MAUGRIM (maugrim) wrote in raveled, @ 2016-11-05 12:24:00 |
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The ever-expanding diaspora of the Lestranges' home was fixed in The Gallery, and at The Gallery's heart, a new painting hung, waiting. Composed entirely of greens, thick brush strokes cut rough edges from its simple palette: water, trees, a shack. In such a fine collection of art, it was noteworthy only in its newness. Bellatrix returned, a whirlwind of mess and noise, slamming the the door and dropping cloak and mask over the elf in the foyer. She was buzzing with impatient energy—under the gloves, her knuckles were white and her wand was emitting periodic sparks. The presence of a new portrait interested her long enough to step through it. The new room it led to was drafty, and she strode towards the armchair where Rodolphus's profile was illuminated by the firelight. He was reading a newspaper. She made a choked noise of annoyance. "Let's go out and—" her eyes flickered to the corner. Bella stopped short. He reached for her in silent greeting, a broad hand finding the line of her thigh. The newspaper fluttered forgotten on his crooked knee—a compilation of updates on the war, the Marchbanks investigation, and legal reform, it held little interest for him. So many distractions from a single topic no one wanted to breach: purity. Bellatrix, to him, stood for purity. Purity of blood, of passion, of purpose. Even now, she felt like a drawn bow, taut and waiting. Willing. He watched her flashing eyes. "I thought you might like it." The muggle bound and waiting was not like the many others they'd brought to trainees. Its muscles were as taut as hers. Its eyes rolled and gleamed in the firelight. It breathed heavily in anticipation of violence. It was ready to fight to survive. "Oh yes," Bella whispered hoarsely. She reached down to take his hand, gripping it so tightly she could feel the cold metal of his ring cutting into her fingers. "I do like it. You're very considerate." The irritation that had flashed across her face upon walking in was now replaced by a more feral hunger. She licked her lips once, and then raised her wand to chest height. The ropes and gag vanished. The man in the chair cast aside his paper, receding into shadow as the woman stepped forward. The muggle looked between them and tested his newfound freedom with flexing arms and careful feet, moving lightly along old wood. Some primeval instinct yearned for the hearth—perhaps his ancestors had once huddled around a fire to ward off circling wolves. But he felt these wolves would not be daunted by fire. Instead, he moved into darkness. Here the shack was cold and green and the fireplace was a contained orange. Her shape was like a shadow animal his sister used to make on the wall. He felt for a knife he always kept on his belt. Maybe it was just a nightmare. But in case it wasn't, he tried to lower the ragged sound of his breathing. Bella, however, wasn't concerned about making noise. She let out a harsh laugh. "Are you trying to hide from us?" With a flick of her wrist, a blue whip of ice flashed through the room, scraping windows and walls, striking the man squarely in the chest, and disappearing an inch before it reached Rodolphus. The horrible sound of laughter and his own guttural pain ricocheted unevenly through the shack, distorted by ruined walls and the scrape of a chair. There were two shadow shapes now, blurred on their crisp edges by flame. The muggle understood pain even if he didn't understand the vehicle. His mind could roil over that blue jag some other time. Now he knew only that his fist had found the handle of a blade. He crouched, hand scraping old wood. "Why don't you come closer," he said bravely. "I've never been able to resist a dare." Her voice was silky, and an undercurrent of amusement rippled through. Rodolphus had really outdone himself this time. The room was silent for a long moment, punctuated only with the sounds of its three occupants drawing breath. Bella took two steps forward. The muggle lunged with his knife and at the same second, her wand swung upwards, slamming him through the wall and onto the swampy ground outside in a shower of wood and glass. He stirred, feebly, and began to pull himself to his feet. Nimbly, she climbed out of the hole and glanced over her shoulder to see if Dolph was following. Her brow wrinkled. "I think I've torn my coat." A thoughtful noise was followed by the heat of his hands on her waist. Under them, the rough and ragged edge of torn fabric, the soft curve of her hip. An easy snag for bracken, though he doubted this would bother her. Bellatrix was no silent huntress. Still. He twisted free her coat buttons and pressed a soft kiss on her mouth. "We'll come back for it." "We probably won't," she murmured, arms snaking around his shoulders. Nearby, they could hear the noises of the muggle, gasping for breath, taking staggering steps away from them towards the swamps. "Better things to do." They stood motionless for a second, and then she shrugged off the coat. A quick glance of regret at the emerald silk lining, then: "I think it's had enough of a head start." He looked for a moment like he might say I love you; instead: a huff of heat from the bottom of his lungs streamed into cool air. Rodolphus turned his predator eyes to the tree line. The muggle moved between damp trunks like a man who'd been hunted before, picking splinters from his arm as he weaved. He could hardly see through the canopy, but he knew North well enough and headed steadily that way, head jerking over his shoulder for sign of pursuit. For sign of anything abnormal. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Find trees and put them between you and your pursuer. Keep the knife parallel to the elbow. He wheeled as a branch cracked behind him and he caught sight of a face almost grotesque with exhilaration. In another nightmare, he might have been able to outrun an attacker. In this nightmare, it was two against one, and two of them had magic. The muggle let out a low grunt of pain as Bellatrix's knife—aimed by a hand, guided by a wand—slammed into his side. Still, he pressed onwards, steps slow and heavy, clutching his own blade. Bella slowed to a jog, hooded eyes disdainful. "Oh, come back here, muggle. Incendio!" A scream cut through the peaceful woods like a shrill blade, sharp as the one in his ribs. Somewhere on the distant lake: a diver answered back. Closer: Rodolphus came steadily through the trees. In the chair by the fireside, he'd seemed ordinary, maybe even sedate, a well dressed figure almost bored by his captive. Here beneath filtered moonlight he was impossibly big and as sharp-eyed as a hunting dog. He didn't laugh or smile or roll his eyes. He just pressed in ever closer, a steady presence behind his fleeing victim. The muggle slashed a desperate arm back, wheezing, snarling, confirming Rodolphus's every ugly opinion on the animal nature of their kind. Then, a cold reflection of metal. Before Bellatrix could come between them, he lunged at the wounded shape, avoiding the weapon and gathering up flesh and fabric instead. He bent back the muggle's arm until a sharp crack loosed the knife. At the noise, Bella inhaled harshly, a hand reaching up to press against her flushed cheek, bright eyes on Rodolphus instead of their evening's prey. Blood roared in her ears; biting her lower lip, she willed her heartbeat to slow. A few seconds later later, the discarded knife sailed through the air and she caught it lazily, pressing it flat against the muggle's throat. "Are you thinking right now about how this is all you had to protect you? I love it…" The knife was now trailing gently along his chest, generating beads of blood. "It's so much more personal than magic. But then, magic—" she shrugged "—there's nothing quite like it. Crucio." The word was a whispered caress. "See?" He was screaming and thrashing, crying, begging for mercy, seeing an explosion of light behind his eyelids. And then it stopped. Through the tears, he could see the blurred figures of his executioners either side of him. He tried to move his lips, maybe for a curse or a prayer. Rodolphus lay a steadying hand on him. But it wasn't a comforting hand. His arms wrapped beneath the muggle's armpits, hauling him up, pinioning each shoulder into the unyielding vice of his grip. If he wanted to pray, he would pray to Bellatrix, throat and chest upturned to her divine judgement. He had watched her crucio with a pitiless eye, but now—as he said "again"—he wanted something more personal. Something shared. The corners of Bella's mouth turned up ever so slightly in response, and she slid the blade between the muggle's ribs. He let out a shuddering gasp, eyes rolling in his head, weak attempts at resistance finally subsiding. She yanked the knife back out, examining the slick red substance coating the blade. It was similar in appearance to what ran in her veins, perhaps, but what were appearances? The knife drove in again: "There." Her whisper could have been meant for Rodolphus or for the muggle between them. For a moment, he was equal parts participant and voyeur—experiencing the reflected savagery of her eyes, the shape her lips made in monosyllabic requiem. Loving Bellatrix was strange, like loving a mountain. He reached to touch her and stopped himself. Bella sang with her lilting heart. Dolph stifled his. "Let's find your coat." |