A/N: Totally came to me after having a lengthy conversation with a friend over how weird the DH-movie torture scene was. Then I read a little BellaMione and this was the bastard child of both. Let's leave it at that. The following is totally nuts, probably makes zero sense and I wrote it on a whim. A little disturbing probably too. Might I recommend a drink or three before reading? (JK!)

Basically this was born from the fact that in the film Hermione just looks oddly calm with the knife pressed against her throat. Sometimes I think people who can remain so calm and collected under pressure must have some seriously crazy visualizations going on in their skulls. And geniuses, well sometimes they can be the most twisted of all. So I thought why not? :P Maybe it's just a self reflection on how twisted yours truly really is.

If my inner voice ever made itself heard, people would cringe. My mother would most definitely test the limits of human esophageal elasticity and shove a bar of soap down my throat.

I only hear the three syllables as they froth up from Bellatrix Lestrange's throat before everything goes white.




My insides are turning inside out. My intestines are put through a sausage grinder. My liver is smoked and quartered. My heart is filleted. She's gutting me like a fish. My stomach decides to growl. The feeling stops. I could go for a nice meal right about now. Shepard's pie with a big mug of cider. Yes.

"The sword was in my vault at Gringott's. How did you get it?" Breath like vinegar and piss is invading my nose.

I don't know I say. We never broke into a vault I say.

Teeth like corn kernels get way too close for my liking. "LIAR! WHAT ELSE DID YOU TAKE FROM MY VAULT?"

Nothing. I cry out. We didn't take anything.

I'm spread eagle on this dirty cold wood floor, and she's straddling me like I've been straddled before. Though this time there's no dick in me. She's giving me this look like she wants to fuck me. Heck, I'd fuck me. I begin to tongue the ground beef skin inside of my cheek where I had chewed on it earlier. Nervous habit.

The nails-on-chalkboard sound of her voice grates itself against my eardrums as she starts raving over that damned sword again. "You're a lying filthy mudblood and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringott's! Tell the truth, TELL THE TRUTH! What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife. ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!" Everything goes white.

Suddenly I'm in a 1950's kitchen. Think Better Homes & Gardens, that crappy muggle magazine my mother used to read. American Style. Lestrange is standing over there by the stove, with pink oven mitts on. I'm sitting pretty at the kitchen table in a powder blue chiffon dress, like a good little girl, waiting for her to give me some treats. The nasty antacid pink of the mitts clashes with the black leather corset that she's practically bursting out of. I lick my lips. Cookies go well with milk. She pulls the cookies from the oven and blows on them like she's in those old cartoons where the emaciated coyote tries to snuff out dynamite before it explodes. I chuckle; it never ends well for him. Placing the tray of cookies down in front of me, she gives a smile with those mangled yellowed canines and incisors of hers. I wonder if she's got a half empty pack of Lucky Strikes hidden in between her breasts. "Eat up." She says. "Get them while they're still hot." I touch her cookies. They're so soft, they're practically raw. I take one and the chocolate melts down my fingers and I close my eyes as I bring it to my lips. I open my eyes and she's straddling me again, her mitted hands caressing my arms. Her face closes in and she's using her tongue to eat the half chewed cookie from my mouth, licking the stuff clear off my molars. There's a tickle between my thighs and she notices and smiles that Cheshire cat smile that drives me wild.

I wake up and I'm on the floor again. She's shouting again and it's just radio fuzz in my ears. She's still looking down at me. I'm salivating. I'm at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and she's looking down at me from the top. I want to tell her to jump.

One of her sweaty palms pushed down hard on my forehead, and the clip in my hair presses into the back of my head. My arm begins to burn and I know that I'm now screaming. Well at least my throat is. My heart is. I watch and scream as she finishes her hard work with signature penned with a knife. For the minute that she writes I suddenly catch epilepsy. I know, I know you can't actually catch epilepsy. But if you could, I caught it. I wonder how clean the knife is.

Once she finishes I find I'm a bit disappointed. It looks like a 12-year-old wrote it. And she spelled Bellatrix wrong.


She leaves me on the floor. Check it out; I'm the newest bearskin rug of the Malfoy Manor. They talk about something off in the corner, and all I can do is look at her heeled shoes, and how they make the muscles of her calves stand out like lean cuts of meat at a butcher counter. I squirm and she turns and spits the syllables at me.

I'm back in the kitchen again. She's on the table, naked, and beckoning me with a finger, and I want to touch her. Cookie crumbs fall from her lips like rain and I want to bathe in it. I crawl up there with her, shedding the dress like a repressed memory that I desperately want to forget. She starts to fuck me and my insides hug her fingers like a lover.

I'm coming I say.

"Hush" she says into my hair. She writes her name on my forearm in calligraphy. Bellatrix Black.

I'm not on the floor anymore. I'm standing, I'm being held in her arms but not in the way that I'd like. Harry's hideous half melted face gapes back from behind those glasses at me and suddenly I look up at a rotted beam on the ceiling of particular interest. She's got her signature knife against my throbbing jugular. It's still got some ink left on it.




Three layers 'til she kills me. Don't worry Harry and Ron; you've still got plenty of time.

"Look who it is…it's Harry Potter." She whispers against the skin of my ear, her lips graze my lobe. Did it just get warmer in here?

I want to tell her I'm coming. Wait for me.

"STOP OR SHE DIES! Drop your wands. Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is! I said drop them!" It sounds more like a squawk of a cockatiel than actual words. Two wands fall to the floor with a clip clop and the little lap dog Malfoy fetches them. Good boy. Sit. Stay. "Call the dark lord. CALL HIM!" She holds me tighter and the knife breaks the first layer. But I don't care about the knife anymore; I just want some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies right now. Maybe an ice-cold glass of milk. 1%. I want her to feed them to me. One by one. Can I lick the bowl?

Lucius pulls back his sleeve, the parasitic dark mark pulses like an irritable family of botflies under his skin. He holds his dangling spider hand, and keeps it there. I can feel her growing anxious. He holds it there longer, like he's posing for a photograph. I know she's thinking what I'm thinking. Do it already. What're you waiting for? I hope for more interesting things on the ceiling.

The wood grain of the rafters could use some polishing. Narcissa must not have read last month's Better Homes & Gardens.

The chandelier is moving. Dobby, little house elf lost, is loosening it from the ceiling.

Freedom in five…

Four… She looks up with me, but does nothing.

Three… Everyone looks up.

Two… The little elf becomes the center of my universe, and the sun will come barreling down.


It falls and suddenly I stumble back into his arms. Appropriate yes? The hero there to catch the clumsy princess, who had been trapped in her ivory tower with the dragon now slain. The clumsy princess landed in that tower for being just a bit too clever, too smart, too bookish. His holds me close with his masculinity, and Harry's masculinity will no doubt save the world, as we know it. The elf stands behind us, swearing he didn't mean to hurt. Only to maim. I want to laugh. That's pretty funny.

She's staring back at me brandishing her knife. Her head tilts to the side in same Hallmark Card way that one of my aunt's achondroplasic corgis does whenever it's presented with a problem with an obvious logical solution. But we don't let the corgi know, because the whole thing is so damn cute. Moments like this keep me going sometimes.

I wonder if I'll see her again after this.

The knife is airmailed to the elf. It was nice knowing him.

I wonder if the next time I see her she'll remember that I like my cookies to be a little crispier.