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ENCOUNTER
War was starting to decrease. The frequency of lightning in the absent clouded sky started to diminish. People were dying. Petunia could feel it in the atmosphere. Knowing the presence of death never required magic from anyone. It's everywhere in the air, it smells, it's about thickness and texture. Distant thunders. Just like that night when Lily died. The warm wind in the dark night. The never complete silence. It was a physical emotion, a cold chill crawling down the spine.
Vernon and Dudley are not bothered by the war or the deaths occurring in the bordering world. But Petunia can't act as if nothing is happening. Staring outside the window of the acceptable house they were forced to move in, Petunia let out a sigh. Little by little, her connections to the magical world were abandoning her. Deep inside of her, she didn't want to lose that. But Potter might be dead by now, such as his friends, his supporters, his protectors. Green flashes, red marks, Petunia's concerned figure was illuminated by these far-away fireworks. She felt broken and she felt lost. Nothing is missing, her husband and child are safe, but everything is wrong. Incapacity and weakness are filling her.
A sudden bright white light explodes in front of her. Taken away, she holds on to the window frame, trembling by the shock. A silhouette collapsed on the cold grass, in front of the house. With the war signs withdrawing, the moonlight isn't sufficient for Petunia to be able to identify the person. The stranger lies on the ground, showing little indication of life. Looking back at her family, Petunia notices the men were both asleep in the living room, in front of the television. She looks back at the corpse, and heads outside.
As soon as she opens the front door, Petunia feels it again. Death and its caressing breath. Instantly, she stops moving as she approaches the obviously injured person. A woman. Face to the ground, the woman's strong curls of hair are everywhere around her body, covering her face and her back. One of her legs is curled to the side, the other extended. Both of her hands lie under her, as if trying to protect something hidden on her chest. The woman didn't try to protect her head when landing. Petunia's eyes open by fear. This witch escaped war, apparated in the nearest place that came to her mind. Here. Why? She must be injured.
A sob. Petunia leans forward, trying not to approach too quickly. A sob again, followed by shoulders rhythmically starting to move. A cry. The dense curly hair dance by the movement, captured by the warm wind. The witch is crying, slowly regaining strength. Petunia can't hold on any longer, she places her hand on the shoulder.
A scream. Pushed aside, Petunia withdraws her hand, falling on her knees. Hitting the ground with her feet, the woman shakes her head from side to side, as her screams worsens.
"…A..are…are you injured?"
Her question remains unheard. As the witch regain vigour, she pulls out her hands from underneath her and holds out a broken piece of wood. It does not calm her screams, as tears are travelling all over her mad face. A strong jaw and intense, hurting eyes. The witch keeps holding out the broken wood – Petunia can identify it as a wand – and she stares directly at it, coughing her cries. In pain, she does not seem exhausted, but defeated. The presence of death doesn't leave Petunia. The image of her dead sister comes to mind.
"Are you hurt? Pl…please, are you hurt?"
She does not know what she is doing. Helping another witch will never justify her sibling's death and will never excuse her discriminatory, jealous behaviour. However, the woman in front of her is crushed and she cannot ignore her.
"Please, let me help… I… I know where you come from. I know what you are…"
The witch quickly gets up, tripping a little on her black dress, her eyes huge and lacking of life. She is wounded, bleeding. Trying to keep her balance even with the fury travelling into her, she throws the broken wand straightforwardly to Petunia and runs towards her.
Petunia's breath leaves her, terrified by the insane person holding on her shoulders. Her grip is fierce. It is possible for her to entirely observe her visage, since the witch is peculiarly staring back at her. Her pupils are constantly twitching, revealing the madness of her mind. Her mouth is opened, letting hot breath escape her red lips and landing on Petunia's cold face. The woman is quivering all over, so it's perfectly understandable that Petunia's hand naturally starts to cup the burning and wet cheek, her soft fingers caressing the injured skin. Fear slowly disappears as the deadly gaze into the woman's eye fades. Again, and again. Petunia draws small strokes, maternal circles on the cheekbone and on the crowfeet, calming the ferocity of the stranger.
The witch collapses into her, holding on her neck and shoulders.
CURING
Thick strings of humid sweat glide on the heavy-eyed witch's forehead, reviving a terrible headache that's killing her temples. Thunderous pounding are shattering her skull. Once more, a small amount of water caressing her brow seems to reduce the excruciating fissure of each bone existing in her face. Carefully, a sponge is wiping off dirt, blood and sweat. Bellatrix can hardly state the thin and blur figure not far from her. She winces. It's impossible for her to shift; her muscles will tear from the effort. A mumble escape her lips, as she is trying to regain conscience. The witch remembers, her mind putting pieces together. She remembers letting herself fall into another woman's arm. She remembers her feet incapable of following her steps as her stiff body is dragged into warm quarters. She remembers tender strokes on her face. Her body is unfamiliar to being vulnerable and being in a stable position. Unaccustomed to such kindhearted attention, Bellatrix's mumble turn into groans of frustration.
"Ssshh, don't worry. You're safe."
The voice is still indistinguishable, though womanly. And concerned. How can she trust her? Forcing all her senses into awareness, Bellatrix tries to examine her potentially dangerous surroundings. No sudden moves, no additional presence. Again, the sponge is back on her forehead, rinsing her wounds. It's a burning sensation, however soothing. All her body is aching. This realization only provokes louder groans.
"I know it hurts, you're dreadfully injured."
Dishonour awakens her concentration. As she attempts to speak, she can feel her ravaged muscles. She tastes blood. As an alternative to speaking, her eyes search for her wand. As she moves her head from left to right, the pain from her spine forces a scream. Petunia is lightly pressing down on her shoulders to maintain Bellatrix entirely on the bed. Panicked from feeling dominated, Bellatrix hastily spits on Petunia's face before vigorously slapping her cheek. Immediately, Petunia removes her hands and protects herself from the witch's assault. The blood in Bellatrix's mouth tastes like rusted metal and she feels like throwing up from all the pain. Her face is mad, her rotted teeth scratching her own lips. Petunia finally manages to get up, moving back from the witch's ferocity. Having nothing to hold on to, Bellatrix collapses.
Long minutes pass by as Petunia remains still, her arms falling heavily on her sides, her chest rising up and down. Her cheekbones are red and her face is wet. Her dress is ruined by mud and stained by ruby spots. The muggle cannot find the strength to move, as Bellatrix's huge eyes are slaughtering her from afar.
"Your.., your wand is broken. It's on the chair beside the bed."
Saying so, Petunia points in direction of the broken stick and opens her mouth, letting her out a long breath.
Bellatrix's eyes immediately stare in the wand's direction, her curly hair covering her vision. Understanding that the witch is unable to see the wand, Petunia extends her hand in order to fetch it. A strangled cry compels her to stop. Petunia's entire body is covered by tiny spasms, afraid of saying or doing something that would infuriate the witch.
"I assure you it was already into pieces when you landed in front of my home. You were trying to protect it, under your weight."
The older woman pushes back all the questions she wishes to ask. Seeing how the witch is completely trashed, she retains her interrogations. Bellatrix's hand slaps her own forehead, pressing hard on the pulse point of her temple, and start massaging her skin. Eyes closed, her lips are painfully parted as she starts to cry, blood and saliva running down her chin. She remembers war. She remembers green and red explosions. She remembers the ecstasy of murdering. She remembers the bliss of generating agony. She remembers excruciating pain at the same time as savoring death around her. She remembers blood accentuating in her throat. She remembers a black hole.
She didn't notice when Petunia sat back at her side, but she does not push her away. The long fingers are stocking the hair out of her face that was starting to stick at her skin.
"You need to remain quiet. There are other people in this house, and they need to remain unaware of your presence."
That simple sentence triggered disgrace and humiliation in Bellatrix's heart.
"You're safe here, with me… But, since your wand is unusable, I can't guaranty your safety is my family hears about you"
It's sufficient. Bellatrix does not growl or assault once more. The physical pain is affecting her much more than she thought. Her body falls back again in a loss of consciousness state, where she can only notice blur movements and the gentle voice. The humid sponge is back on her forehead, warming her blood.
INTERACTION
Stroking the skin shaded walls, the shadows of heavy clouds point to an upcoming violent storm. Monitoring spring's cold weather becomes Bellatrix Lestrange's natural occupation, as she regains conscience before falling back again in profound sleeps. At each awakening, she finds herself feeling more accustomed to the soothing room. In a square form, it's impossible for threats to hide and the door is located in front of her, leaving the window unseen by her. By the shadow on the wall across the room, she can tell that it's also in a square form and vast.
The pain travelling through her body doesn't subside, but she is getting used to its indubitable existence. Its undeniable, it's hurting everywhere. Her deviated mind forbids her to focus, as it keeps repeating over again scenes of the great battle. Bloody scenes and frightening portraits are stamped behind her eyelids, preventing her from avoiding the reality of her situation. It maintains her anger, her desire for revenge, her obsession for causing pain and loss. It keeps her from thinking about the nature of her saviour, about the motifs of her saviour.
Her saviour. The thought immediately reminds her of her unknown location. It enrages her, Bellatrix feels kidnapped. Without her wand, she is amputated. She wishes to escape, without any path to follow. She could use her physical strength. Her hands could commit murder, her mouth could bite, and her feet could destroy. She tries to reassure herself that she isn't powerless, but her body is as demolished as her wand. She wishes to regain her freedom, even though she knows she isn't captured. She's defeated.
She takes a deep mouthful of air. Her breath is still sour, but she no longer tastes blood. She feels weighty, her cheeks and her chin hurt as she swallows her saliva.
Footsteps. Her saviour.
The tall and sophisticated woman steals a look, her head in the entrance, as if she was shy to disturb the witch, but she still enters the chamber and immediately closes the door behind her, without making any sound. Slowly, Petunia approaches the feet of the bed, carrying a glass of water and her other hands is holding out a small capsule. Coldness and mad eyes are making her shiver. She even wonders if Bellatrix could be producing this frozen air. She is aware of being in presence of a witch, but doesn't know or doesn't understand at which point she can operate magic.
Even with the fierce look the wounded witch is giving her, she sits down by her side, her elegant body making the mattress shift a little.
"This will make you feel better" and she extends her hands, holding out the glass of water and the pill in each hand.
The lugubrious person keeps staring, her pupil huge by hurting and confusion. Tears are forming in the corner of her eyes. Tears of exhaustion, tears of frustration. Bellatrix opens her mouth to speak, but shrieks as pain rips her muscle.
"Move your filthy hands away from me!"
It's all she could manage without screaming from pain again. The throbbing of her head, of her heart, of her soul is accumulating in her throat, the pulse fast in her veins. Still, the generous woman doesn't move. Her worried look doesn't leave, her hands still slightly tremble.
"You are not forced; I just thought it could help"
As receiving none reaction from Bellatrix, Petunia withdraws her hands and positions them on her thighs.
"It's a pill. They contain drugs that will make the pain more bearable. I know it's no magic, but please let me help you with the modest ways that I have".
Petunia's vision is sending deep tremors towards her heart. The witch, visibly aching, seems to be further suffering. As she slowly puts her weight on her elbows as she leans upward and forward, Bellatrix's eyes widen, as if it was possible to get even larger, darker, and panicked. She manages to get close to Petunia's silhouette, their breaths mixing.
"…You have nothing. You can't help me. You don't want to help me"
Her usual destructive temper persists even without her wand. How can Bellatrix fear anything when her body is broken, when her identity is escaping her, leaving no hopes of regaining her full capacity?
She could attack. She could throw her useless and conquered body to her saviour and kill her. She could kill her just to murder again; she could kill her just to see if her powers would come back again from the thrill. She could scream until she bleeds from the inside, to make her presence known to the entire world. Nevertheless, Bellatrix does not. She remains intimately close to the woman, capturing all of her reactions. The woman is calm, but she is still shaking.
"I'm inferior to you. It's a fact. My resorts are weak compared to all the magnificence you can produce".
Bellatrix's rotten breath lands on Petunia's cheeks, she feels sick from the thickness and the scent.
"I'm a muggle –"
"-You're worth nothing!"
Petunia stills. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, the water in the glass creating waves as her breathing becomes hard.
DISCOVERING
It seems like hours, hours since they have produced any movement. Still sitting at Bellatrix's side, close to the end of the bed, Petunia cannot bring herself to even open her mouth to respond. The smallest move to unlock her lips seems to be the hardest action her body ever had to make.
The wounded witch still shoves her upper body as close as possible to Petunia, putting all her weight on her weaken wrists, trying to discourage her, trying to fright her, trying to find herself again in the fear she wishes to create in her saviour's gaze.
But she only finds concern in the older woman's eyes. Her pupils are huge, remain focusing into the menacing dark orbits. A thin layer of wetness accumulates in Petunia's eyes, as her body remains blocked into place.
It hits her: the witch she is hiding in her boudoir, the witch she is nursing, is a pure blood. The terrible ache of her mourning takes place in her heart again; as she, at this moment, understands what creature subsist before her, surviving with her care.
'You're worth nothing', the shout still echoes in her head, accumulating with the realization that she is helping a murderess, a fierce lieutenant. Her nephew dropped words about pure bloods, mentioned what they are capable of, what they have damaged in the past. What their master have done to… her. Her precious red-headed.
Bellatrix collapsed back on the bed, her curly hair, damped from sweat, extending everywhere on her face, on her chest, on the pillows, and it gives Petunia time to readjust herself. Fear isn't felt, only sadness from the realization that she is helping a murderess. She knows Bellatrix is right, that her monotone, housewife identity is indeed worth nothing. She does not fear death or pain, henceforth. Bellatrix was found wounded on her ground and she wished to cure her, to be useful once more, regardless of her witch nature, and now regardless of her pure blood ideologies.
Even with fury, even with exasperation, the witch's eyelids are heavy, forcing her eyes to gradually roll back, as Bellatrix wrestles from fainting once more. Petunia sets the pill and the glass of water on the table beside the bed.
"You need to rest, or else you'll faint from pain and exhaustion." It's all she manages to address to her. Surprisingly, her voice is strong and stable. As Bellatrix remains quiet and steady, Petunia manages to catch a glimpse at the skin of her neck, shoulders and hands. Her deep wounds will leave visible scars. The bleeding has stopped, leaving dry blood as a reminder of war. Who was she duelling with? Was she defending herself? Was she attacking? What does she looks like as she sends out spells? What does she sounds like as she screams from amusement and from rage? Her dress is torn on her abdomen, her sleeves are slightly scratched.
They remain quiet, all over again. What can you say to a murderess? What can you do, as a muggle, as being worth nothing, as being capable of nothing?
Resigning, Petunia delicately gets to her feet and attempts to leave the room, but she is surprised by a muffled groan made from Bellatrix. She turns around to look at her. The witch wiggles, moving her body from left to right. Her overwhelmed face is gaining wrinkles and folds as she contracts her mouth and her eyes. She looks as if she is about to rip her lungs. Immediately, Petunia precipitates towards her and gets on her knees to the side of the bed.
"You're hurting, I know you're suffering, but please, remain quiet."
It only provokes a scream from Bellatrix as she smacks the palm of a hand to her forehead. She is fighting the constant sting passing through her body. Bellatrix hates not being in control of pain, she hates when it's disorderly. She needs to master pain, but without wands, without magic, she is incapable of anything. She feels everything, when she always felt nothing.
Abruptly, a hand is united to the one of the burning forehead. Petunia's fingers are soft on Bellatrix's dry skin. She starts massaging the temple where she feels a strong heartbeat. The witch's hand falls back on the sheets, as she lets out a moan of relief. She is seriously sweating from pain. It elicits from Petunia little sounds of encouragements as she feels Bellatrix starting to relax.
"You need to remain quiet. My husband and child are still unaware of your presence. I don't know what they are capable of doing if they find you. You destroyed us. We've lost everything because of your war."
She is still stroking her forehead.
"So I beg you, you need to rest. For your safety".
Bellatrix closes her eyes, her pants long and deep.
ASKING
« You are free to leave, you do know that? »
A sentence pronounced carefully. When setting another plate on the bed-covers, this time containing fruits and bread, Petunia didn't dare to look at the witch directly in the eyes. Her attention focused on the coloured dishes and the hurried hands grabbing their content.
There is no reply from Bellatrix, who is devouring a mouthful of bread, dropping crumbs all over her thighs. Her lips are lightly ripped from being dry and the wounds have opened, joining blood to the food in her mouth. She does not seem to notice the mixture. Petunia's heart clenches.
She simply had to verbally say it to the witch. Of course, Bellatrix could have left at any time; she even could have killed her. But her protégée is here to recover, and any form of violence was impossible for any of them. Bellatrix didn't possess the physical vigor and Petunia couldn't harm. The death of her sister brought guilt and rage that she imposed on her nephew but now that he is adult and gone, she changed, felling more like her old self. She grew, she accepted to feel again. She forgave unfairness and unfortunate events.
Bellatrix's sharp voice caught her attention.
« Don't worry little Muggle. Just had to abuse of your hospitality, draining every little strength you have left before making you pay for seeing me in this condition. I'll leave soon. Haven't I been the good prisoner? Not revealing my presence to your nasty family?"
Every word is said as if it was a casual conversation. Resuming eating grapes, Bellatrix's face is starting to gain colours and is it creating motions and emotions she couldn't produce before. Petunia wants to murmur things like 'Please don't hurt me', but she knew too well it wasn't good to talk about suffering.
"I'm relieved you do exploit your time here. I'm happy to see you are recovering, you seem to –"
"I'm serious. I'll hurt you. Magic or not, I'm still stronger than you, filth. »
This time, tears couldn't be hidden in Petunia's eyes. Truth was said.
"You are right… Then why would you hurt the one who tries to help you regain the better of yourself?"
"You're foolish"
The witch is tired of talking. Looking down on her plate, she plays with the stems of the grapes with her index finger. Her broken nails are stared at by Petunia's curious eyes.
"Have you killed someone?"
The stem and grapes falls on the floor, the plate shatters, Bellatrix laughs.
"Someone? What do you mean? Haven't you? I murdered. I tortured, each time when necessary or when I felt like it."
It wasn't a surprise. Even when Petunia found the collapsed witch in front of her house, she wondered. Being a pure-blood like she said, it was certitude. Did she have something to do with her sister's death? The older woman's face turns gloomy and worn-out.
"You're nurturing a monster, little muggle."
Petunia nods. It took her all of her might to get up on her trembling legs. She quickly picks up the broken pieces of the plate and heads for the door.
"Now that you have stopped fainting, would you like a bath? Or perhaps you would like to have something else to eat? Is there anything you need? "
Bellatrix's eyes are frightening, her face being completely still, the pupils vibrate.
"My dignity"
Petunia's whole body and voice are shaking.
"Don't worry about that, I'm just a muggle…You're impressive to me. You do are a striking witch."
INTERROGATION
"Even witches of your nature, indestructible and untamable, need moments of rest, even if it's provided by random strangers… or by filthy muggles. When I found you wounded on my front yard, I…"
The sentence Petunia is pronouncing seems pointless and she abandons it, her mouth still slight opened, as she is half-way turned towards the door. The silence is loud and heavy, such as the air and the atmosphere. No strength is left for either of them to face each other. Seconds pass and die in front of them.
"I am not weak"
Though it was mouthed very dimly, sounding more like an interrogation than an affirmation, Bellatrix's words echoed across the room and tickled Petunia's nape of the neck. Her hands holding the cabaret forces the plates to quiver as a shiver runs through her entire body. Instantly, her eyes fall back again on Bellatrix's silhouette, still mid-way from facing the door.
"Killing does not make you courageous or valuable, but being a warrior does. I had my certainty that you were one of these dark and loyal warriors and I immensely admire how you can fight for what you worship. That is why I tend to protect you, so that you can unite with your battlefield."
As if she is not aware of speaking these words, Petunia continues to stand still, her body like a statue.
"I have lost everything. I have nothing left, not even dignity, while yours is everlasting. You are a warrior."
A laugh burst out of Bellatrix's mouth, slicing the dry skin of her lips. She drags her tongue along the fresh blood and continues to awkwardly smile.
"Are you saying, muggle, that you have no conscience? Have you have killed someone in the past? Have perpetrated violence and torture?"
Like a child, Bellatrix straightens up and move her legs up to her stomach, wincing from the pain caused by her entire body in motion.
"I've mistreated a child. I've caused emotional damage. It's not something I am proud of. I was hurting. I was mourning and filling my mind with prejudices. My actions were horrible and unforgivable."
The confession seems to brighten Bellatrix's smile and generate a hint of amusement in her eyes, like a sparkle.
"Seems like you are not the innocent and hopeless little muggle I was taught about."
////
May be continued.