Who: Bellatrix Lestrange When: Sunday afternoon Where: Lestrange Manor What: The discovery of insult added to injury
Rating: Low Status: Completed narrative
It had been three days. Three days during which Bellatrix Lestrange had devoted herself to planning her husband's funeral; to attempting to see that his affairs were in order; to focusing on the very same rituals and obligations of society that she so shunned in her everyday life; to doing what he would have wished for her to do. It was longer, certainly, than anyone could have expected her to hold it together, but anyone could see that she was slipping closer and closer to the point where the last vestiges of self control would depart.
She only needed to make it through Tuesday. On Tuesday he would be buried, her obligations to him complete and she would be free to turn the full weight of her attention and wrath towards avenging his death.
But she wasn't going to make it. Not when she was forced to contend with her blood traitor cousin who dared to speak ill of Rodolphus, who dared to mock her grief and oh, she would have his head for his words from that morning. That was at least already underway if Travers was to be believed and as much as she wished to be the one to destroy him personally, at this point so long as he was dead, she could forgo the pleasure of having it be at her own hand.
The pop of a house elf into the room pulled Bellatrix from her thoughts and she regarded the creature with a weary, disdainful glance. She did not have the patience for the things at the best of times and this was most certainly not that.
"Mistress Lestrange," the elf squeaked, looking even more terrified than usual. Bellatrix was only half listening as the creature stammered about being sorry and cleaning and not seeing and offering more apologies until it said something about a note that had been affixed to the discarded burlap Rodolphus had been wrapped in. That got her attention and she held her hand out as the elf shifted nervously on it's feet before handing her the small piece of parchment and disappearing as quickly as possible.
His life was the only demand. See how the Dark Lord protects his most faithful?
There was a moment, however fleeting, that it seemed as if the truth of those words almost resonated in Bellatrix's mind. A moment in which she was frozen, staring at the parchment in her hand. Did she dare to ask why? Did she dare to question?
No. No, they knew nothing. That the Dark Lord might have been incapable of saving Rodolphus from the torments that had been inflicted upon him was, of course, unfathomable. There wasnothing he could not do. Which only left that this had been allowed to happen. That it had served a purpose.
The notion that there had somehow been some failure on Rodolphus's part that had earned this end for himself was dismissed almost as quickly as any thought of the Dark Lord's fallibility. Which left only her. She was the one who had earned such a punishment. She who had been spending so much of her time considering all she had lost. Who had allowed herself to become distracted from her path. To lose her focus.
With remarkable clarity and conviction, her mind suddenly cleared, leaving her only with the unshakable belief that Rodolphus had died so that she would once again be the warrior for the Dark Lord that she had been. That nine years of forgotten memories would be meaningless in the face of her wrath. That she would turn her grief and anger upon those who had harmed him with such a vengeance that none would be left standing.
And they dared to question that purpose.
It would be their last mistake. She was done waiting for someone to tell her who was responsible. It no longer mattered who had been the one to strike the killing blow. They would all be made to suffer. Every last one of them who dared to oppose their Lord and their great cause. And until she could find them and draw them out of hiding, she did not care who would be made to pay. She was going out. And she was going to destroy.