Lovely, Dark, And Deep
Bellatrix brushes her hair, black and sleek and shining, and looks deep into the mirror. When she was little, she never shunned the mirror, not like Andromeda and her airs, though she never took such obvious comfort as Narcissa in it, either. Bellatrix enjoyed her gazes into the mirror, knowing that beauty would meet her at the glass, without needing the mirror to prove that truth.
Rodolphus is lying on the bed, gibbering again. The Dark Lord has not yet given her permission to kill him, though she thinks that sooner or later, once a fit distracts him during battle, or ritual, or displeases Lord Voldemort, she will gain that favor. When he is himself, she is reminded why she married him, allowed him to take her to his bed, and even loved him. But he is less himself these days and more the dementor-hollowed husk hung about her neck as a trial. Her sister's husband, silver-tongued Lucius, has indicated that if her needs grow too great, he would take pleasure in satisfying them, but Bellatrix isn't mad, and Lucius has always been too craven for her tastes.
Better her cousin, dear deceased Sirius, who for all his asinine idealism was a man, than the quivering, sleek eunuch who gave her sister all of one child, and a whiny, pathetic brat at that. Draco has tried to linger in his aunt's rooms, having conceived some ill-advised passion for her in his adolescent way, but Bella has no patience, nor interest in seduction. At least Harry Potter, miserable whelp, had something resembling gumption. Had her nephew been confronted with twelve Aurors thirsting for his blood, he'd curl into a ball and welcome his fate.
But for her lord, all the strength has gone out of wizarding purebloods, all of them too content to mouth whatever platitudes The Daily Prophet and Muggle-loving fools like Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge spewed forth like sewer water. Or worse, like Lucius or Rodolphus, suffer from a critical failure of nerve.
Bella's hair-brushing has long since ceased, and her fingers trace over her neck, which is still beautiful and not worn with traces of Azkaban, though these are fading with every meal and night of sleep full of dreams of her glorious triumph over this weak and colorless world. She will replace it with one crimson with blood, wine, and gems, purpled with velvets, all of it glowing by the light of black candles in silver candelabras. And her Lord Voldemort will at last be restored, and puissant, and all his whispered promises will come true.
She shivers at the thought of the power, and the infinite pleasure of the pain he has promised.
"Death! Death! There is nothing but death!" Rodolphus screams, rattling at the chains Bella has put him in to prevent a repeat of the incident last week where he nearly wandered out of the manor. "Let me die...oh, let it end!"
Her fingers stray over her bodice, her ribs aching from the corset she's laced into, pressing the flesh into a seemly position. The woman in the mirror watches her double, mouth slightly open, as the red candle burns down, its single flame bobbing and flickering but never quite going out.
At last, moodily glancing at the mirror, Bellatrix Lestrange extinguishes the flame with two fingers, the smoke rising up in sensual curves, dancing with its separated twin in the mirror. Rodolphus whimpers, "Now it's dark!"
She rises up, her deep-red robe turned black in the sudden dimness, the line of darkness ruined only by the whiteness of her collarbones, of the flesh spilling from her corset. And Bella gazes down on the man in the bed, his breathing erratic and rattling. She will return the strength to the pureblooded wizarding world. She will. Her Lord and her love requires it of her.
"Imperio," she breathes out, shuddering. Rodolphus' breathing softens.
The thing must be done properly, after all.