The Chaos Within (A Bellatrix Fanfiction)

Burn

The drawing room smelled faintly of smoke and old magic, the crackle of the fire the only sound as I curled deeper into my armchair.

I flipped a page, feeling the words blur together. Maybe I needed another coffee. Usually, Advanced Rune Translation was enough to keep me awake for hours, but lately I couldn't focus. It was one of my old favourite school textbooks I'd actually kept. 

The rustling of newspaper made my eyes briefly flicker up. Lucius stood next to the fireplace, buried in the Prophet, a thin curl of smoke rising from his cigar. He barely said much to me during quiet days like this, but it suited me just fine. I'd gotten used to this house being coldly silent; not counting the hot nights with Bellatrix. Mercifully, my room was in the East Wing, far from everyone else's, so they were none the wiser. 

I realised I was re-reading the same sentence. I shook my head to clear it, blinked a couple of times, and actually tried to take in what I was reading. Besides, these runes translations could actually be useful if I were ever set any dangerous or complicated errands. 

My thoughts drifted anyway; back over the last week, the strange quiet of the Manor without Narcissa's watchful presence or Lucius' measured routines. Bellatrix had taken full advantage of it. She'd been everywhere and nowhere all at once, appearing in my doorway at odd hours, dragging me off to empty rooms, laughing too loudly when we nearly got caught by the house elf. The house had felt warmer then, louder, alive in a way it rarely was.

And my father had come.

Travers hadn't arrived in a mask or robes or with that stiff, dangerous posture I associated with Death Eaters. He'd looked tired. Older than I remembered. He'd hugged me for a long time without saying anything, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go. We'd talked in low voices, about nothing and everything; about my mother, about school, about the choices neither of us had really been given. He hadn't asked me to be proud. He hadn't justified himself. He'd only told me, quietly and fiercely, that he loved me, and that whatever I became, I was still his daughter.

I'd carried that with me ever since, like a fragile thing tucked beneath my ribs.

Just as I began to focus, I suddenly dropped my book, the echoing thud as it hit the dark wooden floor, finally pulling Lucius' attention to me. 

I realised why I dropped the book, as I quickly became aware of a gradual burning sensation in my left forearm- in my Dark Mark. My eyes flickered downwards at it automatically. It was slightly painful, but I barely registered the feeling. The burning spread deeper, but I kept my expression blank, and my eyes drifted up to meet Lucius'. Bellatrix also walked into the room at that moment, but I didn't glance at her. 

"Minor summons. Not ours." Lucius explained shortly. "You'll know when it's for you." 

I nodded slowly, making eye-contact with Bellatrix. She poured herself a drink from a crystal decanter, but she was smirking, mostly to herself. I picked my book back up, but I closed it.

It was a moment, before I realised I reacted more calmly than I should have. I didn't panic, or recoil at the Mark burning. It was like I was almost conditioned to find it normal. 

And strangely, Bellatrix didn't comment on my reaction- or lack of reaction. She seemed almost... pleased at my composure. 

Almost as if to confirm my thoughts, Bellatrix then said, "He speaks to us through it," in an almost dreamy tone. She was referring to the Dark Lord, I noted. 

I remembered Narcissa's warning. It made me realise. Bellatrix called it connection, whereas Narcissa called it danger. 

Lucius had already returned to his newspaper, and actually walked out of the room still reading it. Bellatrix's eyes followed his exit, and once he was out of earshot (I presumed), she sauntered over and perched on the armchair next to mine. 

I tried to ignore her, but her eyes fixed onto mine. I eventually looked up. She had the ghost of a smirk on her lips, and a glint in her eye. 

"You didn't even flinch." She said, her tone low. 

I swallowed. "I was more focused on whether I was being summoned, than the pain." 

She grinned, like I'd said something particularly upstanding. "It means, you're listening." Her voice was reverent- almost fond. She leaned in. "It means you're ready." 

I didn't ask her to elaborate. I understood what she was saying. 

Bellatrix straightened slowly, as if satisfied, then reached out and brushed her fingers against my wrist, just below the Mark. The contact was light, almost absent, but it sent a shiver up my arm all the same.

"You're learning," she said quietly. "That's all it is."

I swallowed. "Learning what?"

She tilted her head, studying me. "How not to be afraid of yourself."

The fire cracked loudly behind us. I became acutely aware of how close she was; of the way her knee pressed lightly against my leg, of the faint, familiar scent of her perfume. Something dark and floral. Something that clung.

"I don't think I was ever afraid of myself," I said, though the words felt unconvincing even to me.

Bellatrix smiled, slow and knowing. "No," she agreed. "You were afraid of what you might become."

Her fingers curled briefly around my wrist, not tightening, not restraining- just there. Present.

"And?" I asked softly.

"And you're still here."

She released me and stood, smoothing her skirts as though nothing had passed between us at all. The shift was abrupt enough to leave me momentarily off-balance.

"Come," she said lightly. "You've been cooped up all afternoon."

I hesitated, glancing down at the book still open on my lap. The runes blurred again, meaningless now.

"Where?" I asked.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright. "Somewhere without Lucius' newspapers and Narcissa's careful silences."

I closed the book and set it aside, rising from the armchair. It didn't feel like giving anything up; only like stepping into warmer air.

As we left the drawing room, I cast one last glance at the fireplace, at the quiet order of it all. The armchair. The book. The faint smell of smoke.

It struck me, distantly, that I hadn't noticed when the Mark had stopped burning.