Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s quiet, and it usually isn’t.

It’s so quiet that Bellatrix can hear the soft ticking of the grandfather clock from across the room. She peels open a heavy eye, to look at the long golden pendulum swing backwards and forwards, and backwards and forwards.

Truthfully, it’s often Bellatrix herself disturbing the peace. She can’t help it- she doesn’t belong in an atmosphere of peace and quiet, and chaos stirs itself up naturally wherever she goes.

But it doesn’t now. Bellatrix lounges on the chaise in front of the fireplace, still as a marble sculpture, and calm settles around her.

The fire is slowly dying and the heat stopped reaching her some time ago. Yet she can still feel the remnants of the warmth that seeped into her clothes and skin, lingering.

Bellatrix is waiting for her Lord and husband to return back from their mission. She promised them she’d be good before they set off. They, in turn, promised that they would return whole and unhurt, and she pressed kisses into both of their cheeks as they left.

She lifts two fingers to her mouth, recalling the feeling of their skin under her lips.

Rodolphus’ stubble was familiar and comforting - Bellatrix was always more comfortable with the rough and raw of life. By contrast, her Lord’s skin was coarse, cold, and almost devoid of life.

Slowly, she stretches her hand out towards the fire, and waves it carelessly. Immediately, the flames roar back to life. They flicker upon her closed eyelids, filling her blacked-out vision with bursts of red and orange phosphenes.

Despite the throne of corpses that the Death Eaters are building a legacy upon, Bellatrix hates to associate her Lord with death.

Her Lord is magic and might itself; He gives her splendour and purpose. He is her Messiah and she is His missionary. Bellatrix knows that life would not be worth living without Him.

And yet, underneath the worship and lust, she sees that Lord Voldemort is, indeed, a human. No matter how divine or God-like he is, his body is still that of a man’s.

That’s just it, he’s God-like. Not an actual deity himself.

Lord Voldemort was born a mortal. He must’ve been someone’s son, and he must’ve once been a child - however long ago that was.

Bellatrix wants to know all about it. She wants to know every formative experience, and every thought and feeling that crossed his mind during his entire life. She wants to know how Lord Voldemort was forged, down to every ritual he ever created, every duel he ever won, and every spell he ever cast.

However, she knows that such a thing will not be tolerated. No, Lord Voldemort will never share such private information.

Bellatrix shifts to turn her back to the fireplace, still keeping her eyes closed.

The chaise itself is not comfortable. The embroidered fabric is too coarse and the seating is stuffed too firmly, but she settles in anyway, coiling her knees closer to her chest.

The thing is, Bellatrix knows about the horcruxes.

It was one of the possibilities her mind initially drifted to, when her Lord first boasted of immortality. However, it solidified from theory to reality in her mind when he presented her with Hufflepuff’s Cup.

As she ran her fingers over the engravings, Bellatrix could feel her Lord’s magic permeate the solid gold. A sense of devotion overcame her then, and she caressed the precious cup with reverence.

In the end, Bellatrix came to the conclusion that Lord Voldemort had made multiple horcruxes. And the realisation had pained her.

It still pains her, even now, curled up on a lounge as she is. Deep sensations of sorrow begin to bloom in her chest, making her burrow further into the pillows around her.

Bellatrix has never felt this way about anything- not for her sister, nor mother, nor even for herself.

But the thought of her Lord tearing himself apart is almost enough to rip her apart, too.

Because a fractured soul can never experience genuine joy, or truly appreciate the gifts of life. It is practically a form of self-harm, she thinks, for someone to condemn themselves to such a life.

A fractured soul is basically a dead soul, and she wonders whether it can be called immortality, when one is stuck between the living and the dead. Perhaps that is where true immortality is achieved.

So, the feeling of cold, coarse skin against her lips haunts her, because Bella thinks she’s in love with a dying man.

She’s already torn at the edges, but every reminder of her Lord’s supposed immortality splits her seams even further.

Then, the grandfather clock tolls twelve times, and interrupts her spiralling thoughts. The fire at her back has been reduced to embers once again, without a stable supply of magic to feed it. She doesn’t bother relighting it.

Instead, Bellatrix throws her legs off the side of the chaise, and swings her body upright. She takes a minute to adjust to the vertical plane, before standing up and stalking away from the drawing room.

A bubbling cauldron, full of a potent multi-purpose healing potion, awaits her in the basement. She knows by now that her men won’t come back to her undamaged.