Bellatrix and her Master

The Other One

She was drowning in an ocean of white sheets, surrounded by a scent she knew by heart — that of blossoming forests, fallen leaves, and a smell she could now identify perfectly: the metallic tang of blood. Bellatrix couldn't help but smile as she opened her eyes. The room was dimly lit by the fireplace at the far end and a solitary candle on the bedside table. 

She recognised the bedroom instantly, even though she had only set foot in it once, briefly, when she had thrown herself at the Dark Lord in August of the previous year. She hadn't thought about that incident in a long time. It seemed incredible that there had ever been a time in her life when Bellatrix had dared to breach her Master's privacy to the point of... She stifled a laugh in the sheets as she remembered the way she had assaulted him, kneeling before him. It was one of the most shameful, mortifying moments of her life. 

Even so, she had dared to be recklessly bold with Lord Voldemort... She missed that. Her impulsiveness and audacity had been the banner of her personality at Hogwarts. Since her abduction, she had unconsciously buried that part of herself deep down. She wanted to be that Bellatrix again, the one who didn't give a damn about others' opinions or the consequences of her actions.

She sat up. The bed and its tightly woven cotton sheets were extraordinarily comfortable, something she would never have expected from the Dark Lord. Judging by the simple decoration and minimal comfort of the other rooms in the Headquarters, she had imagined a more spartan bed — not that the idea of sleeping alongside Lord Voldemort had often crossed her mind! She was still wearing the nightgown Rodolphus had insisted she put on after returning from the mission in Romania. Thinking of her husband pained her. Upon waking, she had momentarily forgotten why she wasn't in her own room at Lestrange Manor.

She knew she had lost her mind.

Rodolphus had crossed the line as well, she defended herself, recalling the horrid things he had said. She was in no way responsible for her miscarriage and had done nothing to cause it. If her idiotic husband didn't believe her, what did it matter to her? She sighed. The knot in her stomach had tightened once again. Lately, she had realised she could no longer disregard her husband's feelings as she once had. Insidiously, he had carved out a place in her life, and she cared for him, despite everything. It terrified her. She had never intended to become attached to him... She had promised herself she would despise him forever. But what could she do if she preferred to serve Lord Voldemort rather than become a mother? She hadn't changed. He had always known she was that kind of woman, one who favoured curses over love potions. He had no right to resent her now for something he had always known. She wriggled out of the covers, immediately regretting it as the biting cold nipped at her skin.

A little unsteady, she made her way to the dark wooden double doors near the fireplace and pushed one open. She immediately spotted Lord Voldemort, seated behind his desk in the study-library that adjoined his bedroom. He paused, his quill hovering over parchment when he heard the door creak, and he looked up at her. Suddenly self-conscious, Bellatrix crossed her arms over her chest. It seemed to her that her short nightgown was a pathetic shield against her Master's penetrating gaze. He was now leaning back against the backrest of his chair.

"Master, I'm sorry for losing my temper with Rodolphus... He... enraged me," she confessed, ashamed.

"Yes, that much was apparent."

"How is he?" she asked.

"He will recover," Lord Voldemort replied, evasive. "Tell me, rather, how you are feeling."

"Good, much better, thank you, Master," Bellatrix replied gratefully.

She hesitated for a moment. He was watching her in silence.