A/N: This is a MONDO HUGE WARNING OF DOOM. If you are sensitive, if you feel you cannot handle strong content, do NOT read this. There will be rape. There will be psycological torture. It will be quite graphic. If you decide to still read this, don't say I didn't warn you.

Chapter one

Power

“It was deep into his fiery heart

he took the dust of Joan of Arc

and then she clearly understood

if he was fire, then she must be wood.”

- Leonard Cohen, Joan of Arc

It was just another part of the Dark Lord’s cruel pastime; humiliating Bellatrix. It had to be, Narcissa decided. He had never before shown any interest in sexual pleasures, deeming them no more than one of the many weaknesses of mortality. But now, he suddenly was taking lovers. Many of them. Male, female, it didn’t seem to matter. The only thing they had in common was this: They weren’t Bellatrix. Often, it was done in the open, so she couldn’t help but witness it. And Narcissa saw her sister losing more and more of what little grip she had on sanity each time it happened.

Finally, it was inevitable that He was left with the final, perfect humiliation, having run out of other toys. The last blow of the hammer, Narcissa thought

The final humiliation consisted of two parts, two lovers, and this time, Bellatrix was ordered to watch. They all were. So that not only was she forced to witness her mortification, but it was also to be witnessed by others; she was to be witnessed by her comrades in arms, deepening her degradation even more.

The first lover was Rodolphus, her husband, and as they watched she sagged against the wall, and a face that was already waxen and white was drained of whatever blood it had, leaving a mask of death.

Narcissa cried, but not only for her sister. She pitied the wretched creature, it was true, and she mourned whatever shreds of big sister Bella that was still alive in her. But at this moment, her heart ached all the harder for Rodolphus. Not once did his gaze leave Bellatrix during the ceremony. The act; the testament; the freak show. Not once. Even as his body was taken from him, his gaze was fixed on his wife. And Narcissa knew that he had never stopped caring for her her, never wavered in his faith and love in her. Even though Bellatrix had clearly shown him how little she belonged to him; by her side, he had stayed.

And in this moment, his humiliation was even greater than hers. That his body was used as a toy, a tool, was just a small part of it; it was possible to endure that, if one closed one’s mind hard enough. And they were all good at that. But there he was, on the floor, broken and used, watching his wife’s unbearable pain, knowing this:

It was not for him she was hurting. Her grand collapse was not about what was taken from him, but what wasn’t given to her. Bellatrix did not, in this moment, spare a thought for her husband; her whole being was fixed on her agony, her despair.

Narcissa’s gaze wandered along the faces of Death Eaters watching. Was there anyone else among them that thought of this? Anyone at all? Was there anyone that cared?

She watched Severus; stone-faced and passive as always, looking right through the tasteless display as though it lacked meaning. She watched Amycus and Alecto, standing as close as they dared, their faces hungry and their eyes alight. She watched Pettigrew, who had his face turned away, breathing shallowly and looking on the verge of either fainting or retching. There would be punishment for him later, she knew. You weren’t allowed to look away; not if the object was to avoid watching. And the Dark Lord could always tell. As a response to that thought, she felt in her heart a mechanical pleasure, a studied release; they were all trained in the art of rejoicing whenever someone was punished that wasn’t you.

She turned her gaze to her husband, and he was as pale and drawn as he always was nowadays, and his eyes were tired and resigned as he watched. Rodolphus was his friend, but his heart was too spent for him to feel any sorrow.

Draco stood by her side, his hand clasping hers with deadly strength; it was like iron, that grip, and just as cold. He was so pale, and sweating so hard, that his face shone in the gloom like ice. Ice melting. His eyes were fixed, his stare so hard, so controlled, because he knew that if he wavered for just a moment, he would turn his gaze away, or run away, or just collapse. And there would be punishment. So far Draco had been spared of the atrocities committed before them; not out of mercy, not because of his young age, but simply because it was just too clear that it would break him beyond repair, and what use did the Lord have of such a servant? But if Draco broke on his own accord… She shuddered, wanting to clutch her son to her, but not daring to, even for an instant, break his concentration.

Instead she turned her gaze back to the display. She had kept her gaze away for long enough; she dared not risk punishment. And as she watched Rodolphus’ face, now fraught with tears, and once more wondered if there was anyone but her that felt his pain, her gaze strayed to the Lord, and felt cold realisation sinking its blade into her heart.

He felt it. Oh, yes. He felt that pain, that deep and irreparable loss, and his pleasure was all the greater for it. This was his true reward. Bellatrix’ humiliation was nothing more than a joke to him; the sexual release next to meaningless. But the pain and struggle of the victim; the terror of the spectators…

Such power…! Such power he gained from this twisted ritual! Power over their minds, power over their waning hearts. Had he ever owned anyone as perfectly as he now owned Rodolphus? How he must glory in the power…

And she closed her mind and closed it again, because she knew that the next time… the next time…

The next time it was her turn.

The final and ultimate humiliation.

She was kneeling on the floor, her splayed fingers white against the black marble as she pushed with all her force on her hands to avoid being slammed face-first into the smooth stone. Her arms shook with the exertion, her back and torso ached as muscles were pushed to their limit. Sweat ran down her face, her neck, the nakedness of her breasts. Everything about her was alive and franticly fighting to stay that way, yet inside she felt oddly dead.

Him inside her was a horribly invasive presence; it was undoubtedly a physical pain, but it ached further in than what ought to be possible. Where did her body end and her soul begin? She couldn’t tell; it didn’t matter. He owned them both.

And then she could feel His mind inside hers. She knew he could slide from mind to mind with ease, and without anyone even noticing him there. But now he made himself know, forced her to feel him there, as she felt him inside her body.

You are not looking.

And then, slamming into her mind with the forge of a sledgehammer, was an image. Rows of Death Eaters, staring at her. First, the scene lacked focus, but then it suddenly stood out in terrible clarity. There was Lucius, and if he had been dead his eyes could not have lacked life more than they did now. Even from here she could see him shaking, as he held his arms around the frail figure of their son, forcing Draco not to watch. He’d take the punishment for it; for him it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did, except for one thing; protecting Draco. They had to protect him.

She stared at the floor, trying to bring it into focus, trying to push the image away, but it was as useless as trying to move a mountain with her bare hands.

See this.

It was Bellatrix, her back against the wall, fingers clawing themselves bloody against the stone behind her. Her chest was rising and falling so rapidly that Narcissa wondered if any oxygen at all managed to reach her lungs, before it was being forcefully expelled into the hot, moist air, reeking of sex and sweat and fear. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes seemed almost completely black. For a moment…

…a girl stood where the woman had been.

And this was the final blow. This was when Narcissa understood the last part of the purpose of this dark and seemingly mindless act. She saw Bellatrix’ lips form one word, and even though she couldn’t hear it, she felt it in her mind, screaming at her in pain and loss and the final betrayal.

“Cissy.”

She looked into the blackness of her eyes, and saw there the last, the very last, part of her sister staring back at her, and then, slowly, beginning to drain away.

“No…” she whispered, horrified. “No, you can’t take that. It isn’t yours. You can’t.”

And the voice in her head replied: No. But you can.

Narcissa was looking now, looking with her own eyes, and though the haze of tears saw the dark-haired woman collapse like a rag doll. And when she looked up, Bella –

– the four year old girl with the blue ribbon in her hair, crying because she had spilled ice-cream on her pretty white shoes –

– her big sister, ten years old, raiding their mother’s wardrobe and cabinet so that they could dress up in her clothes, wear her jewellery, paint themselves with her make-up –

– the teenage girl with the stylish bob-cut hair and designer robes, swanning about Diagon Alley like she owned the place, watching the boys’ heads turn with a self-satisfied smirk –

– the young woman in a wedding-dress, kissing her husband on the cheek as they danced, unaware of anything and anyone except each other –

– was gone.

It was so simple, yet it was only in this moment that Narcissa could finally see. He had taken everything away from her sister now, every little shred of Bellatrix that didn’t belong to him. By each humiliating loss, by each blow of the hammer, he had hardened her and sharpened her until she was the ultimate warrior, the perfect weapon.

So simple; it was the best possible way, the surest way, of making sure that she would never, ever turn on him. Because the moment she did, she would have to remember this: Her husband, her sister on the floor; taken, broken, His. And she would have to know it was her fault. Who was strong enough to do that? No one. And so he had boiled her hard and clean of all humanity; created her in his own image; made her so that the only thing inside her was him, in a far more definite way than he was inside any of his helpless lovers.

And in the same moment, Narcissa reached the inevitable peak of pain and hatred and love undone, and he took it into himself and turned it into power.

Narcissa felt her arms failing, and wrapped them around her own face to protect it against the blow. She hit the floor, her left arm shattering along with her every last defence, and a cry of agony escaped her before she could bite it back. She felt a sudden warmth and moisture between her legs, and even though He made no sound, she felt his thoughts in her mind, claiming everything that was her in what seemed like a cry of sadistic joy, echoing through her thoughts so loudly that her mind was numbed by the sheer force of it. She retched, her body seizing up in a spasm as he pulled out of her and leaved her emptier than she had ever been before. Between her legs, his seed trickled slowly, a stain of his being inside her which she could never take away.

Then silence. Retreating footsteps. Draco was crying; huge, horrible sobs that tore through the silence like thunderclaps. Narcissa looked up, and saw Bellatrix picking herself up off the floor. She was smiling, her eyes burning with zeal; burning hotter and brighter than they had ever done before.

Her lips moved: “My Lord…”

Narcissa’s hands slipped on her own vomit, and she collapsed again. Bellatrix paid her no heed; she was humming softly to herself as she left the room. Behind her was emptiness; behind her was silence; behind her was only the horrible purpose left in all of them, the only thing that could survive in this void.

Narcissa was spent; her strength ebbing. As she looked up again, she saw Lucius rushing towards her, holding someone’s wand in his trembling hand. Severus was taking Draco out of there, guiding him. All the time, he was talking; gently, as if to an infant. Never once did he fall silent; never once did he allow Draco to remember, to turn around.

And as her arm was healed and she was helped to her feet, Narcissa knew this: Just like her sister, she had been through the flames now. She had burned, until everything, every last shred but the very core of her, had been consumed. And at her very core was one thought, one single purpose:

Out. We shall get out.

A/N: The next chapter will be a lot milder. I will warn again if another chapter has this kind, or any other kind, of strong content. Just so you know. If anyone actually dared to read it after my ranting, I hope you liked it ;D