for the golden snitch "through the universe" and hogwarts's creative collection challenge
creative collection: Voldemort Wins!AU (character) Bellatrix Lestrange
Through the Universe: Magnetic Pole — (ship) VoldemortBellatrix
school, house: hogwarts, slytherin
dee-imposed restriction: no using the words they're/their/there, hear/here, your/you're, then/than, two/to/too
a/n: i didn't actually have that much trouble with this, dee :D and i didn't complain at all, not at you and not at anyone. so take that
for shay, who won february's point project.
. . .
i. how this story goes
. . .
So this is how the story goes:
We find a hero. The hero has a hard life, but this hero is a good person and never wavers in good faith.
We find a villain. The villain has a hard life, and has a life that is almost exactly just like that of the hero's — the similarities are strikingly parallel — but instead this villain has no good faith.
The hero and the villain clash. But the hero is good and as such the hero wins, inevitably. No matter how unrealistic the victory, no matter how cunning the villain — the hero always wins.
That is not how this story goes. The template is an archetype, and this story flips the archetype on its ends.
. . .
The manor is quiet. The silence is not one of self-preservation but rather one of awe — as if everyone in the room is holding breath, saving it.
Bellatrix leans forward in glee, looking at the black-haired boy and the companions at his side. She is quite sure that it is Potter, indeed.
But only Draco can confirm the fact. His face is pale, unreadable, mind shielded with Occlumency — guard up. It is a wise course, she will admit, but it makes him all the more untrustworthy.
Bellatrix watches him train his cold gray eyes on Potter — or at least, the man suspected as Potter.
Well, what does he mean anyway? she thinks amusedly. He can't do a proper Unforgivable. An easy kill.
Draco's eyes are alight with recognition and fear. It is him, now she knows — Potter.
"Draco?" prompts Narcissa — sweet, feeble, meek Narcissa, Narcissa who is nothing because she is no true servant. "Is it him?"
Draco turns his head back, looking at his mother — he turns back toward Potter and his companions. Bellatrix watches him deliberate — watch his classmates die, or betray his Lord?
Bellatrix probes at his mind's barriers, prodding until she finds a crack, and whispers into Draco's mind, It is Potter, is it not? Submit him.
Draco stiffens, straightening. But he gives up. He knows he cannot tell Bellatrix that the man before him is not Potter. It would be a lie. And he cannot lie, not when she can tell.
It is Potter, comes the reply.
"Yes," Draco says, and holds his head up high. Bellatrix sees him stare at Potter with hard eyes. He has reached a decision. "I recognize him. He is Potter."
Bellatrix smiles widely, madly. "Wonderful job, Draco." She flashes her teeth at him, slightly menacing. "Now we kill him."
"Bellatrix," Narcissa says placatingly in ways of calming her. "Don't you feel that we should wait for the Lord? Or at least summon him?"
"What point in waiting?" sneers Bellatrix. "But if that is what you wish, so be it." She presses her finger upon the Dark Mark, feeling the familiar burning sensation throughout her body as she summons the Dark Lord. He will not be at the manor immediately, but he will be eventually.
She smirks, withdrawing her wand. Bellatrix raises an elegant hand, raising the piece of wood which is so much more, and she savors the words falling from her lips.
Potter falls with an unrecognizable face. The shock can't even be seen, and the death was so instantaneous that Potter looks almost at peace.
The girl lets out a little shriek, screeching, "Harry! No, no, no, Harry. He's alive, he must be, Harry, Harry —" Her babbling and hysterics sound like nails scratching a board in Bellatrix's ears, relentless and pointless. She must be the Mudblood girl, Potter's friend. Hermione Granger, her name is?
It does not matter, really. She is a Mudblood and that is why she will be next.
"You are the Mudblood, no?" she asks sweetly. "The darling little bookworm Mudblood," Bellatrix croons, walking closer, approaching the fearful girl, who now cowers away from her with a fierce glare in her eyes. She does not scare Bellatrix. She is meager in the grand scheme of things, of power. "They say you get all the answers, yes? So riddle me this, Mudblood: who — is — next?" She is so close now, practically breathing on the bushy hair falling down the girl's neck. Bellatrix whispers dangerously in her ear, low tones with a hint of murder in them.
The Mudblood is a smart one, though — they don't call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing, and she answers, "I am." She does not sound scared. That is all Bellatrix will hand her.
"Ten points for Gryffindor," praises Bellatrix.
The male companion of Potter sits on the white, tiled floor, motionless and fearful, watching the scene unfold before him. It is only a matter of time before Bellatrix takes him as well, and the blood-traitor is aware of the fact.
"And I shall save you, little blood-traitor, for last, so you will know that the pure blood running through you does mean something, after all, and you will know that you have been a foolish idiot all this time. How does that sound?" she asks amicably. She coils her wand around her fingers, twisting it around her hands like magic. "It is wonderful," she answers for him.
"Go ahead, do it," he says with a fiery voice. "It won't erase Dumbledore's Army —"
"Dumbledore's Army!" Bellatrix laughs. "Dumbledore is dead, blood-traitor. You are a fool, indeed...but as you wish…"
"No, not Hermione —" He backtracks, but he has spoken already and Bellatrix will deliver.
She points the wand she has been twirling between her fingers at the Mudblood girl. She looks back at Bellatrix fearlessly.
Bellatrix does not hesitate. "Avada Kedavra."
She turns toward the ginger male, the last soul. "Goodbye," she says scathingly. "Avada Kedavra!"
Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius watch with stony eyes as the children are murdered. They may perhaps have objections, but they are not voiced and they stay silenced.
The manor is quiet once more. It is not the silence of awe, but the silence of death.
. . .
He wants her in his office. Bellatrix obliges.
"I heard that you killed Potter and his companions," he says without preamble.
Bellatrix bows at the feet of her Lord. "I did, my Lord."
"And did anyone oppose this decision?"
Bellatrix thinks of Draco and of Narcissa. The hesitancy in Draco's eyes and the way Narcissa had almost pleaded with her for time.
He does not think she is lying. Perhaps she does not, either. It is of no consequence.
The Dark Lord gives her an appraising look, eyes roving over her body, and for a moment Bellatrix thinks she might see hunger, a primitive want, deep in his beady eyes. He is satisfied with what he sees, apparently, because he turns his eyes on her face and offers, "I think, for that, you deserve...payment. A reward, if you will take it."
Bellatrix gives him an analytical look. She knows what he wants.
She knows that she wants it as well.
"I believe I will," she agrees.
The beginnings of a smile spread onto his face, and Bellatrix walks forward purposefully, maintaining eye contact with him. The hunger illuminates his red eyes, and suddenly he is upon her, mouth colliding with hers. A jolt of pleasure courses through her, and Bellatrix realizes that she has won.
The villain has won. She has everything.
Bellatrix is everything, and everything is where it should be — with her. She embraces it.