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The screams of the blood traitors swirled and danced around the shattered living room of the cottage. They painted the walls with a dazzling kaleidoscope of color and motion. She paused her frenetic pacing to admire a particularly beautiful swath of crimson that danced with sparkling trails of white. Like diamonds tumbling through a sunbeam, the streamers bent and fractured the light into a rainbow of glinting facets. Another scream was torn from the throat of the pathetic male Auror and the ragged baritone of his voice shattered into a storm of deep ochres and dark greens. It filled the air around her like autumn leaves caught in the breeze, and she reveled in it, spinning around on the points of her toes. The others weren’t able to see it, of course. Only Bellatrix could truly see the beauty in the suffering of the unworthy. Only she had been granted the vision to know and to understand how their pain was glory to her master. The others would hesitate when the screams became too much. Their resolve would weaken because they could not see as she did. The fire did not burn inside them.
“Tell us what you know!” Bellatrix bounced on the balls of her feet as she shrieked into the screaming woman’s round, ugly face. Pain and terror and desperation radiated from her writhing body and Bellatrix basked in them. The blood traitor’s agony rolled over her in searing waves, burning away the lingering traces of weakness and doubt. It fed her inner fire, stoking the flames to new heights. “Tell us! Tell us! Tell us! Tell us and the pain will end! Tell us and we’ll spare your son!” She could feel the power surging just beneath the skin of her long, bony fingers. It strained against her control, barely contained, screaming out in vengeance against the pathetic insects who would deny her master his rightful place. His absolute authority over a world where only the pure practiced magic.
The mere thought of her master’s triumph, of a world where the inferior and the impure were purged from existence sent Bellatrix to new heights of exhilaration. She spun away from their pathetic captives and strode across the room, once again admiring the ever-shifting collage of colors and textures that gave life and meaning to the room’s drab walls. Screams and ripples and cries and flashes and pleading and bursts of light combined in a euphoric symphony. Her sense of purpose had never been stronger, her mission never more clear. The fire inside of her roared and her magic harnessed the heat of the flames. She would find the Dark Lord. Death was powerless to claim the greatest wizard of all time. She would find him and he would know that her devotion surpassed that of all his other servants. There was no fear, only resolve, no questions, only clarity.
Bellatrix was suppressing a squeal of pure delight when the colors began to fade. The screams had dwindled to pathetic yelps. She desperately tried to cling to the fiery euphoria, but it slipped from her grasp as the walls returned to their lifeless, piss-yellow hue. Anger welled up inside her as Bellatrix turned, descending from the points of her toes to stand flat on her feet. “You weak-minded fool!” she snarled, slashing her wand across across her chest. A loud crack fractured the air and she almost enjoyed the explosion of color as her brother-in-law crumbled to the floor. Almost. Her husband and the Crouch boy stared back at her. Uncertain. Frightened. Weak. Unworthy.
“If you want something done right...” Bellatrix fumed, stomping back across the room to tower over their captives. She sneered at the pathetic blood traitors, soaking up the dread and despair that rose from their sweat-soaked bodies like tendrils of rust-colored smoke. With a quick flick of her wand, their chins were wrenched upward so that she could stare down into their eyes. “Do you think you’re strong, you pathetic scum? That if you hold on just a bit longer, Dumbledore will come dashing to your rescue?” Bellatrix lowered herself into a crouch, her face inches away from theirs. “Nobody is coming to save you. It’s only you-” she jabbed her wand into the woman’s cheek, eliciting a muffled yelp, “and me. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will show you pain like you never imagined possible.”
Bellatrix rose to her full height, never breaking eye contact, never releasing their faces from the viselike spell. “What has happened to the Dark Lord? Where is he?”
The silence in the room was a palpable thing. Bellatrix could see it, a dark, clouded backdrop to the cobalt waves of fear emanating from not only the two Aurors, but her husband and their companion, as well. The fire licked at the inside of her ribs, stalking to and fro like a caged animal, ready to explode forth at her command and consume everything. A single tear gathered in the corner of the female Auror’s eye. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Nobody knows.”
“CRUCIO!” The curse exploded from the tip of Bellatrix’s wand, bathing the entire world in a furious kaleidoscope of spinning, twisting screams. Her inner fire filled her veins with searing pulses of pure rage. The magic poured forth like steel from the crucible, purified and formless. Why couldn’t the others see it? Bellatrix felt something like pity for her fellow Death Eaters. They would never experience the absolute clarity that filled her, the simple beauty of the truth and the unassailable justness of their cause. But pity was for the weak. It diminished all that it touched. She felt the sensation, that thing that might have felt like pity to a lesser servant, twist and morph into its true form: disgust. There was no room in their cause for weakness. Her Lord would not tolerate it and neither would she.
Again and again Bellatrix charged the curse with bursts of raw anger. The otherworldly howls of agony spun faster and faster, tightening and coalescing into an almost tangible form. The colors blended together, darkening like blood. Again and again. The screams were mangled, blended, distorted by vocal chords pressed to their breaking point. Faster and faster. The sounds and colors were solidifying before her. Bellatrix stared in rapturous wonder as the power of her inner fire merged with the rapidly escaping lives of her victims and the terror of her unworthy companions. Everyone was screaming, even Rabastan had been roused from his unconscious state by the spectacle. Bellatrix joined them last of all, a shriek of pure joy tearing forth from the depths of her chest.
The swirling mass began to slow. The blur of motion gradually gave way to gently morphing shapes and colors. With one last surge of magic, Bellatrix reached out to her master. Begged him to return. The torrent of magical energy pulsed and glowed. A familiar form started to emerge. As it slowly took shape, Bellatrix collapsed to her knees.
“My Lord.”
Her master stood before her, whole and perfect. He turned slowly, surveying the dead bodies that littered the room. He spared no more of a glance for her former husband than the two blood traitors. They were all inconsequential.
“Rise, Bellatrix.”
She gathered herself to her feet, smoothing her long skirts as she rose. The exertion of restoring her lord was obvious in the wild curls matted to the sweat on her face and the rapid cadence of her breath. But her inner fire had never been stronger. She drank in the nearness of her master, allowing his power to revitalize her.
“I have always known that you were the most loyal of my servants,” he began, turning his head slightly as if to appraise her from a different angle, “but today you have surpassed even my own expectations. You have shown yourself to be unequaled, in both skill and devotion. You did not deny me, and you sought me out in spite of the obstacles set in your path by the misguided fools who seek to oppose me.”
The Dark Lord’s fiery, red eyes fixed her with a look that sent thrills down her spine. “Step forward, be purified, and receive your reward.”
Bellatrix trembled with sheer anticipation. She found that her mind had gone blank. The entire world had been reduced to her Lord, standing before her. Nothing else mattered now. With a twirl of his wand, her master conjured a storm of enchanted fire. Everything surrounding them was swept aside, the house and its other occupants consumed by the insatiable appetite of the flames. Inside her chest, her inner fire rose in kinship, sending waves of magic dancing across the surface of her skin. The Dark Lord pierced her with an all-knowing gaze, judging her worthy. Inner and outer flames rushed together as his conjured fire surrounded her, burning away her clothing and cleansing the stains of sweat and dirt and unworthy blood from her skin.
In an instant, the flames were gone and she stood before him. In spite of her nudity, Bellatrix felt no shame. She was purified in his sight, clean of body and spirit and purpose. Her Lord took a step closer, admiring what he had crafted. The perfect servant, free of fear and doubt and weakness. A pure instrument of his will, living only to serve.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she whispered, though nobody could have survived the flames to overhear her words. They were only for him.
A thin, approving smile settled on the Dark Lord’s lips. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized that he was pleased. He reached out to her, his long, skeletal fingers unfolding. Her heart skipped a beat as they paused mere inches from her breast.
Bellatrix was so immersed in the moment, so utterly consumed by the joy of her master’s nearness, that she almost didn’t hear the sound. A soft, rasping whisper, like a gentle breeze through dry fall leaves. The Dark Lord didn’t seem to notice it at all, continuing to stare approvingly at his servant. The sound grew louder and more intense, permeating the small space that separated them. Bellatrix knew that something was wrong, that her master was once again in mortal danger. Try as she might, she was unable to move, trapped in the dying moments of her ultimate triumph, transfixed by her Lord’s small token of approval.
“My Lord.” The words were barely a whisper. It was all she could manage. The terrible, grating, rattling sound drowned them out. Her master’s face suddenly twisted, the corners of his mouth turning down in anger. He had realized, too late, what was happening. Stepping away from her, the Dark Lord summoned his magic around him, attempting to drive away the great storm that was rising to consume them. Bellatrix was frozen, unable to move as the roaring chaos swirled and churned around them. The Dark Lord raised his wand, fury etched across his angular face. She knew what the spell would be before he cast it, knew that it was a fatal mistake. With all her heart, she desperately tried to cry out to him, to warn him of what was to come. But the maddening force that held her in place stole her voice as well.
Green light erupted from her master’s wand. For a moment, the swirling air was illuminated like a whirlwind of emerald flames. She dared to hope that she’d been wrong, that her Lord knew best after all. But she was not wrong. In a flash, the spinning green vortex collapsed on her master, striking him from all sides. Bellatrix watched in mute horror as the fire that burned in the Dark Lord’s eyes was extinguished, replaced by an ugly and common brown. Tendrils of oily, acrid smoke rose from the ground, swirling around them, contaminating their perfect world with filth and ash. The face hanging before her stretched and deformed. Prominent cheekbones arose in place of her Lord’s pallid, angular face. Long, greying black hair spoiled the perfect skin of his scalp. Dark, wooden walls emerged from the nothingness, surrounding them. In the flickering light of old oil lamps, Bellatrix saw her father’s cold sneer emerge where the Dark Lord’s appraising stare once graced her with its approval.
“What is the meaning of this, young lady?”
She realized that she was still naked as she stood before him, and she tried to cover herself, but her arms remained frozen by her sides. She felt the terrible powerlessness as he towered over her. The awful feelings of inadequacy and disappointment. The horrible truth of what she could never be.
“Just look at you,” Cygnus Black snarled, his top lip quivering with disdain. “Pitiful and weak. Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why were you not by his side?” Her father began to pace, and she had to stop herself from looking at her feet. “He was our last, best hope, Bellatrix. Only he held the power to keep the mudblood filth from destroying our world. Why did you allow him to die?”
The words struck her like a slap across the face. “Father, I-”
Her explanation died on her lips as her father took a step closer. The disgust written across his face hurt worse than any punishment he’d ever inflicted upon her. “Pathetic. I always knew you would disappoint me when it mattered most.” Bellatrix could feel the words coming before her father said them. Inside, she was pleading with him, but outside she remained quiet, as a pureblood daughter should. “You should have been a son. Then you would have been strong enough. Strong enough to keep your blood traitor sister in line. Strong enough to put Lucius Malfoy and the others in their places.” He paused for a moment, then practically spat out the rest. “Strong enough to keep your master alive.”
Bellatrix stared back at him, begging him to understand. She lived for her master, breathed for him, would have died to keep him alive if only she’d known when and how. The rapid pounding of her heart filled her ears as her father silently glared at her, letting his judgment hang in the still air. Then she heard it again, the sound like a soft breeze. Like an approaching storm, it grew louder and like her Lord before him, her father was completely unaware of it. Cold fear throbbed inside her chest. She had failed her family and she had failed her Lord. What remained now? What was left in this awful, empty world for her?
Her father’s hand seemed to appear from nowhere, seizing her by her thick mane of black curls. Bellatrix yelped involuntarily as her father tightened his grip, pulling her along. “We don’t tolerate failure in this family, Bellatrix. You know what this means, don’t you?”
Cold terror clenched her insides. He didn’t mean... He couldn’t...
“You obviously need some time to think about how you’ll do better in the future.” The old, varnished door loomed in front of her. The door that had haunted her nightmares for as long as Bellatrix could remember. The world was beginning to collapse around her. Every breath felt like a battle against the weight on her chest that threatened to squeeze the life out of her. It was all she could do to keep her feet moving, to keep her legs from folding up underneath her. She knew that it would do no good. Her father would drag her by the hair if he had to. The pain would be a reminder that a proper pureblood lady never showed such weakness. His hand closed around the tarnished brass doorknob. “You will remain in here until you’ve learned your lesson.”
The door swung open and Bellatrix felt herself being shoved unceremoniously inside. All of the familiar scents came rushing back. Moth-eaten old cloaks and worn out leather boots. Molding wood and dust. She turned back toward the door, feeling the desperation well up inside of her. The furious disappointment on his face was the last thing she saw as the remaining sliver of light collapsed into darkness. “FATHER!” Her scream was lost in the heavy thud of the door closing.
“FATHER!” Bellatrix lurched upright, torn from her fitful sleep. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her bony arms around them, rocking slowly back and forth. Outside the door of her cell, she could hear the uneven, rattling breathing of a Dementor. She cursed herself for her lack of control and desperately pulled her focus inward. Biting cold emanated from the foul creature in waves, chilling her to the bone. It hovered nearby, filling her mind with long-forgotten memories of her father’s disappointed glares and stinging rebukes. Icy waves of smothering, aching depression spread throughout her body. She was a disgrace to her family name. Her master was gone forever, lost because she failed him when it mattered most.
“Dreaming of old Cygnus again?” Her cousin’s voice floated through the cell block. “Why don’t you tell the Aurors about his friends? The two of you can share a cell.”
His ragged, mocking laughter assaulted her ears, and Bellatrix dug her torn, jagged nails into the palms of her hands, refusing to allow herself to speak. The hatred helped her fight back against the crushing weight of despair and dread. Someday, she would kill the worthless blood traitor and remove the stain from her family’s honor. Until then, she would not lower herself to conversing with him. She focused on how much she despised Sirius Black, clinging to her rage. Eventually the Dementor drifted away. It apparently decided that her cousin made for a better feeding opportunity.
Bellatrix waited carefully, listening. Eventually his choked sobs reached her ears, sweeter than any music the world had to offer. As he pleaded for his blood traitor friend and the mudblood wife to forgive him, she crawled to the farthest corner of her cell. Huddled in the corner, Bellatrix pulled the filthy, ragged sleeve of her prison outfit up her arm. The pale flesh was covered will ugly scratches and bruises, but she ignored them. The condition of her skin was irrelevant. All that mattered was concealed beneath the surface.
She listened once more for the Dementor’s breathing and felt for the awful cold, but the creature was gone. Drawing in a breath and seizing her lower lip between her stained, dirty teeth, Bellatrix drew a cracked, yellowed fingernail across her skin. The pain erupted in bright yellow flashes of light that streaked across her vision. It temporarily filled the dank cell, and she watched it bounce off of the rough stone walls. When the colors died away, she slowly, reluctantly lowered her gaze back to her arm. She was terrified of what she might find, but she had to know. Because her master would know. The moment he saw her, he would know whether the fire still burned inside of her, whether she had remained true in her heart.
A thin rivulet of scarlet was slowly trickling down her arm. Slowly, fearfully, she touched the tip of her finger to the small pool gathering in the crook of her elbow. Then she touched the blood-stained tip of her finger to her tongue. A hint of salt and copper danced on her dry tongue, but nothing more.
Panic gripped Bellatrix. Her heart pounded and her veins pulsed. Blood oozed forth from the wound on her arm, propelled by her fear. If she had forsaken her master, even for a moment, even in her sleep, he would know. Her weakened condition and the effect of the Dementors wouldn’t matter. He would know if she had been untrue in her heart, if her faith had wavered. And all would be lost.
Bellatrix pounded her fist against the filthy stone floor, squeezing her fingers to the rhythm of the blows. She’d come too far, suffered too much for her life to end this way. If she had truly grown weak, if her fire had gone out, then her life was indeed over. She lived to serve her master. Without that, there was no clarity, no meaning, no purpose. And in this squalid, maddening place, purpose equalled life.
The blood flowed freely down her arm, and Bellatrix abandoned all semblance of propriety. There was no point to maintaining appearances if the substance beneath them was lost. She ran her tongue along her arm, from her elbow to her wrist, desperately searching for a sign that her fire yet burned. That her life had not lost its purpose. That she remained faithful and true.
She closed her lips and pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, seeking, probing the gaps between her rotting teeth. In the darkest, most desperate moment of her life, Bellatrix felt the spark. A tiny burning sensation, it started near the back of her tongue and slowly spread until her mouth was ablaze.
Tears of joy welled in the corners of her eyes and she collapsed onto the floor of her cell, feeling the rough stone and grit scrape at her fragile flesh. The pain didn’t matter. The Dementors could come if they wished. Bellatrix was unbowed, unbroken. The fire still burned inside of her, the precious gift of her unwavering loyalty to her master. He would return and when he did, she would proudly stand before him, tested but true. And he would know, because he knew all. She was the most worthy of all his servants. The rest was merely a matter of time.