Author: Tempestt Londyn PM
In the wake of Andromeda's departure, Bellatrix finds there's only one man capable of making her whole again.Rated: Fiction T - English - Spiritual/Angst - Bellatrix L. & Voldemort - Words: 1,630 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 5 - Published: 10-28-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7502855
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Disclaimer: I am rightfully entitled to absolutely no part of the Harry Potter series.
Author's Note: This story is loosely based upon Sam Cooke and the Soul Stirrers' "Touch The Hem of His Garment", which I do not own. It is, though, a classic, traditional gospel piece and remains of my favorites.
Summary: In the wake of Andromeda's departure, Bellatrix finds there's only one man capable of making her whole again.
Fragility is an attribute of the weak. Fools' folly.
And yet, I allowed myself to crumble, to become vulnerable.
I was no better than a sodding muggle.
Crying was always forbidden, as my parents deemed it unladylike and unacceptable for purebloods.
So why, then, had I shrieked in the bedroom like a pathetic schoolgirl in the wake of a romance gone sour?
When that bitch formerly known as my sister ran off with that…that damned creature, the family legacy seemed to wither away.
Sirius continued to be the insolent little arse he'd always been, but his defiance has increased tenfold as he now entertained unpleasant notions about his heritage and became a victim of liberal politics.
Alphard, always eager to escape from the shadows of his siblings, became a full-fledged alcoholic, taking to the streets, slurring incoherently—embarrassing the rest of us in the process.
Rodolphus, forever wary of the Black temper and wishing no more Lestrange family heirlooms destroyed, initially tried what he considered "reasoning" with me.
But, to his credit, he had enough sense to sod off once I hinted that he might be the next object I chose to incinerate.
I heard the whispers as they fell from the tongues of the mudbloods. I saw the smirks decorated upon the half-bloods' lips.
But, strangely, I found no satisfaction in killing the oppressors.
The Blacks were no longer taken seriously, no longer feared, and I refused to accept this incomprehensible reality.
When Evan Rosier visited Lestrange Manor demanding that I come to my senses and stop moping about, I barely resisted hexing him into oblivion.
But Evan brought joyous news. The Dark Lord wanted to an audience with Rodolphus and me.
The first meeting did not go as well as I'd hoped.
No, that's an understatement.
The first meeting with the Dark Lord was nothing short of diabolical.
I wasn't fully recovered from the trauma of having the family name soiled, and consequently, I wasn't looking my best. To worsen matters, Evan neglected to tell me that the requested audience was not to be one of a private nature.
Resultingly, it took great effort and control not to murder Mulciber, Wilkes, and Avery where they stood.
I did not like being ogled by the lessers, especially when my eyes were bloodshot, my sclera barely distinguishable from that of blood-flavored lollipops.
My cheeks flushed in embarrassment as He recounted, for the entire the room to hear, the betrayal which had transpired. He then questioned my loyalties, "And how can I be sure that you shan't follow in your sister's footsteps, Bellatrix?"
"I harbor no sympathy for the lower class, My Lord."
As the mark was administered, I realized I had wasted countless hours crying and bitching for nothing.
You don't know pain until the Dark Mark is burned into your flesh.
But excruciating as it was, it only made me appreciate Him more. I felt as though he bore the all sins and burdens of pureblood society upon His own thin shoulders.
Wholeheartedly believing this, I withheld the tears. They would only insult Him and His greater purpose.
The useless swine that is my husband, however, was not so understanding, and writhed, crying out as if he were being stoned to death.
It was all so infuriating.
Rodolphus' weakness, his failure to act appropriately was a reflection upon me as I, unfortunately, was tied to him.
I too had to pay for his blunders that night.
"Bellatrix," He spoke softly after dismissing the others from the room, "My Death Eaters will not be flawed. I have made an exception for you tonight because I feel, potentially, you're great. You must remedy your own internal wounds and I, as a gracious Lord, help those who help themselves."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Good. Your wife looks rather flushed tonight, Rodolphus. It'd be lovely if she were expecting. Purebloods with such bloodlines would only be an asset to my cause."
Rodolphus snorted. "Don't bet on it. Bella doesn't even live up to her wifely duties half the time, so what makes you think—"
Unintelligible were the words Rodolphus hoped to speak. They dissolved in his throat as we both hit the oak flooring, the Cruciatus Curse surging through our bodies.
This retribution was a consequence of having no heirs, but more so, a consequence of an arse's sheer audacity.
I tried to rectify my image in the Dark Lord's eyes following this unsavory episode.
Mudbloods claim, "First impressions last a lifetime."
That holds true for filth, I used to think, but Blacks can slide out of any dilemma.
Or so I thought.
And I was wrong.
I came to find that the Dark Lord was not easily flattered. So, it mattered not that I was the first to Apparate by his side when the mark burned, nor did it matter that I, countless times, offered Lestrange Manor as a meeting place.
Yes, I'd definitely left Horace Slughorn behind at Hogwarts.
Far, far behind.
We went on many journeys in the weeks that followed.
My Lord showed us Azkaban, stressing that His Death Eaters must possess the willpower and presence of mind to never enter the establishment—never to be punished like common criminals.
A year later, I attended the induction ceremony of the newest Death Eaters.
Flint, Nott, Selwyn—I recognized them all.
And they disgusted me.
Knees buckling, shivering slightly, hearts beating in their throats.
Such timidity would be their downfall.
We must not be fearful.
"Your sister will join us, Flint?" A high voice questioned, drawing me from my reverie.
"Pardon me, my Lord?" The thin, black haired man whimpered, eyes wide in the dim candlelight.
"Victoria." The Dark Lord icily.
"My sister…" He began awkwardly, shuffling his feet. "I do not believe her to be a candidate for our cause, my Lord." Flint continued, quickly, fearful of punishment. "She is…quite different…"
My Lord studied Flint intently for ages before turning to the fireplace, stroking his wand in deep thought.
But then…here it was again.
I knew not if his sister was yet another blood traitor or was merely, like Narcissa, was faint of heart.
Regardless, the words haunted me.
"She is…quite different…"
She haunted me.
I believed myself to have dispelled all memories of her…eons ago.
And here I was crying in public, unable to restrain myself.
I pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring all murmuring and indignant gasps.
This man was my Savior. He had confidence in me; He had taken me under his wing; He had bestowed me with His mark. It was his ambition to fashion a better world for us and the next generation of purebloods, and yet, he was so misunderstood, thought a danger to humanity.
"What are you doing, Bella?" My husband demanded, clearly embarrassed at the uproar.
"The hem of His garment," I whispered, voice broken.
"No, Bella!" He protested, almost seizing my arm but grasping air as a substitute.
My Lord was finally within reach. Mascara streaming down my cheeks, staining my face, I collapsed at his feet and sobbed loudly, my fist clutching the hem of his precious black robes.
"Someone touched me." He noted, turning slightly, as though I had not made a spectacle of myself. I was momentarily paralyzed with fear that I had been too bold.
I lifted my head to meet his eyes.
"Ah, Bellatrix." A smirk tugged at his thin lips.
"M-my Lord, I…"
"Stand, Bellatrix." The Dark Lord commanded, his eyes instructing me to cease all conversation.
I instantly obeyed.
And then…He touched me.
My eyes welled with tears as His hands cupped the sides of my face, for I was not worthy of his touch. I only sought to touch His hem, for surely the robes clothing such a saint held infinite anointing.
Yes…a gift which so-called Healers can only dream of…
"It was I who just wanted to touch the hem of your garment…I know I'll be made whole-"
"Silence. Rodolphus, what kind of husband are you?"
Out of the corner of my eye, my husband stood petrified.
"My-my Lord?" He spluttered in shame.
"Your wife is ill, Rodolphus. She has been for quite a while, as you are well aware. And I, who do not live with her, must fix her." The statement was a reprimand and a declaration of his intentions.
"B-but, my L-Lord…Bellatrix is…"
"That was a rhetorical question, Rodolphus." He said simply, repulsed at the lack of intelligence.
An uncomfortable silence engulfed the room.
No one dared speak; no one risked stirring.
"Such potential, Bella." He told me softly, looking me squarely in the eyes. He repeated with more conviction than I ever thought possible, thumbs wiping mascara away. "So much potential."
I nodded, crying silently as I sank to the floor, the experience overwhelming me with delight.
I was able to breathe again, to see again, to live again.
My Lord had cast the sickness—my disease—the memory of her from my body.
He had tended to me so dutifully, was the only Healer truly deserving of the name.
I was finally whole.