Lost in a dimension of tumultuous thought, I find myself tangled up in a world I'd almost forgotten – a world I've been denied for years. I look about the library of Malfoy Manor and the place seems strange and cold despite the deep wood and the flames in the fireplace. The icy cold tendrils of Azkaban Prison’s relentless grip still linger upon my flesh, a traumatic reminder of my years-long imprisonment. Freedom, an whispered and elusive promise I sought for years, should feel liberating, but instead, it cloaks me in melancholy, as if the weight of a thousand shadows cling to every step I take. Here, standing alone in Malfoy Manor's cavernous library, the towering bookshelves that surround me seem to sigh with the weight of memories I thought had been stolen from me. I do remember this place, very well indeed, but that was a different life, a different time.
A different war.
My reunion with the Dark Lord was an upheaval of time itself, a harsh collision of what once was and what now is. He stood before me, a new and unfamiliar spectre of power, in one sense the embodiment of all I have ever worshipped. Yet, the human man I once knew has become something entirely unknown – a tall and terrifying creature of awe and terror, white of skin and scarlet-eyed with a hissing voice and harsh way about him that startles even me.
Now, standing before the fireplace in the library, my frail and bony fingers trace uneven lines upon my own face, as if seeking proof that I myself am still the same Bellatrix Black Lestrange who revelled in my master’s every breath before he vanished, before I screamed for him as they dragged me away to Azkaban, before I languished for years on end for him, before they brought me here. But the passion that once consumed us both has morphed into something colder, I fear. The blaze that ignited our souls before my master went off to kill the Potters has been smothered, replaced by scarcely smouldering embers that flicker with an ache I can scarcely bear.
My mind is invaded by agonising memories, fragments of moments I used to stay alive in the darkest of hours in my Azkaban cell. I remember the times we plotted assassinations together, drunk and happy. The times he kissed me up against a wall as I gasped for breath beneath his touch, the times he slid his fingers around my skin and whispered for me in the darkness. I remember stolen smirks at meeting tables, reverent bows of my head and whispered masters met with huffs of delight from him in passing. I remember the two of us, tipsy on firewhisky together, dreamers, speaking of a world where Lord Voldemort’s power was unmatched.
Back then, the connection between us was unbreakable, stronger than steel, a union that defied any Curse imaginable. But time…. it has a way of eroding even the most unyielding bonds. Time is stronger, I think, than any Curse. And he is cold to me now, in a way he never was. He has always been sharp and unforgiving and lethal and powerful, but… he is different towards me now.
Ghosts of shared laughter and hushed confessions flicker through my mind, phantom moments haunting my tortured consciousness. I was enraptured by his cause then and even more enraptured by the man, my love an unyielding beacon guiding every step I took behind him. Still, my admiration and my devotion are without question, but I feel so little in return since I was freed from prison, and I want nothing, nothing, more than to feel a minuscule hint of what he once fed me. One tiny scrap of affection in return for my allegiance and I would die in bliss.
My grip cinches around the timeworn manuscript I hold, the leather binding pressing into my palms as if to ground me in the reality of ink and parchment. The pages, a dull retelling of a centuries-old wizarding conflict, do not hold my interest just now, and I shut the book and use my wand, still unfamiliar in my grasp after so long in Azkaban, to Banish the tome back to the shelves.
“Bella.”
I snap to attention at the sound of my name, and when I look up, he is there. Him. My master. He has slipped into the library with the silent, serpentine grace of his great snake, Nagini. He moves so calmly and noiselessly these days, I have noticed. I bow my head at once as he approaches me, and as he does, he hisses something in Parseltongue to his enormous snake familiar, and Nagini seems to obey some sort of command I can not comprehend. She compliantly reverses course and exits the library, and I am alone with my master, who stands before me in silence, surveying me for a long moment with his crimson gaze before at last he says softly,
“Precisely nothing is the same.”
I hesitate, and then shake my head. “No, Master. Nothing is the same.”
He tips his head and says thoughtfully, “It is a different war now. The Potter boy has grown, and is an enemy in his own right. Narcissa and Lucius have a boy that is grown… so much has changed. You have changed, significantly, after spending so very long in Azkaban. Do not think for a moment I begrudge you the changes; you were the most loyal of anyone and I know it. And I am, undoubtedly, the most profoundly changed of anyone. So… precisely nothing is the same.”
I just blink. I have no response. He has spoken the truth, and I have nothing of substance to add. The fire flickers beside me. But Lord Voldemort reaches out to dust his spindly pale fingers around my curls, which I know have greyed a bit and gone dull, and he smiles just a little as he reassures me,
“Still quite lovely. That has not changed, as it happens.”
My stomach clenches at that, and my eyes sear. I try to thank him aloud, find that I am unable, and just nod like a little fool. He seems to hesitate for a little moment, until at last he pulls his hand back, glances at the fire, and murmurs,
“You and I were both very different, Bella, when last we… the last time you I… we were physical, quite a few times.”
My mouth falls open, and I manage at last to vocalise, “So we were, Master, and it was magnificent.”
He scoffs a little and nods. “It was. I will be in your chamber tonight at midnight, if you have no opposition.”
Suddenly my veins are on fire and my mind is swimming. His scarlet eyes meet mine, and there is a hint of a flashing question in his glance, but I just shake my head frantically and whisper through my panting,
“I have no opposition, My Lord.”
“Good.” His voice is tight then, and he snaps at the hem of his dark green robe. He has said what he came to say, so with a crisp, single nod, he turns to go, and I am left shivering with shock in the library, tears streaming down my cheeks and a hand clasped to my mouth.