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Tweak says, "¿Qué pretende usted de mí?"

Bellatrix Lestrange (sw_bellatrix) wrote in strugglewithin,
@ 2008-12-08 19:53:00

Entry tags:

*complete, bellatrix lestrange, padrig cadwallader

RP: Looking for a few good men
Date: 8 September 1997
Characters: Bellatrix Lestrange, Padrig Cadwallader
Location: Undisclosed
Status: Private
Summary: Bellatrix contemplates Mr. Cadwalader's level of usefulness..
Completion: Complete

Bellatrix waited in the deepest part of the shadows under the trees lining the graveyard. She'd sent a note to Cadwallader earlier that day.  He had best not be late.

It was time to evaluate the boy. Her Lord's ranks were sadly lacking in footsoldiers with enough brain power to cast an umbrella charm when it rained.   Cadwallader had some modicum of intelligence and a strong sense of self preservation. The question was, did he have the intestinal fortitude to be a Death Eater.

If he did not arrive soon, she would test that fortitude by pulling out his intestines and visually inspecting them.

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sw_bellatrix
2008-12-08 11:13 pm UTC (link)

Once they were outside, Bellatrix raised her wand and called out reverently, "Mors Mordre." As the great skull and snake writhe above them, she sighed happily.

What a glorious night. Her Rodolphus should be waiting for her in their chambers in the manor that had been so graciously turned over to them for their use.

"You may keep the mask," she said, turning back to the boy. He had done well. Very well indeed. "For now. Let none find it." She gave him a long measuring look. "I will send you certain tomes. Study them. No potential servant of my Lord should be lacking in his knowledge of the Arts."

It was the work of a moment to drop the anti-Muggle spells. Let the please-men come now.

"Good evening, dear Padrig." Then she was gone.

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caddishly
2008-12-08 11:19 pm UTC (link)

Padrig watched her go. There was a moment of silence and then he could hear an alarm going off in the house and the boy's cries. He turned to the door, his eyes meeting those of the boy kneeling on the floor, weeping, and for a moment, he felt an ounce of remorse, of regret, but then, in an instant, he pushed it down, suffocated it.

No more. He Disapparated with a crack and was gone, the smoke and the sight of the Dark Mark in the sky setting fire to the blood in his veins.

No more was he someone like that, pitiful, weak. Now he was the hunter. Now they were the prey.

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