Private to Roddy- what isn't?
Bellatrix is curled up on the bed in a position a little too awkward for sleep, her eyes closed a little too tightly. Her breathing is steady, and she is motionless except for the minor tremors that shake her body. She has just comforted a man whose young lover has died, and she is shaken to the soul. There are dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and a bit of dried blood on her lip where she bitten it so hard on the way home.
Her hands are clenched tightly, and she is not wearing her wedding ring. It is held tightly in her left palm, though her Christmas present from her husband is still on her ring finger, and her original engagement ring on her right. She is holding the ring with such fierceness that it is leaving marks in her palm, but she does not feel the discomfort of it. If she spared a thought for it, she might wish she did, for it might distract her. But she is trapped in a cycle of fear for now, the memories and scenarios the Dementors had diminished her thought processes to in the years she spent with them.
What if? Her mind keeps repeating. What if he dies, what if he leaves, what if he hurts me, what if I hurt him, what if... what if... what if... Thought after thought chased through her head, some running in circles for what seems like forever to her. What if I'm alone?
She squeezes her eyes more tightly shut at an image of him lying on the floor at her feet, twitching in pain. She tries to fend the memory off, but other pictures follow. Pictures of him broken and bleeding, near death from incurring the wrath of their Lord. Pictures of him smiling at her, dancing with her, begging her for satisfaction as she teased him, the memory of this past Christmas, when he presented her with her new diamond ring.
The night he asked her to marry him. The night he told her he loved her, and she believed him. The night she broke out of herself to tell him the same. The night she truly made herself vulnerable to him, for the first time. Completely open, with no secrets darkening her eyes or her words. She did not tell him everything then, but he did not need her to, and the truth lay in that. His simple love of her, and her deep shock and pleasure at finding she returned it.
Earlier, when they were dating. Every pleasant picture she saw was interspersed with a frame of him in pain, crying out, near dying.
She saw the day he'd given her the locket... it was for one of their early anniversaries. He had written her a note with it, and signed it with "I love you". She carefully torn away the corner with those words, and shut them in the locket. He had never put those words in writing for her, and he hadn't known then that she had saved them. She made him swear never to open the silver locket- she was closed to him then. But she kept it and wore it every day, knowing what was inside and treasuring it.
She took it off when their Master summoned, though. She would not risk her treasure to his anger, or her husband to his malice. If he had known how deep their love ran, he would have used it more against them, and would have broken them both.
Her hands had been shaking the last time she took it off. She remembered that day clearly. The day they caught her and Rodolphus. Her right hand creeps up now to grasp the locket, and the clasp that holds it closed digs into her skin, pricking it and drawing a drop of blood that she does not yet notice.
The memories unfold before her eyes, even as she screams at them mentally to keep back, keep away. The memory of smugness, a job well done. Carelessness in the certainty of their Lord's pleasure at the completion of their task. Fury marked with fear as the Aurors caught up with them, as her husband fought beside her, as her comrades worked only to save themselves. They had all been caught in the end, the group sent that night on her Lord's bidding. She remembered the cold rage that had filtered over her. She had let it, fearing the Kiss, the pain that would come in Azkaban. She did not know what her sentence would be, and she did not know which to fear more.
She could only hope that her husband's sentence was the same.
The trial comes back to her now, a memory she thought she'd repressed. She remembered her cold defiance that completely covered her fear. She had managed to mask it even from herself, convincing her mind and body that she was strong, and that their Master would find a way to save them from their fate. She remembered her relief at seeing Rodolphus alive as they led them into the courtroom. They had been kept separate, and she had feared he had died from his injuries. She had hastily strangled the desire to pull away from her captors and throw herself into his arms.
She had never let herself cry in front of him only once. She had never wanted to.
She remembered the jolt of fear as she found herself bound to the huge chairs. She remembered the way the edge of the seat bit into the back of her knee as she sat in it. She remembered keeping herself from looking at her husband, her lover. She knew she would break, and she had sworn not to break.
The questions she had answered. She never once wavered in her loyalty to her Lord and Master. Never once had she lost her resolve. Never once had her dignity wavered. No matter what else the Dementors took from her, they could not take her pride, for she hated it as much as she clung to it.
It was her pride that saved her, those long years. They were cruel, the Dementors. They locked her away, alone. Her cell was close to her husband's. They were not close enough to communicate, but just close enough that she could hear if he cried out, and identify the voice as that of her lover.
It was torture to add to what was already Hell, to be able to hear him, but not even see him. To not know why he screamed. To not know if she would hear him ever again. She never screamed. Her hand tightens on the locket as she realizes this, and she wishes she had. She wishes she had given him that assurance now. She realizes now that he might have thought she died.
Hard on the heels of that thought came the blood. His blood, covering her clothes as she knelt next to him on bed or floor, tending to his wounds, or using a potion to rub some of the harsh ache of the Cruciatus out of his body. His blood, forming pools on the floor at his Master's feet as he submitted to punishment. His blood, pouring from his wrists as he turned to face her, pale and determined, a knife lying near to him.
Then it was her blood, again staining her clothes. The wounds were not from her Master, but from Rodolphus. She remembered him, time and time again, raising his hand to her, his face livid, his breath reeking of alcohol. She remembered cleaning herself up afterwards, hands shaking sometimes with rage, sometimes with fear, sometimes from the force of her sobs, and sometimes rock-steady and as cold as her thoughts.
She never cried in front of him. She never admitted she felt so weak when her love prevented her from fighting back. She never admitted that she would sit by the lake in her park- their park- and sob when she did fight back. She was never anything more or less then professional and passionate with him. Fleeting moments of tenderness were few, reserved for short moments after a climax when he let some of his weight rest on her while he caught his breath, and she would brush the hair back from his face and whisper that she loved him. Even those were rare, as their lovemaking was often far too passionate or angry to allow for any sort of milder or deeper affection and love to intrude.
All the moments wasted, all that time for tenderness gone. And someday she will lose him. He bleeds again in her mind, his life flowing away from him and sinking irretrievably into the ground. She pleads with him not to die, crying out behind her eyelids, and naught but a whimper escapes her throat to be heard by the air around her.
She feels the pain of the young man she had recently held and comforted. It tears at her like the wolf that had killed his lover had torn at his throat. This is why I was cold. I am cold. I am. I am. I am. I am. She repeats this idea in her mind, trying to summon up a rock wall around her heart. She fails, for the hundredth time since she has lain down here, and she sinks back into her memories.
The cycle starts again, and another whimper escapes her as she lies helplessly in its grip.
Please don't leave me.
Her hands are clenched tightly, and she is not wearing her wedding ring. It is held tightly in her left palm, though her Christmas present from her husband is still on her ring finger, and her original engagement ring on her right. She is holding the ring with such fierceness that it is leaving marks in her palm, but she does not feel the discomfort of it. If she spared a thought for it, she might wish she did, for it might distract her. But she is trapped in a cycle of fear for now, the memories and scenarios the Dementors had diminished her thought processes to in the years she spent with them.
What if? Her mind keeps repeating. What if he dies, what if he leaves, what if he hurts me, what if I hurt him, what if... what if... what if... Thought after thought chased through her head, some running in circles for what seems like forever to her. What if I'm alone?
She squeezes her eyes more tightly shut at an image of him lying on the floor at her feet, twitching in pain. She tries to fend the memory off, but other pictures follow. Pictures of him broken and bleeding, near death from incurring the wrath of their Lord. Pictures of him smiling at her, dancing with her, begging her for satisfaction as she teased him, the memory of this past Christmas, when he presented her with her new diamond ring.
The night he asked her to marry him. The night he told her he loved her, and she believed him. The night she broke out of herself to tell him the same. The night she truly made herself vulnerable to him, for the first time. Completely open, with no secrets darkening her eyes or her words. She did not tell him everything then, but he did not need her to, and the truth lay in that. His simple love of her, and her deep shock and pleasure at finding she returned it.
Earlier, when they were dating. Every pleasant picture she saw was interspersed with a frame of him in pain, crying out, near dying.
She saw the day he'd given her the locket... it was for one of their early anniversaries. He had written her a note with it, and signed it with "I love you". She carefully torn away the corner with those words, and shut them in the locket. He had never put those words in writing for her, and he hadn't known then that she had saved them. She made him swear never to open the silver locket- she was closed to him then. But she kept it and wore it every day, knowing what was inside and treasuring it.
She took it off when their Master summoned, though. She would not risk her treasure to his anger, or her husband to his malice. If he had known how deep their love ran, he would have used it more against them, and would have broken them both.
Her hands had been shaking the last time she took it off. She remembered that day clearly. The day they caught her and Rodolphus. Her right hand creeps up now to grasp the locket, and the clasp that holds it closed digs into her skin, pricking it and drawing a drop of blood that she does not yet notice.
The memories unfold before her eyes, even as she screams at them mentally to keep back, keep away. The memory of smugness, a job well done. Carelessness in the certainty of their Lord's pleasure at the completion of their task. Fury marked with fear as the Aurors caught up with them, as her husband fought beside her, as her comrades worked only to save themselves. They had all been caught in the end, the group sent that night on her Lord's bidding. She remembered the cold rage that had filtered over her. She had let it, fearing the Kiss, the pain that would come in Azkaban. She did not know what her sentence would be, and she did not know which to fear more.
She could only hope that her husband's sentence was the same.
The trial comes back to her now, a memory she thought she'd repressed. She remembered her cold defiance that completely covered her fear. She had managed to mask it even from herself, convincing her mind and body that she was strong, and that their Master would find a way to save them from their fate. She remembered her relief at seeing Rodolphus alive as they led them into the courtroom. They had been kept separate, and she had feared he had died from his injuries. She had hastily strangled the desire to pull away from her captors and throw herself into his arms.
She had never let herself cry in front of him only once. She had never wanted to.
She remembered the jolt of fear as she found herself bound to the huge chairs. She remembered the way the edge of the seat bit into the back of her knee as she sat in it. She remembered keeping herself from looking at her husband, her lover. She knew she would break, and she had sworn not to break.
The questions she had answered. She never once wavered in her loyalty to her Lord and Master. Never once had she lost her resolve. Never once had her dignity wavered. No matter what else the Dementors took from her, they could not take her pride, for she hated it as much as she clung to it.
It was her pride that saved her, those long years. They were cruel, the Dementors. They locked her away, alone. Her cell was close to her husband's. They were not close enough to communicate, but just close enough that she could hear if he cried out, and identify the voice as that of her lover.
It was torture to add to what was already Hell, to be able to hear him, but not even see him. To not know why he screamed. To not know if she would hear him ever again. She never screamed. Her hand tightens on the locket as she realizes this, and she wishes she had. She wishes she had given him that assurance now. She realizes now that he might have thought she died.
Hard on the heels of that thought came the blood. His blood, covering her clothes as she knelt next to him on bed or floor, tending to his wounds, or using a potion to rub some of the harsh ache of the Cruciatus out of his body. His blood, forming pools on the floor at his Master's feet as he submitted to punishment. His blood, pouring from his wrists as he turned to face her, pale and determined, a knife lying near to him.
Then it was her blood, again staining her clothes. The wounds were not from her Master, but from Rodolphus. She remembered him, time and time again, raising his hand to her, his face livid, his breath reeking of alcohol. She remembered cleaning herself up afterwards, hands shaking sometimes with rage, sometimes with fear, sometimes from the force of her sobs, and sometimes rock-steady and as cold as her thoughts.
She never cried in front of him. She never admitted she felt so weak when her love prevented her from fighting back. She never admitted that she would sit by the lake in her park- their park- and sob when she did fight back. She was never anything more or less then professional and passionate with him. Fleeting moments of tenderness were few, reserved for short moments after a climax when he let some of his weight rest on her while he caught his breath, and she would brush the hair back from his face and whisper that she loved him. Even those were rare, as their lovemaking was often far too passionate or angry to allow for any sort of milder or deeper affection and love to intrude.
All the moments wasted, all that time for tenderness gone. And someday she will lose him. He bleeds again in her mind, his life flowing away from him and sinking irretrievably into the ground. She pleads with him not to die, crying out behind her eyelids, and naught but a whimper escapes her throat to be heard by the air around her.
She feels the pain of the young man she had recently held and comforted. It tears at her like the wolf that had killed his lover had torn at his throat. This is why I was cold. I am cold. I am. I am. I am. I am. She repeats this idea in her mind, trying to summon up a rock wall around her heart. She fails, for the hundredth time since she has lain down here, and she sinks back into her memories.
The cycle starts again, and another whimper escapes her as she lies helplessly in its grip.
Please don't leave me.