Work Text:
Could you hold out your arm, Ms. Lestrange?
The little Mudblood is crying. Sobbing. She says she didn't take anything.
Liar.
Lucius gave her a dagger for Christmas. She can feel the ebony handle smooth and calm against her skin, thrumming, begging her to do her very worst.
Prisoner number ninety-three, writes the short, squat witch. Pretty little runes with her wand, Bellatrix can smell her own skin as it sizzles and burns. She screams and her vision blurs, shakes, and then refocuses on the pink figure in front of her.
Mudblood.
She should be marked. It matters not if her filthy blood is spilled.
Besides, she is feeling inspired.
The witch keeps that simpering smile on her face. Bellatrix snarls, twists violently in the enchanted manacles as her own pure blood drips sickeningly down her arm, the newly cauterized skin stinging horrifically. Why would the Ministry want to spill such purity? Have they gone mad? It doesn't matter, it doesn't, He will return for her -
The Mudblood screams as her true name is etched in red on her arm.
She wishes the girl would stop squirming. It's hard to write straight when her paper is squealing and kicking and begging.
And crying, too. Crying solves nothing, and it certainly will not help her now. She congratulates herself for a moment on something so unique - He will be pleased with her, He always appreciates her artistry, tells her that she, of His followers, amuses Him with her methods.
Prisoner number ninety-three, spelled out in neat runes her arm. It burns like acid. Her single, reflexive tear does not mend it. The witch in pink smiles and exits the room, and the suffocating chill of the dementors returns all too quickly…but it doesn't matter, when the Dark Lord comes back to power she alone will be raised above the others, she will suffer in Azkaban for Him until He comes for her - He will send for her, certainly, she has done Him great services - it is ever so cold, here, where is she?
It is very, very cold, wherever she has ended up.
Mudblood, says the writing on the Granger girl's arm. Bellatrix leans back, satisfied with her handiwork. Lucius' dagger is sullied with that nasty blood, but no matter - lost to a worthy cause.
She can hear the Weasley scum yelling from the cellar. She feels a twinge of annoyance at the sound.
After all, they are only getting what they deserve.