shattered

BB+TC

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I’m sure you can all guess who this is….if you can’t, I’ll tell you at the end of the fic. Oh, and I know how really dark it is, but then she’s insane, so yeah….she’s so fun to write though!

 

They always cried.

It was so pretty, really, watching their crystal tears running down their cheeks like that, the single drop of water conforming to the curve of their cheekbone, followed by another, and yet another, until there was a beautiful waterfall arching over their faces.

Pretty. So pretty.

She always took the pretty ones, if she could. Searching through the groups of shivering captives, huddling together like the animals that they were, always hunting—hunting for her pretties. Because they, above all, were the ones who deserved her ministrations. She didn’t like the ugly ones. They were pathetic, creatures of dirt, could never really rise above their status as filth and mud. Oh, she could decorate them, beautify them, but why do that when there were those so much more deserving of her attentions?

So she took the children, and the lovely young maidens, and the full-figured women, and the handsome men, and made them her own.

Art.

It was an art.

The others—they would never, never understand. Genius was always misunderstood, those petty Aurors of the pompous Ministry, blinded by their own stupidity; the cringing little goody-goodies, who would never ever know; even her fellow Death Eaters couldn’t understand—wouldn’t understand the sheer joy she felt when she did her work, when she carried out her Master’s orders. Even Rodolphus didn’t understand.

Only he did.

Her Master.

And she adored him for it, because he was the only one who knew.

He had helped her know.

It had started in her seventh year. She had been young then, only seventeen, but still knowing of her destiny and her duty to the Dark Lord. There had been a Mudblood there—there was always a Mudblood in Slytherin if you knew where to look. She had felt the shame, the disgrace, the burning heat rising in her cheeks everytime she saw the affront to her sight. He was a disgrace to Slytherin, a betrayal of their ethics and honor, and he had to be removed.

Eradicated.

Every time she passed him in the halls, her eyes were drawn to him, inexorably, burning into him, seeing his dirtiness, his unworthiness, and longing—longing to set him free, because he was so pretty. Such a pretty little boy, and he deserved better than his miserable existence, he really did.

And he was so pretty.

But she didn’t know how—didn’t know how to save him, and at night she would weep hot bitter tears because she felt so sorry for him, condemned to live out the rest of his days as a filthy Mudblood, and he of all people did not deserve that.

And then He came, and He showed her how to save her pretty little Terence Chalei.

He helped her in the dark of night. With her Master’s help, she snuck into the boy’s dorm at the winter solstice and stole pretty little Terry away, away, away, to her wing at Lestrange Manor, where she could have privacy for her fun.

Then Master gave her those pretty little toys for her to play with, so shiny and sharp and beautiful, and she was so grateful. He did so much for her.

And she chained him up, stepping back now and then to admire the effect, wrapping a chain here, a cuff there, the links draped artistically over his body, setting off his skin tone marvelously. And she smiled, because he made such  a pretty picture, all dolled up, his face scrunched up in the oh-so-appealing look of fear, his bewilderment so endearing really, that she laughed out loud, and he winced.

She frowned. That wasn’t good. Couldn’t he see that she was just trying to help him?

So she lifted her wand and spoke the magic word. “Crucio!”

He screamed, a hoarse beautiful cry ripped from his throat with her pretty little stick of wood, and he screamed and he screamed and he screamed, and she laughed, because she had never heard anything so beautiful in her life.

Such a beautiful harmony. Lovely.

And she waited for just the right amount of time before lifting the curse, at exactly the right moment. It was an art, what she did, and she had to be meticulous.

Then she did it again. This time his back arched slightly under the chains, because she had made sure to make it loose enough to allow him to do that—he looked so pretty when he did that, and she ran her long white hands over the curve of his spine, so erotic did it look.

Then, regretfully, she lifted the curse; because it wouldn’t do that use him up so quickly.

Variety was good—she wanted to mark him, so she tucked away her wand and examined her new playthings that Master had so kindly given her, running her fingers over first one, then another, until finally she chose her blade. It was smooth and sharp and had blue flickers running up and down the metal edge, finely made with an edge that was hooked just a bit to catch on the skin coming out, designed specially to hurt more upon extrication than on entry.

What a beautiful little toy, and worthy of her pretty Terence.

So she ran it gently down his chest, letting him feel the cool sting and the slight trickle of the blood, red against white, so pretty pretty pretty!

Then she dug her point in on his abdomen, digging it in and grinding slightly, hearing the slight exhalation and the startled gasp of pain, so sweet to her ears. When it had gone in exactly the length of her thumbnail, she yanked it out, and was rewarded by a whimper.

Again and again she repeated the procedure, until all around his abdomen were holes of blood, in the shape of the points of a pentagram.

Then she put away her little pretty, because there were so many more things to play with.

She used a wickedly glinting dagger, long and lean and shaped like a wave, with a Potion on the edge that sent cold fire running through his veins to fill in the lines of the pentagram.

When she stepped back, there was a pentagram on his chest and abdomen, and she smiled to see him so decorated.

Tears were running down his cheeks now, long shuddering gasps, and the sight of the tears intermingling with blood had her pulse quickening and her breath fluttering.

He was begging, hoarsely pleading with her, and she frowned, because that wasn’t good. She was doing this for him—to liberate him from his filthiness. He should be grateful, and she didn’t like his pleas. Those were for those other ones, the ones who she would not kill. They were a work of art too, but not like Terry. Terry was special, and she didn’t want him to beg, so with a flick of her wand she removed his tongue.

There. Much better. He could still scream without his tongue after all.

Smiling, she started on his face.

It was hours later when she finally stepped back, gleaming red blood covering her face, her hands, her hair with that glorious shade of red.

Terry was beautiful now, his light shining through, and she sobbed, because at last, at last, his filthy Mudblood had been washed away, all seeping away through her cuts, and all that was left was his beautiful handsomeness, his face shining with his newfound glory. She had saved him, and she thanked her Master profusely, over and over, for showing her how to save him, because now he was safe, safe safe safe, and if he was dead that didn’t matter, because he was now—clean.

She took pictures. Close-ups and the whole of him, preserving the beauty forever and ever. It was a pity about her line of work, really, because the beauty she created never lasted for very long. But that was okay, because now she had pictures of him, and she could look at those for forever and ever, and she would always remember how she had saved her Terence.

And there in the walls of her dungeon, at the site of her first work of art, she carved in letters, deep as the ancient runes, to stay there forever and ever, with the tip of the blade that had saved Terry.

BB + TC

 

 

Post A/N: Well, it was Bellatrix Lestrange. I know I did BB, but as she was in seventh year, she wouldn’t have married Rodolphus Lestrange yet. And Terence Chalei is my own character.