(no subject)
Um. Disturbing little ficlet. It would have been a lot worse, but the rating for the contest was PG-13. S'what I get for attempting to write in-Azkaban Bellatrix Black-Lestrange in 1st person POV. Shoot me now.
Not one of my better fics.
Dawn. Dusk. Light and dark no longer hold meaning. There is no sound, save for the screams echoing off the dank stone. I listen as they cry and whinge and wail… They beg for deliverance, for mercy, for clemency that will never come. They have not yet accepted the arbitrary nature of the populace, of the world, of the Master, that has forsaken them. I hear them cry, I listen to the caterwauling, the weeping, and the begging, and I laugh. They will understand soon enough, and once they do, the dementors will make their rounds once more and their tears and cries will begin anew.
Some will go mad, of course. They will not be able to take the strain of the endless, heartless cycle of hope and despair and will trap themselves in the bars of their minds. I have not, not yet. Undoubtedly, I might, should my Master never return. But my Lord will return. I have nothing to fear. Ridiculous to think that a mere boy---not even, but a babe still suckling from his Mudblood mother’s vermin tit beat him. Well…he did, but then she died. Nevertheless, the notion is utterly preposterous. My Master, beaten? Perhaps for now, but he shall never die: not Lord Voldemort, who has mastered the secrets of immortality! No, my Lord and Master shall come for me, his faithful, his ever so faithful…
Unbidden, I giggle, lifting a grimy hand to my lips to stifle the sound for reasons I cannot define. I cannot help but enjoy the sound as it breaks up the effortless monotony that has drugged my days and my nights until they flow together in an endless stream. My nails, I see, staring down at my once-soft hands, are dirty and uneven, the skin rough and chafed and the cuticles stained with dried blood. The acrid scent rushes through my senses, offering sensation in this otherwise dismal plane. My dark hair, once so beautiful, and so very, very fine, is stringy and matted and caked with grime as it lies heavily in a dense, thick mass against my dirty throat. The oversized neckline of the nondescript prison garb slides down my shoulder, offering pale, too pale, skin for viewing. That, too, is dirty and worn. There is no hygiene for the prisoners of Azkaban! Oh, no.
I giggle again. It is absurd, all of this! I, pureblooded and of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, scrabbling along the dingy floor of a dirty cell. The stench of human excrement clouds the air; the sunlight is filtered in far too many shades of gray, if there is light to be had at all. But after while, one gets used to it. One starts to welcome the smell, even, because it is tangible, real, and binding. The odor is proof that while you can still yet suffer, you are yet alive. The barmy old codger and his band of daft Gryffindors with their blind phoenix worship cannot take that away from me. Oh, no. I’m still alive. I’m not mad. My Master will rise again. I will never renounce my Lord---he who took me, bound me, designated me as his above all others. No, I am not mad. I am still alive. And I am waiting.
We still won, you see. Perhaps we have not won the war, but it is only a matter of time, and the war is not over yet. Master will come back, and they will once more fear to speak so much as his name! But we tore them apart, yes, we did, them and their stupid little Order, with their stupid little ideals of love and trust. Trust! What wonderful good trust did the maudlin fools. They never gave a thought to a rat (a rat! A rat! I cannot help but giggle with ironic mirth. Oh, if only they knew) in their midst. No, they had no idea that Potter and his Mudblood had been sold out by a mole until it was too late! And they thought it my cousin who was responsible!
Oh, oh yes, I was here when they brought him in, that dear cousin of mine. Oh, how he fought. He gave a delicious, grand struggle, that Sirius Black, howling like the mangy mongrel he’d always been. Oh, yes, dear cousin. Suffer! Suffer your fate for turning your back on blood and tradition and kin and choosing the filthy Mudbloods and Muggles over the House of Black! It will please me to no end to hear your continued screams!
He’s still screaming, the mutt. The sound is exquisite; listening to it is the only joy I have left within this prison. He has always had the most beautiful screams, my baby cousin. I still remember the first time I locked him in a wardrobe with a boggart, long before he could possibly know the charm to free himself of a Hell of his own devising. His screams were unique artistry then, too.
The female Longbottom… she, too, had superb screams. I don’t think I will ever be able to completely forget the tender sounds of her agony, the way she writhed under my wand as I caressed her flesh with the Cruciatus. She was a fine toy, so very, very lovely… her back arching, limbs as taut and tense as a victim in the late stages of tetanus. Her screams rose from her soul---I fancy myself an authority on screams, you know. I can always tell a truly heartfelt cry of anguish. Aurors were always the most beautiful when they broke…
Her husband, blood traitor though he might have been, did not have a bad scream. However, his suffering did not compare to his wife’s. The memory of her suffering alone is enough to send me writhing against the harsh floor in pleasure… I have never tortured an equal to Alice Longbottom. Her screams have no match in my satisfaction… when it was over, she had excited me so much that I took Rodolphus almost immediately upon returning home. He is weak, that husband of mine. I tied him up, made him bleed and writhe and scream my name until he was begging for release as the sniveling wrecks down the corridor are doing now. And, as they could not escape, neither could he. And as I loved it, he liked it. He likes to not have control, to be brought to heel. Narcissa, dear sister, married for wealth and the borrowed power of an elegant, pureblood wife. Rodolphus, my beautiful fuck toy, married me for nearly the same, and I took it for the name he had to offer. He was always in awe of my power, my darling little toy, both in and out of bed.
It was my power that drew my Lord to me, and me to him. He held power that no other could conceive of, much less wield. And he made me his. I will never renounce my Lord. He will return to me, his faithful. And when he returns, I will hear their screams again, the exquisite agony of the Muggle lovers and blood traitors and vermin. They will cry and writhe for me, and I will smile, and I will laugh, and I will take back all that is mine.
The low, creaking whine of my bars opening catches my ears, and I leap back, my dirty, blistered feet scrabbling against the dirty stone for purchase. I have no shoes. At once I am overwhelmed with the smell of the clean, the scent of rich cologne and the stare of pale blond hair and icy gray eyes. I know this man, I hate this man for his wiles and his escape. He has done what we, above all, as Master’s Inner Circle, should not. He has renounced our Lord.
“Truly disgusting, Bella,” he sneers, and I hate him more. I glare at him through the tangled mass of my dark hair, my pale skin and emaciated body no more intimidating than a scrawny alley cat. He stands there in his well-bred perfection, not a crinkle in his robes or a hair out of place, his skin almost glowing in the dark, dingy light.
“Traitor!” I shriek, jumping to my feet to claw at him as he kicks my dirty lunch tray at me. “Filthy backstabber! Our Lord will return! He will not suffer your ill faith, Lucius Malfoy!” I want to hurt him, to make him bleed, and instead allI do is thrust the brand on my arm in his face. It is still there, even with my Lord’s disappearance. The black mark on my charred flesh will linger forever as a mark of my willing subservience. His mocking gaze glances disdainfully at my arm, even as he steps back from my dementor-guarded cage.
“I was his servant under Imperious,” he drawled, the words never quite reaching the cold mirth in his gray gaze. He knows I know this is a lie, and I shriek once more, unable to stop from flinging myself at the bars. Why should he go free! Free, for denying our Master!
“I am not one of you, Bellatrix, and never was I.” Those thin, cruel lips curved into a smirk, and I hated him all the more for his treachery.
“I did want to tell you, as I’m sure you’ll be pleased, that all of the gold and assets of the Lestrange family have been graciously donated to charities for dear Muggleborns and St.Mungos. As my wife is legally your next of kin with your husband’s similar incarceration…it was a pleasure to finish these matters for you. You should be happy, Bella,” he added, “Your gold has bought my freedom.”
With the growl of a wounded animal, I lunged at him, my dirty nails scraping the air where his throat had been moments prior. How dare he give my gold to Mudbloods!
Unable to think coherently, I yowled, cursing him as he walked away, laughing at my misfortune. Oh, but I loathe my sister’s husband! But my Master will punish him, I know. My Lord is coming back. And he will take me in his arms as he did when none were around, and he will pet my face, and smooth my hair, and take the breath from my lips with hunger and ferocity and power. I am his, I whimper, cowering away from the dementors as they return, their darkness and their ice sucking away life and light and hope.
I slide to the floor in the far wall of my cell, cringing and curling into a ball, willing them to go away and let me be. But then the screams return, and I realize: they were mine all along. Their screams were my demons.
And I giggle, and I sob, and I choke. I will be free. My Master will return to me. I will not renounce him. I will always be his. I am his. He will free the faithful, and I will make Cissy’s husband hurt. I will make him bleed. Oh, yes. He will bleed, and I will be Master’s favorite again, his above all others.
Yes, Lord Voldemort will rise again.
Not one of my better fics.
Dawn. Dusk. Light and dark no longer hold meaning. There is no sound, save for the screams echoing off the dank stone. I listen as they cry and whinge and wail… They beg for deliverance, for mercy, for clemency that will never come. They have not yet accepted the arbitrary nature of the populace, of the world, of the Master, that has forsaken them. I hear them cry, I listen to the caterwauling, the weeping, and the begging, and I laugh. They will understand soon enough, and once they do, the dementors will make their rounds once more and their tears and cries will begin anew.
Some will go mad, of course. They will not be able to take the strain of the endless, heartless cycle of hope and despair and will trap themselves in the bars of their minds. I have not, not yet. Undoubtedly, I might, should my Master never return. But my Lord will return. I have nothing to fear. Ridiculous to think that a mere boy---not even, but a babe still suckling from his Mudblood mother’s vermin tit beat him. Well…he did, but then she died. Nevertheless, the notion is utterly preposterous. My Master, beaten? Perhaps for now, but he shall never die: not Lord Voldemort, who has mastered the secrets of immortality! No, my Lord and Master shall come for me, his faithful, his ever so faithful…
Unbidden, I giggle, lifting a grimy hand to my lips to stifle the sound for reasons I cannot define. I cannot help but enjoy the sound as it breaks up the effortless monotony that has drugged my days and my nights until they flow together in an endless stream. My nails, I see, staring down at my once-soft hands, are dirty and uneven, the skin rough and chafed and the cuticles stained with dried blood. The acrid scent rushes through my senses, offering sensation in this otherwise dismal plane. My dark hair, once so beautiful, and so very, very fine, is stringy and matted and caked with grime as it lies heavily in a dense, thick mass against my dirty throat. The oversized neckline of the nondescript prison garb slides down my shoulder, offering pale, too pale, skin for viewing. That, too, is dirty and worn. There is no hygiene for the prisoners of Azkaban! Oh, no.
I giggle again. It is absurd, all of this! I, pureblooded and of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, scrabbling along the dingy floor of a dirty cell. The stench of human excrement clouds the air; the sunlight is filtered in far too many shades of gray, if there is light to be had at all. But after while, one gets used to it. One starts to welcome the smell, even, because it is tangible, real, and binding. The odor is proof that while you can still yet suffer, you are yet alive. The barmy old codger and his band of daft Gryffindors with their blind phoenix worship cannot take that away from me. Oh, no. I’m still alive. I’m not mad. My Master will rise again. I will never renounce my Lord---he who took me, bound me, designated me as his above all others. No, I am not mad. I am still alive. And I am waiting.
We still won, you see. Perhaps we have not won the war, but it is only a matter of time, and the war is not over yet. Master will come back, and they will once more fear to speak so much as his name! But we tore them apart, yes, we did, them and their stupid little Order, with their stupid little ideals of love and trust. Trust! What wonderful good trust did the maudlin fools. They never gave a thought to a rat (a rat! A rat! I cannot help but giggle with ironic mirth. Oh, if only they knew) in their midst. No, they had no idea that Potter and his Mudblood had been sold out by a mole until it was too late! And they thought it my cousin who was responsible!
Oh, oh yes, I was here when they brought him in, that dear cousin of mine. Oh, how he fought. He gave a delicious, grand struggle, that Sirius Black, howling like the mangy mongrel he’d always been. Oh, yes, dear cousin. Suffer! Suffer your fate for turning your back on blood and tradition and kin and choosing the filthy Mudbloods and Muggles over the House of Black! It will please me to no end to hear your continued screams!
He’s still screaming, the mutt. The sound is exquisite; listening to it is the only joy I have left within this prison. He has always had the most beautiful screams, my baby cousin. I still remember the first time I locked him in a wardrobe with a boggart, long before he could possibly know the charm to free himself of a Hell of his own devising. His screams were unique artistry then, too.
The female Longbottom… she, too, had superb screams. I don’t think I will ever be able to completely forget the tender sounds of her agony, the way she writhed under my wand as I caressed her flesh with the Cruciatus. She was a fine toy, so very, very lovely… her back arching, limbs as taut and tense as a victim in the late stages of tetanus. Her screams rose from her soul---I fancy myself an authority on screams, you know. I can always tell a truly heartfelt cry of anguish. Aurors were always the most beautiful when they broke…
Her husband, blood traitor though he might have been, did not have a bad scream. However, his suffering did not compare to his wife’s. The memory of her suffering alone is enough to send me writhing against the harsh floor in pleasure… I have never tortured an equal to Alice Longbottom. Her screams have no match in my satisfaction… when it was over, she had excited me so much that I took Rodolphus almost immediately upon returning home. He is weak, that husband of mine. I tied him up, made him bleed and writhe and scream my name until he was begging for release as the sniveling wrecks down the corridor are doing now. And, as they could not escape, neither could he. And as I loved it, he liked it. He likes to not have control, to be brought to heel. Narcissa, dear sister, married for wealth and the borrowed power of an elegant, pureblood wife. Rodolphus, my beautiful fuck toy, married me for nearly the same, and I took it for the name he had to offer. He was always in awe of my power, my darling little toy, both in and out of bed.
It was my power that drew my Lord to me, and me to him. He held power that no other could conceive of, much less wield. And he made me his. I will never renounce my Lord. He will return to me, his faithful. And when he returns, I will hear their screams again, the exquisite agony of the Muggle lovers and blood traitors and vermin. They will cry and writhe for me, and I will smile, and I will laugh, and I will take back all that is mine.
The low, creaking whine of my bars opening catches my ears, and I leap back, my dirty, blistered feet scrabbling against the dirty stone for purchase. I have no shoes. At once I am overwhelmed with the smell of the clean, the scent of rich cologne and the stare of pale blond hair and icy gray eyes. I know this man, I hate this man for his wiles and his escape. He has done what we, above all, as Master’s Inner Circle, should not. He has renounced our Lord.
“Truly disgusting, Bella,” he sneers, and I hate him more. I glare at him through the tangled mass of my dark hair, my pale skin and emaciated body no more intimidating than a scrawny alley cat. He stands there in his well-bred perfection, not a crinkle in his robes or a hair out of place, his skin almost glowing in the dark, dingy light.
“Traitor!” I shriek, jumping to my feet to claw at him as he kicks my dirty lunch tray at me. “Filthy backstabber! Our Lord will return! He will not suffer your ill faith, Lucius Malfoy!” I want to hurt him, to make him bleed, and instead allI do is thrust the brand on my arm in his face. It is still there, even with my Lord’s disappearance. The black mark on my charred flesh will linger forever as a mark of my willing subservience. His mocking gaze glances disdainfully at my arm, even as he steps back from my dementor-guarded cage.
“I was his servant under Imperious,” he drawled, the words never quite reaching the cold mirth in his gray gaze. He knows I know this is a lie, and I shriek once more, unable to stop from flinging myself at the bars. Why should he go free! Free, for denying our Master!
“I am not one of you, Bellatrix, and never was I.” Those thin, cruel lips curved into a smirk, and I hated him all the more for his treachery.
“I did want to tell you, as I’m sure you’ll be pleased, that all of the gold and assets of the Lestrange family have been graciously donated to charities for dear Muggleborns and St.Mungos. As my wife is legally your next of kin with your husband’s similar incarceration…it was a pleasure to finish these matters for you. You should be happy, Bella,” he added, “Your gold has bought my freedom.”
With the growl of a wounded animal, I lunged at him, my dirty nails scraping the air where his throat had been moments prior. How dare he give my gold to Mudbloods!
Unable to think coherently, I yowled, cursing him as he walked away, laughing at my misfortune. Oh, but I loathe my sister’s husband! But my Master will punish him, I know. My Lord is coming back. And he will take me in his arms as he did when none were around, and he will pet my face, and smooth my hair, and take the breath from my lips with hunger and ferocity and power. I am his, I whimper, cowering away from the dementors as they return, their darkness and their ice sucking away life and light and hope.
I slide to the floor in the far wall of my cell, cringing and curling into a ball, willing them to go away and let me be. But then the screams return, and I realize: they were mine all along. Their screams were my demons.
And I giggle, and I sob, and I choke. I will be free. My Master will return to me. I will not renounce him. I will always be his. I am his. He will free the faithful, and I will make Cissy’s husband hurt. I will make him bleed. Oh, yes. He will bleed, and I will be Master’s favorite again, his above all others.
Yes, Lord Voldemort will rise again.