perfect friction.

He stretched out a hand to the wall. Without breaking the kiss, he groped his way down the hall, tugging her along. Stabbing blindly, he at last felt a doorknob beneath his searching hand. He couldn’t have said what room it was, and he didn’t care. The house was bursting with empty rooms, and if he’d stumbled upon one that was in use by an inhabitant of Grimmauld Place -- well, he still didn’t care.

He fumbled with the knob, and propelled her through the door. She had to stumble backwards -- they’d fall in a minute -- but he didn’t slow. The room seemed to be empty, but he wouldn’t stop devouring her mouth long enough to check.

Staggering further in, he pushed her down -- at last breaking the kiss -- and fucked her on the floor.

Bellatrix liked it when he was on top. She liked to let him pretend he was in charge, let him pound into her until he was desperate to come, then twist like an eel until she was straddling him, pinning him down.

She liked it when he held her wrists, pressing them into the pillow with one hand as he fingered her cunt with the other. She liked being on her knees in front of him. She liked the noises he couldn’t help making as she sucked his cock. She didn’t like it when he came that way, when he couldn’t stop himself, which was most of the time. It scarcely mattered; he was always hard again almost instantly.

She liked it when he bit her neck; she liked for him to leave bruises. She liked to talk to him in a baby-voice, and call him “little Gryffindor.” She liked that that made him hard.

She liked to creep into his bedroom after the household was asleep. She liked it more when he crept into hers.

She liked it when he’d grab her without warning -- in the kitchen after breakfast, strolling through the dying garden, in the empty hallways. She liked it even better when one of his parents or Narcissa was in earshot just around the corner. He suspected she’d have liked it if someone walked past and saw them with his hand up her skirt, or his tongue in her ear.

She liked it best of all when he would swear this was the last time, when he would mumble hotly that they had to stop, his words barely understandable as he tongued her nipple or bit at her throat.

She was pouting, biting her lip and refusing to fuck him until he said the incantation, and really, what did he care?

Sirius sighed and pointed his wand. “Incarcerous.”

A delighted smile appeared on Bellatrix’s face as thin black ropes snaked around her wrists and ankles. The unattached ends tied themselves to the dingy brass posts of her bed, and pulled taut.

She fell back, spread before him, helpless as she could ever be. She squirmed a little, anxious for his touch. Sirius was suddenly, ferociously, hard.

He felt his breath hitch in his chest; his violent arousal pooled in a hot mass somewhere around his stomach and his aching cock. The tiny part of his brain that still functioned felt vaguely surprised at the intensity of his reaction, and the familiar creeping shame only made his cock throb harder. His hand clenched around the nearest bedpost.

Her mass of dark hair fanned the white satin pillow, and she was wandless, and bound, and vulnerable, and she wanted him. For once, he had the power. He could walk out right now. Leave her there, naked and flushed, and needing.

Except, of course, he couldn’t. He had to have her right now, this instant. He only hoped he wouldn’t come the moment he touched her.

Bellatrix was making small impatient noises. Let her, Sirius thought. He liked the sound of them. He wanted to hear more. He smiled, affecting a nonchalance he was far from feeling.

She glared up at him. He was suddenly hyper-aware. He could feel the tiniest stages of his body’s involuntary reactions -- his pupils dilating, the little hairs on the back of his neck raising. He could feel the blood flowing through his body; could feel it rushing to his cock.

He leaned in to her. His wand was still in his hand, he realized. Her eyes darkened as he touched it to her forehead. He trailed it slowly down her face, between her eyes, along the slant of her nose. She snapped at it as he touched her lips.

He ignored her fierce eyes and continued to trace her skin with his wand. He paused a moment at her throat, pressing in with the tip, leaving a mark, before moving down to her clavicle, her breasts.

He bent very close, watching the up-and-down movement of her chest as her breath sped. He knew she wanted him to take her nipple into his mouth. He wouldn’t, not yet. He circled one breast with the wand tip. Gooseflesh rose on her flawless white skin. Pleased, he moved lazily on to the other breast. He traced its perfect shape slowly before dragging the wand to her hard round nipple.

He paused, holding very still. She glared daggers at him; he knew he’d be punished for this later. He didn’t care.

“Frigidus.” Bellatrix gasped at the sudden coldness of his wand. He drew small circles with the icy tip around the rosy bud of her nipple, then held it to the center. Her breathing quickened even more. Her moan made him want to plunge into her, and pound quick and hard. Instead he placed his mouth above her breast and lightly blew warm air onto the cooled flesh.

Bellatrix writhed and threw her dark head back with an abandoned moan. He applied the ice-cold wand to her other nipple, then followed with his tongue, licking her cold hardness before sucking it into his warm mouth.

Bellatrix thrashed below him, trying desperately to rub her thighs together, moaning like a hurt animal.

“Don’t move,” he ordered. She stilled immediately, and fell silent. He felt staggered with power.

He returned his attentions to her breast, licking the crease of flesh on the underside, and sucking hard at her nipple. He let one hand drift down her stomach, her hips, the thatch of her hair, until he found the fleshy nub of her clit. He thumbed circles into the wetness. He could feel the tension in her body; he knew she wanted to writhe and moan, but didn’t dare. Her harsh pants were the only outward sign of her arousal.

He rubbed mercilessly, feeling the body beneath him growing ever tighter. She was struggling for air now, and small groans were slipping through her lips. Each time he heard one he pinched a nipple, hard.

The bindings were taut as piano wire, and her muscles were corded. She’d break apart in a moment. He kept stroking, enjoying the slick wetness on his fingers, and the taste of her nipple in his mouth.

He pulled back. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she was biting her lip fiercely. He could see a small trickle of red blood. He drew a slow breath.

“You may come,” he said quietly.

She gasped, a great gulp of air like a near-drowner breaking through the ocean’s surface. Her body shook violently, and thrashed against the bindings. Her scream was wild, uncontrolled, atavistic. He was inside her before her shudders slowed.

He knew -- even as he pounded into her, even as the burning redness overtook his body -- that the seductive rush of control was illusory. He would never be in command. The power was all hers.

“And here she is, my masterpiece.”

The little painter said much more, but Sirius could barely understand him, could catch perhaps one word of three. The out of body feeling had a grip on him, and all he wanted to do was fuck Bellatrix through the drawing room sofa.

The little painter’s hand was on a red velvet curtain that hid something -- his mother’s portrait, Sirius supposed, or maybe a razor-toothed manticore, what did he care? The Professor was getting ready to pull the curtain back.

The sisters sat together on the sofa; Bellatrix held Narcissa’s hand. His mother was installed in the high back armchair, which had the air of a throne. His father stood behind it. All watched the Professor attentively, waiting.

Sirius stood to the side. He wouldn’t be allowed to miss this, he knew, but he could barely remain upright. His head buzzed and his knees felt on the verge of buckling. If this portrait wasn’t unveiled soon, he would fuck the dark-haired witch where she sat. They could all watch.

What was wrong with him? He groaned quietly. His mother glared at him, no doubt putting it down to teenaged petulance.

She was his cousin. He didn’t like her, he was more than a little afraid of her, and all he wanted to do was rip her clothing off. Why was this happening to him? How had he become this person -- this monster who could do such unspeakably vile things? Had it always been inside him?

He wanted to resolve right now this very minute to stop -- to never touch his cousin again, to lead a decent life -- but he was done lying to himself. If he was a monster, he would be an honest monster. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

His mother threw another glare at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but the painter had finished his speech and now yanked the red curtain. It fell to the floor.

All heads swiveled to the revealed painting. His mother stood there in her full-length glory. She wore her favorite black cap and favorite black dress and favorite expression of disapproving smugness. Sirius couldn’t stop his shudder.

To him she looked hideous, nearly deformed -- her inner rottenness clearly laid-bare in the dabs of paint. He felt almost sorry for the unsuspecting little portraitist who beamed so proudly. He risked a glance at his mother to see how she was taking it.

And she was smiling too. As was the rest of the family. Could they be pleased by this monstrosity?

It seemed they could. His father shook the Professor’s hand warmly. His mother stood close to the painting, and approvingly watched her portrait-self preen. Bellatrix looked blank and uninterested, but Narcissa smiled sweetly up at the picture.

He looked at it again. It was horribly unattractive, at least to him, but it was an accurate representation. The Professor had shown considerable skill in capturing his mother’s true self. It wasn’t the painting’s fault if that true self was irredeemably corrupt. And judging by the reactions of the others, beauty was subjective.

He was past caring. He felt light-headed and hot. All he could think about was a wet mouth on his cock.

He looked back at Bellatrix. She stared blankly forward -- ignoring him, Sirius would have thought, if he had believed she cared enough to snub him. She hand a hand in Narcissa’s hair; she twisted a yellow lock idly. He stared -- caught, as he always was, by the glints of gold that raced through the strands.

And if he was finally going to be honest with himself, he might as well admit that fucking Bellatrix hadn’t made him want Narcissa any less. He still burned for her with an unrelenting ache. He was lost, he knew. He was well and truly damned.

Bellatrix turned her head toward him, saw him staring at her sister’s hair, and smiled. His body went suddenly cold, which didn’t stop his cock from becoming painfully hard. He couldn’t feel his legs; he’d fall over in a minute.

“What’s wrong with our son?” came his mother’s voice.

No, not his mother’s voice. The portrait’s voice.

It peered out at where he stood stupidly frozen and continued, “Has he become an idiot?”

He heard his living mother snort. “Become?”

The two Mrs. Blacks enjoyed an identical laugh.

Bellatrix began insisting on casting a Glamour before she’d let him touch her. She’d pass her wand over her head, turning black hair to blonde. She was so like her sister she didn’t need Polyjuice; she knew he’d feel like he was fucking Narcissa. She assumed that he’d hate it -- even as he’d want her, in her blonde state, more than ever. She was right.

He’d tie her up, now, nearly every time. She wanted the bonds tighter and tighter, and took to wearing long sleeves to cover the red marks on her wrists. Sometimes he’d add a gag, and let her make all the noise she could.

He’d fuck her outside, often, or in an open hall. Not from any desire to get caught, but because he couldn’t wait long enough to get behind a locked door.

She’d excuse herself in the middle of dinner, and wait for him to follow, not caring that he was risking his mother’s wrath. She’d want him to fuck her, quick as he could, against the nearest wall. Then she’d make him return to the table with rumpled clothing and swollen lips.

He stopped sleeping, because when he did he’d dream of her -- or of Narcissa, which was worse. At night he’d roam the house until he couldn’t stand it any longer and then he’d push open her door.

He wore the same clothes for days at a time. No one noticed, unless you counted his mother’s portrait, which sniffed pointedly every time he passed its new place in the entrance hall.

Once he nearly killed Kreacher, when the house-elf tried to weasel out of obeying a direct order. He had his wand out and the curse on his lips before he even realized he was angry. Later, he only regretted he hadn’t done it.

He started sneaking his father’s firewhiskey -- pouring whole bottles at a time into the water pitcher from his room. He’d Transfigure as close an imitation as he could to refill the bottles, but it was little more than colored water. He knew he’d be caught soon, but couldn’t manage to care. If he drank enough firewhiskey before he tried to sleep, the dreams didn’t come.

Bellatrix wasn’t in her room, or the drawing room, or the library. Sirius rambled through the garden, starting to feel itchy, desperate. He senses were alert; he felt jumpy, barely contained, but he couldn’t let Bellatrix see. He had to look calm, indifferent, when he finally found her.

She’d be out here somewhere. He knew it.

You had to be careful in the garden. The plants were mostly harmless unless eaten -- Deadly Nightshade, Night-Blooming Jasmine, Monkshood -- but occasionally the Baby Devil’s Snare would get rowdy, or lonely, and try to capture a stroller’s foot. Luckily most of the man-eating plants were indoors in the conservatory.

He strode on. His hands clenched convulsively in his pockets, wanting to touch pale skin, to bury themselves in dark hair. And there, suddenly, was a figure, sitting alone on the stone bench in front of the Blood Roses.

He was almost upon her before he realized her hair was golden, not black. He stopped short, recoiling involuntarily.

Narcissa looked up at him. A smile of delight crossed her face and his stomach turned over. She made room for him on the bench, and he couldn’t not sit, couldn’t not stay.

They were still a moment. She didn’t seem to have anything to say to him. He had to fight to keep the words from flying from his mouth. Words like always, and want, and love, and fuck. She mustn’t know he was a monster on the inside.

She must keep her innocence as long as possible. It was a miracle she’d kept herself free of the Blacks’ iniquity as long as she had. She didn’t think about things like Blood, or Dark Wizards, Sirius knew. She didn’t think about much at all, but that was miles better than the grasping cunning of the rest of his family.

Finally she said something -- about the weather, or her cat at home, or Hogwarts. He made a noncommittal noise, and nodded, trying to look agreeable.

She talked on. He didn’t try to understand the words; he just listened to the music of her voice. He would graduate in a year. Maybe by then he’d be over this mad infatuation, and he could come for her -- could get her far away from the Blacks and their poison. Maybe in a year he’d be able to trust himself, and he wouldn’t want to kiss those red lips, or drown in that yellow hair.

His head felt heavy. He’d grown so used to seeing Bellatrix with Glamoured blonde hair, that he found himself losing track of which sister was sitting beside him. The girl’s features seemed to shift suddenly -- first one, then the other. He spoke, when she seemed to need an answer, not knowing what he said, not sure who he was speaking to.

Then she leaned toward him -- to make a point, or to show him the flower she held in her hand. Her long hair brushed against his bare arm, and he no longer had any doubt which sister was with him. Narcissa’s hair burned like sunlight, inflamed his body like wildfire.

He gasped and wrenched away. She looked up, alarm in her wide eyes, and it was all he could do not to crush her to him until they both stopped breathing. To take her right there, not caring if she protested, not caring if he hurt her.

Not caring if she screamed.

“You have to let me leave. I’ll stay with James, or with Andromeda if that’s better --“

“We’ve already discussed this.” His mother walked into the drawing room, trying unsuccessfully to free herself of his presence.

“I’ll stay in a hotel, I’ve got to get out of this house.“ He could hear his desperation, knew he wasn’t convincing her, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I do not wish to discuss this further.”

“But --“

“You will remain here for the rest of the summer. And I’m starting to be of a mind to keep you here during the school term.”

“But --“ he was staggered. “You can’t. I’ll be of age then, and --“

His mother’s voice was cold. “I can and will do whatever I want.”

He took a step back. Her face showed no mercy. He turned and fled the room, hurtling blindly through the hall. The portrait’s voice followed him.

“Too right,” she called. Then, raising her voice so it could be heard in the drawing room, “Well done, Walburga.”

“Hit me,” she giggled breathlessly.

“What?” he panted, thrusting into her, trying to keep it slow. “No.”

“Hit me,” she repeated in her baby voice. “Black my eye. Leave a bruise.”

“Shut it,” he managed to grit out. He wasn’t here to talk. He could barely remember his own name when he was inside her. He wouldn’t have minded forgetting hers.

“Slap me,” she twisted her body, sending him onto his back, and laughed down at him. “Leave scratches with your nails.”

She moved above him, and he thrust into her, and this was what he needed, not this inane chatter.

“Strike me. Punch me. Hit me.”

“No.”

She pouted a moment, stilling her movements. Sirius groaned. Then she leaned in close; he could feel her hard nipples brush his chest. Her Glamour-blonde hair tumbled onto his face.

She spoke softly into his ear, punctuating her words with little moans that Sirius didn’t want to find arousing.

“Things are changing, little Gryffindor. Soon you won’t recognize our world.”

He tried to not listen, to concentrate on thrusting up into her, but her soft voice penetrated his skull and lodged in the back of his brain.

“And little Gryffindors might find themselves on the wrong side.”

He was close now; he’d come if she’d let him. If she’d move in just the right way.

“I... Don’t... Care...” he panted harshly.

She laughed. She was moving again, in nearly the right way.

“It will be a glorious new world, cousin.”

He needed to finish. He thrust as hard as he could. His hips pounded up into the girl, and back into the mattress, making it bounce.

“The Dark Lord will have a special place for you.”

The Dark Lord, he repeated in his mind. So that was it; he’d suspected as much. It hadn’t made him not want to fuck her. But he hadn’t known, not until now. He wished that mattered. He tried to feel flooded with outrage and horror, but all he wanted to do was grind into the hot wetness of the girl. He was so close.

“You could be a great Dark Wizard. I can see it.”

She moaned as he reached up to cup one of her breasts.

“No.”

“You’re nearly one already.”

Now he felt outrage. It poured into him with burning heat. It wasn’t true. He wouldn’t listen anymore; he shouldn’t have listened to this much.

“You have the darkness in you. All you have to do is accept it.”

No. But he was done lying to himself, wasn’t he? He’d seen the monster inside himself; he didn’t need her to point it out.

No. No. No. He thrust into her, again and again, each time with a denial on his lips. He would not give in to the foulness inside of him. Neither Bellatrix, nor anyone else, could make him.

Haven’t you already? The thought whispered through the redness in his skull, insistent as a scream.

She smiled down at him, amused. And there was her silver-bell laugh.

“Hit me.”

“NO,” he shouted, and came in a powerful rush.

And then it was if she’d never met him. She looked at him blankly at dinner, and in the hallways. When he tried to touch her, to grab her arm, she moved aside with a puzzled frown.

He tried her door, late at night, as he always did, and found she’d cast a Locking Charm. He hung around corridors, outside doorways, waiting for a chance to get her alone, but she was constantly with Narcissa. It was deliberate, he knew. Before, she’d make sure to pass by him alone, and move slowly.

Finally he saw her on a staircase, without her sister -- on her own. He grabbed her wrist hard, before she had a chance to say anything and pushed her into the wall, his lips at her throat.

He found himself Blasted painfully to the bottom of the stairwell.

What did she want from him? He couldn’t stand this much longer. He had to have her soon. He felt light-headed, and he couldn’t eat, or sleep. A swirling blackness played at the edge of his vision, growing with every passing hour.

He was floating outside his body nearly all the time now. It was a horribly familiar sensation, Merlin knew, but now he felt he might never reconnect with his skin, might float into the ether and disappear. Would anyone notice, he wondered and heard a high-pitched laugh he realized was his own. Get a grip, he told himself.

He was cold all the time; he couldn’t get warm, and when he looked in a mirror, he was clammy and grey. “Oh my,” it clucked, sounding faintly shocked. “You used to be such a handsome boy.”

He discovered his father’s firewhiskey made the swirling blackness go away, at least for a while. He drank it to get to sleep, then to start the morning, then during the day. He’d been drunk in front of his mother, but she hadn’t noticed, or perhaps just hadn’t cared.

When he’d drunk enough, he would go to her, wherever she was -- sitting in the drawing room, walking in the garden, making a fourth for Wizard Bridge -- and try to hold her hand or touch her shoulder. He was desperate to feel her skin; he could ignore his mother’s questioning looks.

Was this a game? She couldn’t stop touching him, then go about her business pretending it had never happened. She was not allowed. He was real, not the ghost he saw reflected in her eyes when she deigned to look at him. He would prove it to her.

He would make her fuck him. Even if he had to do it in front of his parents and Narcissa and the whole bloody lot of them. Did she think he was afraid of causing a scene? What did she think he had to lose? Nothing could be worse than this unscratchable itch, this burning craving she’d instilled in him and now refused to satisfy.

Accept your darkness, she’d said. Was that what this was about? Was that what her fucked-up black little heart required?

He might just do that. She might, perhaps, be sorry.

He’d stormed through the whole house searching for her -- ready to settle this for good and all in any way he had to -- and there she was, sitting on his bed.

Looking perfectly relaxed, playing with her Glamoured yellow hair.

An unfathomable fury boiled up in him, flooding his body with a blinding rage. He couldn’t breathe; his chest felt ready to explode. The redness swam in his head, and swirled behind his eyes.

Sharp nails were scraping his brain, and before he knew it his fist had clenched in that false-colored hair and yanked her viciously to her feet.

“Is this what you want?” he demanded, and backhanded her hard across her cheek. “Is that what you had in mind?”

She fell to the ground. A chunk of the blonde hair tore from her head and remained in his hand. He dropped it in disgust.

He pulled her to her feet and drew his hand back, holding it ready for another blow. She liked that, he could tell; her breath quickened in excitement.

“Sirius?” she whispered.

He froze. The desperate rage fled all at once, replaced by an icy dread.

Not Glamoured hair. Not Bellatrix.

Narcissa.

How could he not have known? Had he known?

His legs felt unsteady; he was going to be ill. He dropped her, tossing her from him more violently than he intended. She sat abruptly at the foot of his bed.

What was she doing in his room? He felt a towering wave of self-loathing. How could he have done that? What could he say to her now?

The redness was gone; his vision had cleared. He looked down at her, unsure what to do. She was hunched over, looking at the floor. He felt sick.

She slowly raised her head. Her eyes were wide. His hand had left an angry red mark on her cheek.

Then slowly, she smiled.

And he could see it, could pinpoint the instant her innocence left her, could isolate the moment she became a Black.

It seemed to play out before him, in a horrifying slow-motion. She brought her hand to her red cheek, and felt it wonderingly. She smiled slowly up at him. There was a whisper of silver knives in her smile -- bright and sharp. There was nothing of purity.

“Do it again,” she said.

He backed to the wall, not wanting to believe this was happening, knowing it was his fault.

She stood, and walked up to him, very close.

“Do it again,” she repeated.

“Why are you here?” he asked stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

“Bella sent me. She said you wanted to see me. Didn’t you?” she asked, placing a hand lightly on his chest.

“No,” he said, feeling a dull horror wash through him.

“Oh,” she replied with a newly knowing smile. “It doesn’t matter. Do it again.”

He lay in bed and plotted ways to kill Bellatrix.

Not with a wand, he thought. That would be too quick. He wanted her neck under his hands. He wanted to squeeze and squeeze and watch her eyes bulge and her tongue swell.

Perhaps a knife. He could drag it quickly across her white throat and spill her precious pure blood all over the drawing room floor.

She wanted him to accept his darkness. He would embrace it, if it would allow him to kill the bitch.

This wasn’t an adolescent fantasy of murder. He was no longer a schoolboy -- she’d seen to that -- and he would kill her. That was the only way this could end. One of them had to die.

She wanted to be hit. He could punch her until her cheekbones were crushed, until her skull cracked under his fingers. The thought brought a thrill to his stomach.

He was hard, he suddenly realized. He reared up and was violently ill on the carpet.

There wasn’t anything he wanted to take. He would never be returning, he knew, and he didn’t want to carry anything from the house with him. Let it all stay here and rot. He’d have his wand, that was enough.

He padded down the staircase to the darkened entrance hall. His mother’s portrait was sleeping, thank Merlin, making harsh snoring sounds and drooling a little.

The portrait’s original was asleep, too, upstairs with the rest of the quiet household. He’d never see any of them again, he knew. This would be a clean break. He‘d be disowned the moment it was discovered he was gone. He was surprised at how little he felt.

Treading quietly past the sleeping portraits, he was almost to the door when he heard a soft voice behind him.

“Naughty cousin. Would you leave without saying good-bye?”

And he could even face her, when he knew it was for the last time. To his surprise, he found he didn’t mind at all. He was suffused with a strange peace.

He turned. “Good-bye, Bellatrix.”

She stood at the top of the staircase, watching him with her bright eyes. They could no longer catch him. He was beyond them now.

“We’ll meet again,” she said, descending the stairs.

“No.”

“You should have joined us,” she said, watching him thoughtfully. “It’s not too late. You have a great darkness inside of you.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know. That’s a curse I’ll have to live with.”

“Too bad.” She touched his hair. “We could have had such fun.”

He removed her hand gently. “Good-bye, Bellatrix.” And then, because he was feeling generous, because his life was beginning at last, he leaned in and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

It was the first time he had ever seen her look surprised. After a moment, she smiled. “Good-bye, little Gryffindor.”

He felt her eyes on him until the heavy door swung closed and he was on Grimmauld Place.

He’d go to the Potters’, he thought, as he sauntered down the street. James had always said he could move in with his family any time he wanted. He breathed the cool night air, letting it fill his lungs. The Potters would be glad to have him, and he’d be back at Hogwarts soon, free for the first time.

There was a fight coming soon. He felt strangely calm, now that he’d chosen his side, and unexpectedly powerful. For the first time he was ready for the struggle, anxious for it, even.

They would win, he knew. There was no doubt. And then the world would be wide open. There were almost too many possibilities. He wasn’t used to freedom, he realized, smiling ruefully. Well, that would change.

End

A/N: Originally for sionnain, at the hp_clover ficexchange, amongst whose requests I tried to incorporate Bellatrix/Sirius, Blackcest, mindfuckery, and d/s.

Title is from She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

And, of course any archive suggestions are very welcome.