"Breaking Porcelain," Bellatrix/Alice, NC-17 Author:green_amber Title: Breaking Porcelain Summary:The first time I ever really saw how beautiful Alice Neville was, she was blazing with righteous fury. Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Bellatrix/Alice, implied Bellatrix/Andromeda, Bellatrix/Narcissa, Bellatrix/Rodolphus Warnings: non-con, torture, implied incest
Author's Notes: I had writer's block for something else tonight, so I decided to kickstart the muse by finishing up this fic that's been languishing on my HD for about a year. I must say that it's kind of scary trying to get this far into Bella's head! Yet I wanted to do it in first person because it was originally supposed to sort of go with my earlier first-person Andromeda and Narcissa fics. Title is from a Tori Amos song. Alice's maiden name is Neville in this because (a) it's an old and storied British name and (b) it's as good a guess as any as to why her son is named Neville.
I. When I was six years old, Daddy went to France on business and came back with three china dolls, one for each of us girls. For Romy there was a porcelain beauty with chocolate-brown curls, just like hers. Narcissa’s was a blonde, of course, with wide blue eyes. Mine had locks of the darkest sable. I didn’t want it. “That’s a Muggle doll,” I said. “It doesn’t do anything.”
“But she’s beautiful,” said Daddy. “And very expensive.” He put the useless thing up on my bedroom shelf and told me to take good care of it.
I hated that doll. It just stared at me with those stupid dead eyes. Every time I looked at it, there was that vacant simper again, those eyes imploring me for something but too imbecilic to know what. One day I decided I’d had enough. I took it off the shelf and threw it to the floor. The bisque made the most fascinating noise when it shattered. That was the first and last time that doll ever did anything interesting.
II. I have always appreciated the beauty of women. I adore men, too, of course. Two different kinds of beauty, neither greater than the other. What most people don’t know, however, is that I went to bed with girls long before I ever did with boys. This was when I was still in school and still half-believed my mother’s admonitions that a woman needed a good husband to amount to anything in this world, and that a woman couldn’t get a good husband if she’d run around with boys. Later I decided she was wrong, just a fool so twisted into bitterness by her own unhappy life that she couldn’t even conceive of a woman taking her fate into her own hands, making her own decisions. Even then, however, I didn’t give up girls. They were too succulent.
My first experiments were with my sisters. I loved my sisters. I called them Salt and Sugar. Andromeda was Salt. She always hated it, or said she did, right up until the moment she convulsed around my fingers, and then there was the taste of her tears on my tongue even as her body wept its release. Cissy was Sugar. She reveled in everything I taught her. She came to my room willingly, unlike Romy, slipping in by moonlight wearing that cupid’s bow smile and nothing else but her sweet rosy skin.
Salt and sugar are well and good, but I knew there had to be something more exciting, more piquant, than Romy’s sullen acquiescence or Cissy’s sweet surrender.
Sometimes a woman wants spice.
III. The first time I ever really saw how beautiful Alice Neville was, she was blazing with righteous fury.
I’d just put the Jelly-Legs Jinx on some pathetic Mudblood firstie and was laughing as I watched him dance and dance and dance. I looked up and saw her coming around the corner, her round face apple-red with anger.
Bugger. I knew her face from around school; she was a prefect. But she was…she was gorgeous. I knew I was in trouble and yet I felt myself licking my lips. I was so busy staring I forgot to stop hexing the Mudblood. Through the haze in my mind I could faintly hear him still screaming and kicking.
“Finite Incantatem,” she said, her voice an angel’s song of mercy and compassion, and I don’t mean the insipid sort of angels that are printed on those treacly cards sold in Muggle shops. I mean the real kind, the sort with flaming swords.
Then she turned to me. “Bellatrix Black, is it not?” Her voice was full of fire and steel now. No mercy for me.
I held my head high. “Yes.”
“Fifty points from Slytherin, for hexing little children.”
“A hundred points from Gryffindor,” I said, seizing her by her childish little sausage curls, pinning her against the castle’s cold stone wall, the first-year forgotten. “For being so goddamned hot.”
She was wriggling against my grasp, but I had one hand in her hair and one squeezing at her full soft breast, pinching hard, and I shoved my tongue into her warm little mouth to silence her protests. She writhed, making impotent mumbling sounds against my lips.
I was thinking of extracurricular uses for the Body-Bind hex when she finally managed to shove me off her. She pushed me to the floor, called me names I don’t think she learned in Gryffindor House, and ran away.
IV. I expected her to turn me in for my assault upon her, but she never did. I’ve always wondered why. But for a while, I watched her in the Hall and in class, waiting for her to burst from her seat and point an accusing finger at me. She always met my eyes and went scarlet, but never said anything.
I decided Alice looked like a porcelain doll. She had these tight little chestnut curls and big brown eyes and a round face with pink cheeks you just wanted to pinch. Hard.
Alice was also plump. I mean that in the best way. She was round like ripe fruit, round like the moon. I thought all the time of how that soft writhing body had felt pressed against mine. It was impossible to concentrate in double Potions. I was wet all the time. My nerves were raw. I had to have her.
And I did, the next time I found her wandering the corridors alone. I was smart enough to cast Incarcerous, and then Silencio while she was still reeling from the first hex. Then it was just me and her and the hard stone wall.
Merlin, yes, her breasts spilling over my hands, her arms and legs straining against her bonds to no avail. She bit at me, uselessly, teeth closing around nothing between silent cries. I could taste her sweat at her collarbone. It tasted of fear and anger and hatred. I lapped it up and laughed.
I thrust my hand beneath her robes then, finding her hot to the touch but dry. I moved my fingers in, out. She opened and closed her mouth over and over, shook her head. I laughed again.
I wished I was a man, that I could force the very core of my pleasure inside her, take her, mark her with my fluids. Instead I kept her bound there, made her watch as I touched myself, my other hand toying with her breast again. She bit her lip, clenched her teeth, tried to look away and in the end couldn’t keep her eyes off me as I shuddered and cried out.
I left her there, like that, and had to bring myself off again in the privacy of my own bed when I thought of her still bound there, clothes disheveled, and what she would say when she was found.
V. After I left Hogwarts, I didn’t see Alice again until my Lord had fallen. There was some speculation that she and her husband knew something about His whereabouts. Naturally, my husband and I, along with his brother and our friend Barty, took it upon ourselves to investigate.
I tried to seduce it out of her first. She spat in my face. I had no choice but to put her to the question.
I cast the Cruciatus again and again. I laughed when she screamed, writhed, convulsed, at the mercy of my wand as she never again would be to my hands. She was beautiful even in her obstinacy. She looked like an angel, and the flaming sword was set against me.
The curse, one more time, and I saw her eyes flutter, her jaw go slack, and when the eyes opened again, Alice wasn’t in there. I pressed my hand to my mouth, not sure if I wanted to cackle or cry. In the next room, I heard her husband babbling nonsense and knew he too had been broken.
I’d shattered her, and I had no gain, no secret knowledge to show for it.
Rodolphus came in from the next room. He shook his head. “He’s gone. Gibbering. I think we’ve done all we can.”
I nodded.
There was the slow creak of a door opening, and a small boy toddled into the room. His wide brown eyes were Alice’s, and his podgy little face. “Mummy? Daddy?” he called, not understanding.
Rodolphus smiled. “Shall we have a bit of sport with him?”
Alice’s face. Alice’s eyes. Alice made whole again. “I see no need,” I said, schooling my expression to cruel indifference. “I do think the sweetest torture of all is just to leave him here, with his parents as they are.”
My husband nodded. “I think you may be right. My clever Bella.”