The Darkness Within: Voldemort/Hadria Potter

Blood Curse

             
Voldemort's assault on Bellatrix's psyche was violent, his rage an unbridled storm that ravaged her mind without restraint. The initial memories she presented were a calculated distraction, intimate moments shared between them, but they were nothing more than a ruse to him now. With a visceral snarl, he cast them aside, delving deeper, burrowing into the hidden recesses of her treachery.

His mental journey took him to the bleak and desolate cells of Azkaban, where he witnessed Bellatrix conversing with a withered crone, a notorious figure, Griselda Thornheart. This woman, a relic of dark arts long past, had been condemned to wither within the prison's walls for her heinous act that had brought ruin upon an entire town. Her spell had been a blight, causing a drought so severe that it crippled the land, decimating crops, desiccating rivers, and bringing untold suffering to the magical creatures that depended on them. The famine that followed had been merciless, claiming many lives in its wake.

Now, Voldemort watched through the eyes of memory as Bellatrix sat on the cold, grimy floor of the dungeon, her posture one of feigned reverence as she sought the elder witches forbidden knowledge.

"The time draws near that our lord will release us from this prison," Bellatrix whispered, her voice barely rising above the sound of distant waves crashing against the prison's rocky shores. "Please, I must know of the love spell you once spoke of."

The crone's laughter was a rasping sound, a cackle that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls. "Ahh... so you seek my wisdom after all," she said, her eyes gleaming with a malevolent delight.

Bellatrix's gaze shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "There have been... whispers... that he met someone," she confessed, her voice trailing off as if the words themselves were traitorous. "I don't know if there's any truth to it. But... if it's true, I cannot allow it..."

The crone's chuckle deepened, a sound that seemed to mock the very foundations of the fortress that held her. "Choose a talisman, child... something you can wear close to your heart," she instructed with a wicked smile. "Anoint it with his blood and yours under a full moon. Do the same with a candle. Light it near the talisman and commune with the gods. Tell them of the love you seek."

Bellatrix listened intently, her expression a mask of desperate determination.

"Then speak the words with conviction," the crone continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cor vinculum, cor captum... per hoc signum, amoris nexum. Blow out the candle and wear the talisman."
             
As the previous memory dissolved, a new clarity crystallized within Voldemort. The scene shifted, transitioning smoothly into another of Bellatrix's memories.

There she was, ensconced on the plush sofa in the intimate confines of her bedroom, with Narcissa as her audience. Her expression was one of fury barely contained, her words laced with a venomous passion. "We just needed more time together. We are one and the same, Cissy. He's my soul mate. I've never known a man so dark, so twisted... and beautiful."

Narcissa regarded her sister with a gaze that was both piercing and pensive, absorbing the tempest of emotions that Bellatrix laid bare before her.

"I'll kill her," Bellatrix declared, the statement hanging in the air like a dark promise.

Narcissa's response was swift, her voice a sharp rebuke that cut through the tension. "Bellatrix Lestrange! You will do no such thing. He would end you... Listen to me, he loves her, even if he does not realize it yet... We cannot change that."

The memory wavered, as if caught in the throes of an emotional storm. Narcissa's plea was earnest, her words a desperate entreaty. "Promise me, Bella... promise you won't—"