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Perfect. She’s never heard the word applied to her except for the single instance in which her mother employed it as a suitable prefix to ‘heathen’. But Bellatrix does not care for what her mother thinks. Power does not lie in the hands of a pureblood mistress, it lies at the feet of a master who knows how to bend it to his will. Bellatrix knows power. She is intoxicated by it. Some call her insane. She wears her cloak of madness proudly. A witch does what a witch must do.
It had been an ordinary day in the Dark One’s reign. She’d been entertaining herself, throwing crucios at two helpless muggles in a dingy alley. Perfect.
A crack sounds behind her. A female stands, cocking her head to the side. She points a peculiar metal device at Bellatrix, which smokes from its whistle-shaped ends. Bellatrix sneers but realises the meaning of the insolent muggle’s smirk too late. She has suffered a blow to her right shoulder. Her wand hand. The nerve.
She bellows in her deep voice, curls flying wildly by her sides, “Avada Kedavra!”
She cackles.
The muggle evades the spell to her utter surprise, immediately ducking down. A second clap sounds from the gun (is that what they call it?). This time, it is Bellatrix’s hand that was the aim. Her eyes widen, her wand drops. Her left hand reaches for it as she mutters spells to bring death to her opponent under her breath. However, before she can cause crippling damage, her head is clubbed.
She sways. Her vision dims. The muggle woman is still in front of her. She’s beautiful. Red lips. Mole. Perfect. Now, another stands beside her. She’s dressed in such obscenities, that Bellatrix almost thinks she’s dreaming. But the look in the other’s eyes reflects something she has seen in her own far too often; crazed triumph. Perfect. She falls.
.
.
.
Irene looks disdainfully at the being who calls herself Queen, “This is precisely why I detest working with Americans.”
“Because we get the job done?” The woman brazenly smiles back at her.
“Because you have no regard for rules I set. I should kill you for that alone. The witch now may be as good as dead. Of what use will she be to me?”
“She’s a fighter that one. But you know that, don’t ya?” The woman loudly chews on her gum, leaning to the side, her trademark club resting on her shoulder.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Harley”
“Just spouting facts, Adler”
Irene rolls her eyes. “Bind the wretch. Oh, and while you’re at it, dispose of the homeless pigs she’s killed. They’re emitting this filthy stench. I can hardly bear to remain standing here. ” She turns to leave.
Harley stops her with a poke on her shoulder. “The British swot act you’ve got going on? It ain’t doing it for me. I’m not ya bloody servant.”
Irene gives her a saccharine-sweet smile. “We all answer to a master.”
“I have one. And it’s not you.” Harley grins and stomps away.