Challenge#12 His Rose
Title: His Rose
Rating/Warnings: PG 13
Characters/Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort, Rodolphus mentioned
Summary: The Dark Lord always thought Bellatrix she have been the sister named after a flower
Word Count: 1509
Author's Notes: A strangely almost possessive Voldemort thinking about the past. No idea where it came from or how it grew so long
Registered purchases?: Yes, both
Narcissa might have been the Black who was named after a flower, but Lord Voldemort was convinced that honour should have been granted to her elder sister. Of course, Bella was his lieutenant, his warrior, though there was more to the tale than that. The Amazon Star may have been a fitting a title for her, but it only just scraped the surface. There was more to her than that. His Bella might have been a warrior, though, first, she was always a rose.
Others might see the assessment as strange, but it was because, unlike Lord Voldemort, they could not see the truth. He could see the tall stem, the blood red petals, smell the sweet armour and, above all, gaze at those sharp thorns. From the beginning, they had been visible and apparent. However, their true potential had never been unlocked, until he had stepped in.
He had first met the young Miss Black when she was only nineteen. She had entered on the arm of her uncle, Nicholas Rosier, a man who had served him since they had traversed the halls of Hogwarts together. She had been mature for her age, but, to him, she had been oh so naive. It had been apparent from the way her eyes widened and her checks flared pink when he had approached. It might have bothered others, though it did not spark the nonexistent conscious of Lord Voldemort. No, in his substantial mind, it had just made things so much simpler for him.
She had been a beauty, even then: Smooth black hair like satin, pronounced red lips, a full bust, small frame and the crafted aristocrat features. It had been the perfect painting. The perfect flower.
From then, she was his flower. He had his flower and he had crafted his flower. Others might have seen it as an impossible task, but none could ever be as talented as he. None had known where to hold when they snipped the stem, which leaves to pull away and just when they should have brought the flower to their nose and savoured the scent. However, he knew all. He always knew.
She had then been a growing seedling: A flower that had yet to bloom. Others might have cast a glance at her developed body and what seemed to be profound skill with her wand and though she was right to pick, but they would have been so very wrong. If they wanted their flower to be mediocre, she might have been fine, though mediocrity was not what he had sought.
He only sought perfection.
From their first meeting, he had informed her he would instruct her himself. For a whole year, he had summoned her weekly, taught her how everything she had been taught before was wrong. He had needed to strip everything aside and had started to reconstruct his little flower.
Everything had to be remade, even matters as simple as her stance and how she held her wand. However, it wall all straightforward, to him. He had pressing his cool thin fingers into her hips and ribs, lightly trained his yew wand up her back and pushed his knee into her legs to negotiate them into just the right positions, all the while he had stood close behind her and had heard her breathing grow harsher at every moment. He had corrected her pose, so it was alarmingly similar to his own. Finally, when he had drawn away, and appraised her, he had known she would never forget. She would never forget the feel of where his body had been. She would never forget where he had pushed her body, so she would never forget the stance.
She never had.
Step one had been completed. His rose had stood up just the right way in its pot.
Then, once he was done, he had moved onto other avenues. When he had stood back and observed critically, even Lord Voldemort could see those lovely petals need not be touched. They had bloomed deep red with perfection even he need not adjust. The rose had good heritage, heritage that served her well. Her breeding had granted her exquisite looks and Lord Voldemort need not have fixed that aspect.
There was only one thing he had needed to do. He handed her a set of black robes, a simple white mask and a long hood and told her to put them on. Those beautiful petals had been hidden, for the moment. Finally, he had burned his own mark upon the flawless flesh so no one could ever have forgotten who the rose belonged to, least of all the rose herself.
It had left one last task, what really mattered: Those thorns. What he had desired most was for his rose was to grow and bloom, so those thorns could sharpen, grow and make people bleed. He had taught her how to use them. She had learned it all with surprising speed and more enthusiasm than he had experienced with others, or expected. Those thorns had been born to make people hurt and they were so effective at that task. The flower had swayed and struck with those thorns with joyous laughter and delight as each drop of blood hit the floor.
The greatest gift of his rose had always been the ability to make his enemies bleed.
For it would be her greatest gift, it was what others would see as her greatest curse, though they did not know his rose like he did. He had told her so, on one occasion, and utter glee flared in her dark eyes. He knew his pretty rose would never forget those words and would always make them her priority.
The truth was he knew why others scorned her thorns: They were scared of them. He was not. He had shaped and sharpened so he knew just where to hold his rose: Just where he could place his hands, whisper in her ear and exactly what to say. However, the thing was, he did not need any of those skills. The truth was those thorns would never pierce his own marble like skin for his rose could never will any harm to him.
It was then that he finally removed his rose from the pot. Marked, dressed in black, wand extended, body straight, full of his cause, orders whispered and loyalty enshrined, he set his beautiful rose out into the world. Then, she returned. Even he remembered that first time. Then, only nineteen, covered in scarlet droplets from the pain she had inflicted, she bowed low before him, his ever obedient rose.
With his perfect rose displaying the success of his craftsmanship, he finally could then allow himself to congratulate himself and fully appreciate his rose. He had closed in on his creation, he had stripped her of the robes he had originally blessed her with, ruined the posture he had created, made his little rose cry out his title louder than she had before and made his rose bleed in more ways than one. His little plucked rose. All the while, she had screamed and called his name, mostly not from pain, even he had allowed his voice to briefly join her pleasurable cries for how he had enjoyed his rose.
Then, like it was nothing at all, he had stood and had forced his rose to stand. He had forced her back into her robes, had made her stand like his perfect soldier of a rose, had sent her with the messages and whispers and had dismissed her. Not permanently, just until he had needed, no, wanted, his rose again.
He never did keep her for himself. Oh no, he had no desire to keep a rose. He had more important things on his mind and, as beautiful and as magnificent as his rose was, she would be a hindrance. Instead, he had handed his rose to Mr Rodolphus Lestrange. Now Mr Lestrange may have been fine grasping any other rose, but, any time Rodolphus adjusted his grip or held her too long, those lovely thorns dug into his skin. He had never found out if that caused Rodolphus to enjoy or loathe his rose, but he did not care at all.
No, because, despite it all, he never cared about his rose, not in the traditional way. She was a useful rose and he appreciated her use, though, caring was never quite the word, such words never existed in his vocabulary. His rose was merely set aside until he wanted to pick her up again and, he did. Occasionally, when he pushed her in battle with the robes he had once given her or stripped those robes away in private, he always enjoyed using his lovely rose.
That was the point all along. She was his rose. His perfect rose. Others may be content to think her the warrior striding into battle. That was only half the story. The truth was first, foremost, and always, she would be his rose.
1509/30= 50+10
Caitlin//Hufflepuff
Rating/Warnings: PG 13
Characters/Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort, Rodolphus mentioned
Summary: The Dark Lord always thought Bellatrix she have been the sister named after a flower
Word Count: 1509
Author's Notes: A strangely almost possessive Voldemort thinking about the past. No idea where it came from or how it grew so long
Registered purchases?: Yes, both
Narcissa might have been the Black who was named after a flower, but Lord Voldemort was convinced that honour should have been granted to her elder sister. Of course, Bella was his lieutenant, his warrior, though there was more to the tale than that. The Amazon Star may have been a fitting a title for her, but it only just scraped the surface. There was more to her than that. His Bella might have been a warrior, though, first, she was always a rose.
Others might see the assessment as strange, but it was because, unlike Lord Voldemort, they could not see the truth. He could see the tall stem, the blood red petals, smell the sweet armour and, above all, gaze at those sharp thorns. From the beginning, they had been visible and apparent. However, their true potential had never been unlocked, until he had stepped in.
He had first met the young Miss Black when she was only nineteen. She had entered on the arm of her uncle, Nicholas Rosier, a man who had served him since they had traversed the halls of Hogwarts together. She had been mature for her age, but, to him, she had been oh so naive. It had been apparent from the way her eyes widened and her checks flared pink when he had approached. It might have bothered others, though it did not spark the nonexistent conscious of Lord Voldemort. No, in his substantial mind, it had just made things so much simpler for him.
She had been a beauty, even then: Smooth black hair like satin, pronounced red lips, a full bust, small frame and the crafted aristocrat features. It had been the perfect painting. The perfect flower.
From then, she was his flower. He had his flower and he had crafted his flower. Others might have seen it as an impossible task, but none could ever be as talented as he. None had known where to hold when they snipped the stem, which leaves to pull away and just when they should have brought the flower to their nose and savoured the scent. However, he knew all. He always knew.
She had then been a growing seedling: A flower that had yet to bloom. Others might have cast a glance at her developed body and what seemed to be profound skill with her wand and though she was right to pick, but they would have been so very wrong. If they wanted their flower to be mediocre, she might have been fine, though mediocrity was not what he had sought.
He only sought perfection.
From their first meeting, he had informed her he would instruct her himself. For a whole year, he had summoned her weekly, taught her how everything she had been taught before was wrong. He had needed to strip everything aside and had started to reconstruct his little flower.
Everything had to be remade, even matters as simple as her stance and how she held her wand. However, it wall all straightforward, to him. He had pressing his cool thin fingers into her hips and ribs, lightly trained his yew wand up her back and pushed his knee into her legs to negotiate them into just the right positions, all the while he had stood close behind her and had heard her breathing grow harsher at every moment. He had corrected her pose, so it was alarmingly similar to his own. Finally, when he had drawn away, and appraised her, he had known she would never forget. She would never forget the feel of where his body had been. She would never forget where he had pushed her body, so she would never forget the stance.
She never had.
Step one had been completed. His rose had stood up just the right way in its pot.
Then, once he was done, he had moved onto other avenues. When he had stood back and observed critically, even Lord Voldemort could see those lovely petals need not be touched. They had bloomed deep red with perfection even he need not adjust. The rose had good heritage, heritage that served her well. Her breeding had granted her exquisite looks and Lord Voldemort need not have fixed that aspect.
There was only one thing he had needed to do. He handed her a set of black robes, a simple white mask and a long hood and told her to put them on. Those beautiful petals had been hidden, for the moment. Finally, he had burned his own mark upon the flawless flesh so no one could ever have forgotten who the rose belonged to, least of all the rose herself.
It had left one last task, what really mattered: Those thorns. What he had desired most was for his rose was to grow and bloom, so those thorns could sharpen, grow and make people bleed. He had taught her how to use them. She had learned it all with surprising speed and more enthusiasm than he had experienced with others, or expected. Those thorns had been born to make people hurt and they were so effective at that task. The flower had swayed and struck with those thorns with joyous laughter and delight as each drop of blood hit the floor.
The greatest gift of his rose had always been the ability to make his enemies bleed.
For it would be her greatest gift, it was what others would see as her greatest curse, though they did not know his rose like he did. He had told her so, on one occasion, and utter glee flared in her dark eyes. He knew his pretty rose would never forget those words and would always make them her priority.
The truth was he knew why others scorned her thorns: They were scared of them. He was not. He had shaped and sharpened so he knew just where to hold his rose: Just where he could place his hands, whisper in her ear and exactly what to say. However, the thing was, he did not need any of those skills. The truth was those thorns would never pierce his own marble like skin for his rose could never will any harm to him.
It was then that he finally removed his rose from the pot. Marked, dressed in black, wand extended, body straight, full of his cause, orders whispered and loyalty enshrined, he set his beautiful rose out into the world. Then, she returned. Even he remembered that first time. Then, only nineteen, covered in scarlet droplets from the pain she had inflicted, she bowed low before him, his ever obedient rose.
With his perfect rose displaying the success of his craftsmanship, he finally could then allow himself to congratulate himself and fully appreciate his rose. He had closed in on his creation, he had stripped her of the robes he had originally blessed her with, ruined the posture he had created, made his little rose cry out his title louder than she had before and made his rose bleed in more ways than one. His little plucked rose. All the while, she had screamed and called his name, mostly not from pain, even he had allowed his voice to briefly join her pleasurable cries for how he had enjoyed his rose.
Then, like it was nothing at all, he had stood and had forced his rose to stand. He had forced her back into her robes, had made her stand like his perfect soldier of a rose, had sent her with the messages and whispers and had dismissed her. Not permanently, just until he had needed, no, wanted, his rose again.
He never did keep her for himself. Oh no, he had no desire to keep a rose. He had more important things on his mind and, as beautiful and as magnificent as his rose was, she would be a hindrance. Instead, he had handed his rose to Mr Rodolphus Lestrange. Now Mr Lestrange may have been fine grasping any other rose, but, any time Rodolphus adjusted his grip or held her too long, those lovely thorns dug into his skin. He had never found out if that caused Rodolphus to enjoy or loathe his rose, but he did not care at all.
No, because, despite it all, he never cared about his rose, not in the traditional way. She was a useful rose and he appreciated her use, though, caring was never quite the word, such words never existed in his vocabulary. His rose was merely set aside until he wanted to pick her up again and, he did. Occasionally, when he pushed her in battle with the robes he had once given her or stripped those robes away in private, he always enjoyed using his lovely rose.
That was the point all along. She was his rose. His perfect rose. Others may be content to think her the warrior striding into battle. That was only half the story. The truth was first, foremost, and always, she would be his rose.
1509/30= 50+10
Caitlin//Hufflepuff