FIC: Matters of the Mind for alchemia
Title: Matters of the Mind
Author: chimbomba
Giftee: alchemia
Pairing: Bellatrix/Ginny, with a little Voldemort/Bellatrix
Rating: Hard PG-13
Word Count: 1230
Summary: She has no heart.
Warnings: AUish, violence, character death
Author’s Notes: Inspired by The Warlock’s Hairy Heart, one of Beedle the Bard’s tales, but you don’t really need to be familiar with it. This is a very dark fairytale of sorts. I really hope this is to your liking, alchemia! :)
She has no heart.
Or: she has one, but it is small, black, and shriveled.
Or: she has one, but it wholly belongs to He Who Must Not Be Named.
That is what the Romantics say. Bellatrix Lestrange cackles in their faces.
For her, a heart is not an abstraction. It is a thing, an organ, with only the capacity for physiological functions. Hearts do not beat - they pump blood, which circulates throughout the body and keeps the being alive. There is no beat, for rhythm implies certainty, and certainty does not exist in life.
There is no beat. Only irregular movement.
Nerve impulses, not muscles, give birth to loves and prejudices, and to every sense, every thought, every feeling. Butterflies and palpitations are side effects of such things - as all the body, from the extremities to the very core of a person, follows the mind. Its infinite power makes it the greatest, yet the most vulnerable, of organs.
This Bellatrix knows very well.
Many years is she made to feel weak, despite the fact that she is a witch of extraordinary talent. Her obsession with the Dark Lord and his Cause makes her an easy target for humiliation; the others seem to think her openness a sign of mortality. In reality, she is the coldest and the cruelest of the Death Eaters.
She resents the others - even the Dark Lord, to a certain degree, whose power is overwhelmingly attractive - for sullying her reputation.
Dark Magic, however, is on her side.
In her opinion, the spell redeems her; she achieves a level of detachment unmatched by the others, who still hold worries and lusts. There is no greater servant to the Dark Lord than Bellatrix Lestrange, she thinks proudly, congratulating herself. No greater servant.
Ruthlessly she tortures Frank and Alice Longbottom. Flashes of blue and red and green light rise up and illuminate the black, starless sky.
“WHERE IS HE? CRUCIO!”
High-pitched wails interrupt her interrogation. The Longbottoms seize, squirming like filthy maggots. Bellatrix screeches in triumph, and the sound pierces the light in their hearts, extinguishing thought forever. Again and again and again she slays them, rips them, shreds every bit of life in them down to the bone, and into ash - the nerves are gone.
Feral ecstasy shines in Bellatrix’s eyes.
Whispers follow her to and from Azkaban, a combination of truths and falsehoods. Mad. Ostentatious. Useless. Uncivilized. She laughs mirthlessly at their words, believing the others to be frightened of her power.
“Jealousy has never suited you,” she smirks, and this time it is at Lucius Malfoy, who scoffs and walks away.
But the Dark Lord is displeased with her for her mistakes as of late, despite her fervor. The Cup, the Cup, the Cup. Bellatrix digs her heels in and grinds her teeth, knowing and despising that she is losing control - and immediately resolves to regain it.
And so the fire becomes a blaze.
Seven days pass before Bellatrix finds a prize that will be useful.
The girl is small but impatient and aggressive, not at all the dainty and demure lady her appearance implies. It takes work to keep her quiet, but Bellatrix does not mind. The rewards she will reap from this stolen good!
“Aw, wittle pwince has lost his perfect wittle jewel,” Bellatrix quietly mocks the girl. “What’s he going to do?”
She flicks her wand, and ropes appear and bind the girl, who struggles defiantly. “He isn’t coming, Ginevra.”
There is a flash of red light that crackles like lightning. Ginevra cries out sharply, her body convulsing uncontrollably - she tries with all her strength to stay quiet but it is no use, it is too painful not to. Screaming against her will, she desperately wriggles her fingers toward her wand, but Bellatrix steps on it and breaks it in two.
The older witch cackles maniacally; the pitch of her laughter rises and rises and rises and soon it is so high that Ginevra’s ears bleed a little. “STOP!” Ginevra yells, clawing futilely at the air, and Bellatrix keeps laughing.
“CRUCIO! CRUCIO! CRUCIO!”
Blood trickles down her face, down her arms as the curse continually throws her against the stone floor. The fight in her is dying, and even though she tries to resist, her arms are too heavy to move, because everything, everything is burning and she cannot… withstand… horrendous…
“Where is the Chosen One? Where is the Savior now, Ginevra? WHERE IS HE?”
Ginevra moans in response. Bellatrix screeches triumphantly. “HE ISN’T COMING!”
And then the girl finally loses all consciousness.
The laughter immediately stops - and a horribly wicked grin forms upon Bellatrix’s face.
Marching over to the limp form, she grabs a handful of hair and drags the poor girl’s body across the floor, up the steps, down another staircase, and into a small dungeon. Bellatrix pulls Ginevra’s head so that it faces a small table upon which a treasure chest lies.
“Look,” the Supreme Death Eater commands, but the girl is still faint. “Enervate,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
Blearily, Ginevra gazes at the chest. “Whusa?” Her voice is hardly above a whisper.
Wand’s wave opens it, and reveals a mushy, grey mass inside. “Whusa?” she repeats.
Bellatrix grins, giving the appearance of a shark baring its teeth. “That is my brain, Ginevra.”
At once the girl snaps to attention, and jumps back in horror.
“No need to be alarmed, my dear,” Bellatrix snarls, almost sweetly, stroking Ginevra’s cheek - the effect is frightful. “Everyone has one - except perhaps your Chosen One.” The dangerous, sinister laughter begins again, causing Ginevra to automatically cover her ears.
“Shut up.”
“Crucio.”
Her body flies back, hits the wall, and settles on the floor with a dull thunk.
“As I was about to say,” Bellatrix continues nonchalantly, “you will join him in that regard.”
Before the girl could understand her meaning, she rolls back the sleeves of her robe - revealing the Dark Mark, blacker than ever - and flicks her wrist as she recites an incantation in perfect, yet grotesque-sounding Latin.
Ginevra slumps further, becoming deadweight. A purplish substance oozes out her ears.
“Ah, thank you, little jewel - your youth and knowledge will be extremely useful alongside my power.” Bellatrix smiles again, gathering the stuff into the chest. “Accio!” she cries, and the grey mass releases itself from below the purple mass, and soars out of the chest, into Bellatrix’s hands. For one glorious moment, she stands victorious.
The next moment, she collapses.
Ginny wakes to the sound of distant footsteps, which at first means nothing in her daze. It takes her a minute to remember where she is. After another thirty seconds, she notices that Bellatrix is sprawled next to her on the floor - presumably dead.
The footsteps grow louder.
Panic kills the sleep in her eyes. She rises with the strange feeling that a weight is tied to her feet, as if her whole body is unbalanced. But still she runs. Until she sees that a purple mass is in the chest, and the grey mass - Bellatrix’s brain - is on the floor. Which means the purple mass could only be…
Frantically, she takes the chest into her arms and closes her eyes, hoping to Merlin that she can Disapparate properly before the other Death Eaters discover what has happened.
She does not consider the fact that she might never truly escape Dark Magic.
Author: chimbomba
Giftee: alchemia
Pairing: Bellatrix/Ginny, with a little Voldemort/Bellatrix
Rating: Hard PG-13
Word Count: 1230
Summary: She has no heart.
Warnings: AUish, violence, character death
Author’s Notes: Inspired by The Warlock’s Hairy Heart, one of Beedle the Bard’s tales, but you don’t really need to be familiar with it. This is a very dark fairytale of sorts. I really hope this is to your liking, alchemia! :)
She has no heart.
Or: she has one, but it is small, black, and shriveled.
Or: she has one, but it wholly belongs to He Who Must Not Be Named.
That is what the Romantics say. Bellatrix Lestrange cackles in their faces.
For her, a heart is not an abstraction. It is a thing, an organ, with only the capacity for physiological functions. Hearts do not beat - they pump blood, which circulates throughout the body and keeps the being alive. There is no beat, for rhythm implies certainty, and certainty does not exist in life.
There is no beat. Only irregular movement.
Nerve impulses, not muscles, give birth to loves and prejudices, and to every sense, every thought, every feeling. Butterflies and palpitations are side effects of such things - as all the body, from the extremities to the very core of a person, follows the mind. Its infinite power makes it the greatest, yet the most vulnerable, of organs.
This Bellatrix knows very well.
Many years is she made to feel weak, despite the fact that she is a witch of extraordinary talent. Her obsession with the Dark Lord and his Cause makes her an easy target for humiliation; the others seem to think her openness a sign of mortality. In reality, she is the coldest and the cruelest of the Death Eaters.
She resents the others - even the Dark Lord, to a certain degree, whose power is overwhelmingly attractive - for sullying her reputation.
Dark Magic, however, is on her side.
In her opinion, the spell redeems her; she achieves a level of detachment unmatched by the others, who still hold worries and lusts. There is no greater servant to the Dark Lord than Bellatrix Lestrange, she thinks proudly, congratulating herself. No greater servant.
Ruthlessly she tortures Frank and Alice Longbottom. Flashes of blue and red and green light rise up and illuminate the black, starless sky.
“WHERE IS HE? CRUCIO!”
High-pitched wails interrupt her interrogation. The Longbottoms seize, squirming like filthy maggots. Bellatrix screeches in triumph, and the sound pierces the light in their hearts, extinguishing thought forever. Again and again and again she slays them, rips them, shreds every bit of life in them down to the bone, and into ash - the nerves are gone.
Feral ecstasy shines in Bellatrix’s eyes.
Whispers follow her to and from Azkaban, a combination of truths and falsehoods. Mad. Ostentatious. Useless. Uncivilized. She laughs mirthlessly at their words, believing the others to be frightened of her power.
“Jealousy has never suited you,” she smirks, and this time it is at Lucius Malfoy, who scoffs and walks away.
But the Dark Lord is displeased with her for her mistakes as of late, despite her fervor. The Cup, the Cup, the Cup. Bellatrix digs her heels in and grinds her teeth, knowing and despising that she is losing control - and immediately resolves to regain it.
And so the fire becomes a blaze.
Seven days pass before Bellatrix finds a prize that will be useful.
The girl is small but impatient and aggressive, not at all the dainty and demure lady her appearance implies. It takes work to keep her quiet, but Bellatrix does not mind. The rewards she will reap from this stolen good!
“Aw, wittle pwince has lost his perfect wittle jewel,” Bellatrix quietly mocks the girl. “What’s he going to do?”
She flicks her wand, and ropes appear and bind the girl, who struggles defiantly. “He isn’t coming, Ginevra.”
There is a flash of red light that crackles like lightning. Ginevra cries out sharply, her body convulsing uncontrollably - she tries with all her strength to stay quiet but it is no use, it is too painful not to. Screaming against her will, she desperately wriggles her fingers toward her wand, but Bellatrix steps on it and breaks it in two.
The older witch cackles maniacally; the pitch of her laughter rises and rises and rises and soon it is so high that Ginevra’s ears bleed a little. “STOP!” Ginevra yells, clawing futilely at the air, and Bellatrix keeps laughing.
“CRUCIO! CRUCIO! CRUCIO!”
Blood trickles down her face, down her arms as the curse continually throws her against the stone floor. The fight in her is dying, and even though she tries to resist, her arms are too heavy to move, because everything, everything is burning and she cannot… withstand… horrendous…
“Where is the Chosen One? Where is the Savior now, Ginevra? WHERE IS HE?”
Ginevra moans in response. Bellatrix screeches triumphantly. “HE ISN’T COMING!”
And then the girl finally loses all consciousness.
The laughter immediately stops - and a horribly wicked grin forms upon Bellatrix’s face.
Marching over to the limp form, she grabs a handful of hair and drags the poor girl’s body across the floor, up the steps, down another staircase, and into a small dungeon. Bellatrix pulls Ginevra’s head so that it faces a small table upon which a treasure chest lies.
“Look,” the Supreme Death Eater commands, but the girl is still faint. “Enervate,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
Blearily, Ginevra gazes at the chest. “Whusa?” Her voice is hardly above a whisper.
Wand’s wave opens it, and reveals a mushy, grey mass inside. “Whusa?” she repeats.
Bellatrix grins, giving the appearance of a shark baring its teeth. “That is my brain, Ginevra.”
At once the girl snaps to attention, and jumps back in horror.
“No need to be alarmed, my dear,” Bellatrix snarls, almost sweetly, stroking Ginevra’s cheek - the effect is frightful. “Everyone has one - except perhaps your Chosen One.” The dangerous, sinister laughter begins again, causing Ginevra to automatically cover her ears.
“Shut up.”
“Crucio.”
Her body flies back, hits the wall, and settles on the floor with a dull thunk.
“As I was about to say,” Bellatrix continues nonchalantly, “you will join him in that regard.”
Before the girl could understand her meaning, she rolls back the sleeves of her robe - revealing the Dark Mark, blacker than ever - and flicks her wrist as she recites an incantation in perfect, yet grotesque-sounding Latin.
Ginevra slumps further, becoming deadweight. A purplish substance oozes out her ears.
“Ah, thank you, little jewel - your youth and knowledge will be extremely useful alongside my power.” Bellatrix smiles again, gathering the stuff into the chest. “Accio!” she cries, and the grey mass releases itself from below the purple mass, and soars out of the chest, into Bellatrix’s hands. For one glorious moment, she stands victorious.
The next moment, she collapses.
Ginny wakes to the sound of distant footsteps, which at first means nothing in her daze. It takes her a minute to remember where she is. After another thirty seconds, she notices that Bellatrix is sprawled next to her on the floor - presumably dead.
The footsteps grow louder.
Panic kills the sleep in her eyes. She rises with the strange feeling that a weight is tied to her feet, as if her whole body is unbalanced. But still she runs. Until she sees that a purple mass is in the chest, and the grey mass - Bellatrix’s brain - is on the floor. Which means the purple mass could only be…
Frantically, she takes the chest into her arms and closes her eyes, hoping to Merlin that she can Disapparate properly before the other Death Eaters discover what has happened.
She does not consider the fact that she might never truly escape Dark Magic.