Defiled

AN: This is the first of a series: \"Defiled\", \"Devoured\", and \"Disturbed\". I have published \"Disturbed\" prior to this because the idea for the vignette series only recently occurred to me. \"Devoured\" is forthcoming.

“I am justified, I am purified, I am sanctified, inside you.”—Nine Inch Nails, Sanctified.

Night has long fallen over the clearing, and Bellatrix Black stands robed in the circle with her face obscured behind a white mask with two round holes for eyes. Black pools reflect the scene of a circle of robed and masked figures, and she is called to the center by the harsh, rasping voice of the man who stands in the center.

She walks forward, her movements sure and swift. Her head is held high — she is a Black, no matter where she is or in whose company she finds herself. The Dark Lord stares at her with unblinking red eyes. There is a man beside him, but she pays him no attention.

“Bellatrix,” he hisses, and she kneels before him. There is a part of her that screams out to stop, to get to her feet. You bow to no one, the voice whispers, but she does not listen to it, and she waits for him to tell her to rise. In her blood burns a fury that the voice of reason can no longer drown out. I am not my sister Narcissa. The youngest is ice where Bellatrix is fire, burning hot like the star she is named after. I will shine as bright in the darkness as does the star.

Her hand draws back her sleeve, exposing the pristine whiteness of her skin. At the thought of the Dark Mark burned into that perfection, her breath pushes out in a rush. She is trembling with excitement that the moment has come, but the Dark Lord does not lay his wand to her skin and murmur the words. His hand wraps around her flesh instead, and the cold of his skin burns like the coldest of ice.

“I have…one thing you must do, Bellatrix, before you prove your loyalty,” he says in his sibilant voice. When he moves aside, she sees the altar behind him.

It is made of stone, and it is as simple as one would expect it to be. The surface is gray and hewn from some rough stone, and it is supported by two others, propped up in the wet grass of the meadow. In the day, it must be a lovely place. At night, there can be no place more sinister than this.

“I am yours to command, my lord,” she murmurs, and her voice is smooth like velvet in the night. She sees his thin lips stretch into a smile, and the horror of it thrills through her like poison.

“I require your blood, my precious Bella,” he says, his hand tracing the air next to her face. He has never called her Bella before. “Will you give me that which you have given to no man so that I may complete my dark rite?”

“I am here to swear my service — and my blood — to you,” Bellatrix says, her tone eager and terrified. The eagerness is more evident, and she knows it. They all know it, those present who have stood where she stands now. They know the terrible fright, the surge of the blood that accompanies the selling of one’s soul.

“Then you will lie upon this altar, my would-be Death Eater, and you will let one whom I have chosen take you upon the stone.” His smile is pure evil. Her heart pounds painfully in her chest. “And your virgin’s blood shall be the final ingredient for my spell, which shall increase my power and thus that of my followers — of which you petition to be.”

“You want me to let a man take me….here? In this place, surrounded by…” She waves her hand to encompass the others. She is the only woman among them as no others have risen as far as she. Lesser men will tremble in my wake. She will be as strong as the strongest of men who surround the Dark Lord, as ruthless and cunning as the silver-haired assassin himself, as brutal as the dark-haired torturer.

“I require a virgin’s blood, Bellatrix Black, but it does not have to be any particular virgin. I could easily assign the man next to me the task of bringing me some poor witch, but you are a pureblood who desires to enter my service. And besides,” he says with a dark chuckle, “I am sure Rodolphus would much prefer the way I have chosen.” Voldemort’s voice is cruel. “He has spoken of you often.” Unsaid is how he has spoken of her, though she does not require the Dark Lord to tell her this.

Her eyes fly to the robed and masked man standing next to the altar. She can tell he is eager by the way his body is poised as if he is going to pounce and devour her. It is not because he finds her beautiful, although she is certain that he does; all men do. Rather it is because they are bound by chains of mutual loathing. They have never enjoyed each other’s company; in school, they are competitors in everything. Slytherin House does not foster lasting friendships but rather teaches self-reliance; true friendship is rare indeed. Beyond that natural wariness their House inspires, there is an aura of detestation that swirls around them whenever they chance to meet. Each finds triumph in the failures of the other.

She gloried in his spill from his broom in Quidditch, her eyes sparkling at his spectacular fall. She caught his eye on the pitch and waved as he struggled to his feet clasping his broken arm; she ran her tongue over her lush mouth, and her body tingled at his look of pure rage. He laughed when a staircase shifted from underneath her suddenly, laughed as she plummeted to the floor below. He made no move to help her as she lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and she refused to cry. Their eyes met, a clash of obsidian rage. It is almost fitting that this wrath will be consummated on the Dark Lord’s altar. She will be worthy of his service, of the destiny she aches to fulfill.

Bellatrix’s soul burns with a dark desire that she has never been able to quench. Her mind has tormented her since her earliest memories with dark, forbidden fantasies she cannot control. In the dark as a child she used to hide under her pillow and fervently wish them away. Now she throws herself towards what she wants, unwilling to hide any longer. What she wants is here in this circle; to attain it she must submit to his will. She bows her head and casts her triumphant eyes downward.

“As my lord commands.” Her voice is full of that dark promise; she does not look at Rodolphus Lestrange. He is the means to your end, Bellatrix.

There is a slight murmur in the assembled circle. She has surprised them. It was not required of any of them, of course, this act of lust and pain. They would not try and stop it even if her screams were of horror. They are of the old guard; they expect women to be their wives and bear their heirs but never to join them in the dark of night on dew-dampened fields of grass. She would be alone if she struggled. Bellatrix is tired of being alone. She pushes the hood off of her face and reveals her hair, as dark as the night that presses around them, as dark as her soul shall be when the night is over.

She ignores Rodolphus as she is reverently lifted on the altar by the Dark Lord himself. There is a whisper as he instructs the crowd. She does not listen to his words but stares up at the moonless sky and the brilliant dance of stars above her. When Rodolphus joins her on the altar, she finally meets his eyes. She is not ashamed, and she will not look away. Her legs are trembling. His black eyes burn like coal, and she smiles and runs her tongue over her lips as she did on the day he fell from his broom. She is delighted to see his eyes narrow at her threateningly.

He pushes her robes off, and she is wearing nothing but red knickers and a bra underneath. The cloak is made of a heavy wool, and she likes the feel of it against her naked skin so this is all she ever wears beneath it. His gloved hands roughly push the mask from her face, and he tosses it next to them on the altar. The stone hurts her skin as it is rough and abrasive. She finds she likes it and writhes slightly on it. Bellatrix knows he does not expect her to shrink from him, never that, but likewise he does not expect her to crave her defilement. He sucks in a breath as she writhes beneath him, and she laughs lightly.

He is angered at the sound and shoves the mask off his face, which is all high angles and sharp planes, black hair sweeping over his ears. “You’re not going to laugh for long,” he hisses at her and tosses his robe off. He is wearing trousers and a white shirt underneath — practical, easy to dispose of should the need arise.

“I should hope your skills are better than that,” she agrees. She has angered him, and he backhands her. She laughs and tastes the coppery tang of blood in her mouth.

“I don’t think that is where he wanted me to bleed,” she taunts him, feeling dangerous. She knows they can see her there, spread out on the altar like some pagan sacrifice, her black hair spilling across the stones, the white skin of her lush body shimmering as if lit from within by some magic. In reality it is only the starlight, but there is indeed magic in the air — only it is not the kind written of in fairy tales and legends.

The Dark Lord hears all, and she hears his serpentine hiss of a laugh. “Bella, Bella. Always so brave,” he says. His voice almost sounds soothing, but as he addresses Rodolphus it changes into something darker and harsh. “Take her, Rodolphus. Get me that which I need for the spell.”

He is on top of her, and his hands push hers down onto the altar. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt me,” he smirks, his face down by her ear.

“I would,” she said, and he looks into her eyes. He must see it there, he must — the lust, the terror, the dark purpose she craves.

“Far be it from me to disappoint you,” he snarls, and his hands rip at her bra and tear it off her in one quick movement. Her nipples are hard from the caress of the air; he bites one and scrapes his teeth across her, and she gasps.

There is a moment when time swirls around her, and she is lost in the strange sensations. She is a virgin but is no stranger to physical intimacy. No amount of petting in the common room in the dungeons is akin to this dark, primal force tearing at her knickers and biting at her skin almost desperately. He thinks he shall break me, but he does not know how I yearn to be broken. He shall know when this is over.

His breathing is harsh in her ear. He lets go of her hands to pull at his clothes. He is certain she will not move from under him, and he is correct. Her hands are helping him. “Are you certain you are a virgin?” he taunts her as he strips. “You seem so eager.”

She leans up to pull at his trousers. “Are you certain you are a man?” she taunts back, legs sliding beneath him restlessly. Someone in the crowd laughs, their voices carry on the breeze and she is reminded of their audience. It serves to heighten her lust, and she runs her hand down the bulge in his trousers. “Certain you know what to do with this?”

“I’ll show you,” he purrs. He shoves her back roughly on the stone. His hands are shaking, and it makes her smile in the dark.

There is a chanting going on in the circle, and she is aware of it as he moves between her slightly raised legs.

“Now, Rodolphus.” Voldemort’s voice is sudden and sharp in her haze.

He thrusts himself into her, and she screams because it hurts, and she loves it. He pushes to the hilt and buries his face in her neck to whisper in her ear, “You really were a virgin. How surprising.”

She pushes her body up against his; he grunts in surprise and pleasure. “Yes. Now show me if you really are a man.”

He takes her roughly, their bodies pounding together. She is marked and bleeding from the cuts of the stone on her flesh and the scratch of his nails. The chanting has grown louder in the clearing, and she is aware that she is moaning in pleasure at his violent assault. Her hands scratch and tear his shirt, leaving bloody marks on his skin. She likes the feel of his flesh tearing under her fingers and the way he moans when she does it. There is a battle between them for supremacy as they fight to overtake the other.

“I have defiled you, in front of all these men, just like he ordered me to,” his dark voice hisses in her ear. “And they’ve all watched, Bella; they’ve all seen you grasping and pulling at me like a whore. All of them have watched me defile you. Does that excite you? You were wet before I even started.”

If it is a last-ditch effort to humiliate her, to win their battle, it does not have the desired effect. Or perhaps it does; at his words she comes and arches against him. Perhaps it was praise, after all. His hands pull at her as he spills himself inside her. He falls against her for a moment as they catch their breath. The world spins slightly, and her eyes refocus on her discarded mask lying next to her, the empty soulless eyes staring up at her. She smiles fiercely at it. She will become that mask, pristine and empty, through the pain and the lust and the blood of this night beneath the stars.

Rodolphus has moved off of her and dresses behind the altar. She is still sprawled on the stone, her body used and bloody. She stretches, the dark drive that pulses within her sated for once in her life. The satiation of that desire will not last, and she knows when it returns it shall do so tenfold. She eyes Rodolphus thoughtfully — perhaps their mutual hatred has more pleasurable implications than she has previously thought.

Bellatrix is helped down from the altar, and her cloak is pressed into her hands. She feels weak and lethargic, her movements slow and languorous. She preens before them and arches her bloodied back as she has given the Dark Lord what none of them ever could. Before she can put her cloak on, Voldemort grabs her hand. She holds her head proudly as he burns the Mark into her skin while she stands naked before his would-be dark army.

When the fire touches her arm, her head is thrown back in ecstasy. She sees Rodolphus staring at her, and she winks at him and bites her lip. She looks down at her arm and smiles at the Dark Lord. “Thank you, my lord,” she said in her husky voice, and he nods once, red eyes blazing. The sight of the Mark, burned so dark in her pristine white skin, excites her again, and her eyes stray towards Rodolphus. He smiles slightly, but his eyes still burn with hate. It is not over between them. A throb pulses between her thighs, and a flush climbs high on her cheeks.

The sun has begun to rise over the meadow as they all Apparate back to their lives, where their cloaks and masks are stored in trunks, in the back of closets and under creaking floorboards. They are pureblooded wizards in the highest echelons of society, as she is — was, she corrects herself. Toujours pur no longer.

Resolutely Bellatrix Black turns her back on the sun that is chasing away the darkness as it breaks over the horizon. There will be no sunrise for me ever again. She walks away from the altar and the scene of her defilement with a self-satisfied smile on her face.