A/N: Love to reviewers and Countess Black


This is part of the Strange and Invisible verse. Please look at that for an idea about the context of this piece. This is what happens between chapters three and four.

Title is a quote from a poem by Anonymous.


It was so stupidly easy. The lock popped and they turned the knob and slid in on feet like mist. Their cloaks fanned out with the speed of their smooth, silent tread. Under her mask, Bellatrix smiled. She felt alive again, a phoenix born not of fire but of ice, and her cold resurrection had made her as glittering and as hard.

The next door was open, too, and the muggles within. It felt more than right-it felt destined, as though, in the intersections of their lives and the Lestranges, they were silently complicit in their own deaths, as though they knew this was their hour and the means was as hand, slouching toward them on silent feet and masked, staring faces.

Bellatrix glided to the front and eased them in. The woman, she decided, and crept over. She slipped her glove off and made as though to touch the smooth, pale arm which protruded from the blankets. Her hand pulled back; let the men soil themselves with it, should their blood rise. And it would rise.

Instead, she raised her wand and flicked as every light in the room flicked on at once. The man sat, blundering upright, and Rodolphus was there, masked face impersonal and awful.

'Wake up, muggles.' Now she did touch the woman, but not with her hand. She slashed hard to the right and a gash opened, blood poring down onto the rose coloured sheets. The woman shrieked. Bellatrix too, in mockery and exultation.

The place between her thighs is wet. She'd known it would be. Just as the men are sporting erections under their cloaks, just as her hand creeps down and strokes. The magic pulses with it or them with it. As the others raise their wands to start the fun, she can feel the energy insisting, draining and filling her in turns, a lover as demanding and addictive as any man, more than, better than.

The muggles are gasping. Bellatrix, too, gasps and Travers steps back with a small bow. Ladies first, isn't it? His hand in his trousers and he's working himself with the expression of a man who's painting a shed, or perhaps eating a mediocre sandwich. All business as usual, his face says, as below his hand masturbates furiously, a bit of seepage dotting his strangely delicate knuckles, clinging to the hairs like beads of glass.

The room is starting to smell. Smell of blood, smell of rut as the men begin to lose control, and then other things as the serious cutting begins. Scorched flesh, as the murderer Limpkin plies his trade; vomit; piss.

None of it registers with Bellatrix. She is somewhere outside herself, watching as she cuts and burns and twists, hand still busy below. She can feel it building in her, the magic under her skin itching and churning. Her breath is harder, her face flushing, toes curling in her shoes, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching.

She looks deadly and wonderous, and Rodolphus, in the throes of his own needs, lunges over the bed and presses his mouth to hers. Bellatrix kisses back, hand on his chest, but lets him no closer. It's coming, she thinks, and cries out with pleasure, with relief, it's soon, it's almost it's almost it's almost it's almost it's

NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW screams her body and Bellatrix's spine arches, her eyes widening, her mouth stretching like that of a fish and she makes mewling, helpless little noises that urge every man in the room to higher peaks of need, as she straightens and swishes a hard, killing blow. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? She isn't sure.

'Avada Kadavra!' The woman falls back, eyes glazing, and Bellatrix laughs as her ending ebbs and she turns to her husband and they fall to the bed, slick with death and pain, and he lifts her robes and slides in without another word, she wet and willing, nails tearing his skin, sharp little teeth punching holes in his shoulders.

The others ignore them. Dawn in coming, and they stop, vaguely surprised, vaguely sleepy, trousers stained and hard with ejaculate, hands crusted, mouths wet. The Snatchers step forward and begin to strip the room like those beetles one sees in books, taking everything which might be of valuable.

Rodolphus is finishing. Three hard pumps, five, and then it's over. Bellatrix knows, in her secret heart, that their daughter was conceived on a night like this one, a night of fire and blood and fucking in the beds of the slain, and she squeezes her thighs together, knowing her belly is empty and will stay empty, knowing she's done her bit.

Scabior is streaky with fluids neither of them care to look at too closely. 'Boss? Ready when you are.' No one remarks on the fact the Lestranges are still yoked together, her legs round his waist, his cock still buried in her. It would be poor taste, after all, and even Scabior knows that.

Rodolphus rose and helped his wife up. His seed drips down her legs and she irritatably scourgifies it away. In the afterglow of their magic, the fucking itself is a small, sad thing, a way to pass the weary minutes.

The others have done. The bodies have been carefully cleaned and posed for the muggle aurors to find. Bellatrix dons her mask again and proceeds the others as she had on the way in.

The house was silent, the smells and ghostly screams left behind them. Yaxley even stopped to close the door, fastidious as a woman. Bellatrix stretches, cat like, and then flicks her wrist gently, as sensually as another woman might drop her knickers, and the men felt much the same, watching her, as deadly and darkly glorious as a poisoned knife.

'Morsmordre.' The Mark lights the sky above them and Bellatrix felt a burden lifted from her soul. Cleansed, she close her eyes and Apparated, feeling as though, baptised in blood, she was herself again.