A cure for insanity
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
10,495
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
10,495
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
A cure for insanity
Title: A cure for insanity
Author: The Scrybe
Email: im_sum_won_too@hotmail.com
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bellatrix Black asks for redemption.
Warnings: Mention of rape, abuse, torture (in later chapters very descriptive.)
She used to let him have her. In the dark of night, he’d come. He’d touch her in ways a father should never touch his daughter. At first he’d touch, almost caress, while she sat silently in her bed, crying unheard tears. He would kiss her, fondle parts of her that at thirteen, she didn’t know existed. When he was angry, he’d stumble into her room at night and he’d lift the bed sheets. His hand would grope and pinch, those nights he left bruises. Never high enough to scar her face. People would notice then, and he couldn’t have that. He would teach her lessons. “You should never let a boy do this...” And he would let his fingers penetrate, or his tongue would wander over her womanly parts. One whiskey midnight he came and he took her. Under hooded eyes so like her own he raped her, spilled his seed into her womb, tossed her aside, and left her room. She stopped her weeping long enough to notice that in between her legs she was bleeding. Her pure blood had been sullied by her father’s hand. She was fifteen. And so many nights after he would come to her, whenever her mother didn’t satisfy him. He would lay with her, and soon enough he was invading her. Her attempts at fighting were futile, and they only caused her pain. His wand would touch to newly bruised skin, and she would be new again; to him. In between the sheets and under him, he whispered what she should have been. “A boy, a man to carry on the name.” It was her fault. It was always her fault. When he lay with her after sex, and she curled into a ball he would whisper in her ear “You’re sisters deserve to be here, but you have to earn your blood.” She always wondered in the back of her mind if he was right, but she never had time to ask.
She had time to think though. Too much time. She thought back to her husband, Rodulphus. She was betrothed at birth, of course, to a pureblood boy. She knew that she was trading one tyrannical bastard for another, someone else to control her, to use her, to abuse her. After the marriage, she lay with him in their wedding bed, waiting for him to take her. She went to the only place in her mind where she was safe, the laboratory. She stared at the ceiling while he entered her, the first time the new sensation was awkward, having only been with one man for most of her sexual life. She toned out his grunting by counting the stirs to a potion, or timing when to add an ingredient. She was safe here. She had always been. When he finished and fell asleep, she was still there, locked away behind secure doors. She stayed there.
When she fell at the foot of the Dark Lord for the first time, at her father and husband’s command, she kissed his feet and begged him to accept her into his legion, she wanted to be his follower. He did. Her initiation was brief, the unforgivable kissed her skin like smooth silk, and she did not scream, she had years of practice. Her Lord took her under his wing, and trained her himself. He did as he pleased to her, like all of the men in her life. He tortured her in ways she didn’t know possible. He taught her how not to feel when she killed, how not to show remorse. But in the confines of her body, she was no longer there. She was solely in her mind, driving on autopilot.
When she was sent to Azkaban, she thought it something of a relief. She was no longer a weapon, no longer a sexual toy to lure men to their deaths. She didn’t have to pretend any longer. She was thrown into her cell, alone, thank goodness, and she had time to think. Time to be alone, time to be untouched. Or so she thought. It was where she was now. The halls that her cell was located were almost always empty. No dementors, nor aurors, she was alone. Twice a day her food slid into the pocket of the door, and she’d eat the slop. She’d sit opposite the wall of the cell door, looking through the four vertical bars that seeped in a gray light. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, she’d lost count long ago. But she knew that today someone was in the hall, and it wasn’t a Dementor. They were coming to rescue her from a prison she’d rather be in. When the door to her cell was blown from the hinges, she cowered to the corner. They ushered her out of her shackles and took her away, back to the pain, back to the world of pretending. She was sane of mind, in her mind, but on the outside she was a machine, ran by insanity and fueled by hate. She didn’t want to leave.
Over the years that followed, she faced her Lord few times, after her failure to bring him what he asked at the Ministry, she was forgotten, thrown away like trash. She had killed her cousin, in a fit of rage. Everyone new she’d done it, no one knew she hadn’t meant it, that it hurt her, that it haunted her. And now, she sat in front of the one man in all of the world who wouldn’t hurt her, who would understand, who would give her a chance for redemption. Albus Dumbledore.
Author: The Scrybe
Email: im_sum_won_too@hotmail.com
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bellatrix Black asks for redemption.
Warnings: Mention of rape, abuse, torture (in later chapters very descriptive.)
She used to let him have her. In the dark of night, he’d come. He’d touch her in ways a father should never touch his daughter. At first he’d touch, almost caress, while she sat silently in her bed, crying unheard tears. He would kiss her, fondle parts of her that at thirteen, she didn’t know existed. When he was angry, he’d stumble into her room at night and he’d lift the bed sheets. His hand would grope and pinch, those nights he left bruises. Never high enough to scar her face. People would notice then, and he couldn’t have that. He would teach her lessons. “You should never let a boy do this...” And he would let his fingers penetrate, or his tongue would wander over her womanly parts. One whiskey midnight he came and he took her. Under hooded eyes so like her own he raped her, spilled his seed into her womb, tossed her aside, and left her room. She stopped her weeping long enough to notice that in between her legs she was bleeding. Her pure blood had been sullied by her father’s hand. She was fifteen. And so many nights after he would come to her, whenever her mother didn’t satisfy him. He would lay with her, and soon enough he was invading her. Her attempts at fighting were futile, and they only caused her pain. His wand would touch to newly bruised skin, and she would be new again; to him. In between the sheets and under him, he whispered what she should have been. “A boy, a man to carry on the name.” It was her fault. It was always her fault. When he lay with her after sex, and she curled into a ball he would whisper in her ear “You’re sisters deserve to be here, but you have to earn your blood.” She always wondered in the back of her mind if he was right, but she never had time to ask.
She had time to think though. Too much time. She thought back to her husband, Rodulphus. She was betrothed at birth, of course, to a pureblood boy. She knew that she was trading one tyrannical bastard for another, someone else to control her, to use her, to abuse her. After the marriage, she lay with him in their wedding bed, waiting for him to take her. She went to the only place in her mind where she was safe, the laboratory. She stared at the ceiling while he entered her, the first time the new sensation was awkward, having only been with one man for most of her sexual life. She toned out his grunting by counting the stirs to a potion, or timing when to add an ingredient. She was safe here. She had always been. When he finished and fell asleep, she was still there, locked away behind secure doors. She stayed there.
When she fell at the foot of the Dark Lord for the first time, at her father and husband’s command, she kissed his feet and begged him to accept her into his legion, she wanted to be his follower. He did. Her initiation was brief, the unforgivable kissed her skin like smooth silk, and she did not scream, she had years of practice. Her Lord took her under his wing, and trained her himself. He did as he pleased to her, like all of the men in her life. He tortured her in ways she didn’t know possible. He taught her how not to feel when she killed, how not to show remorse. But in the confines of her body, she was no longer there. She was solely in her mind, driving on autopilot.
When she was sent to Azkaban, she thought it something of a relief. She was no longer a weapon, no longer a sexual toy to lure men to their deaths. She didn’t have to pretend any longer. She was thrown into her cell, alone, thank goodness, and she had time to think. Time to be alone, time to be untouched. Or so she thought. It was where she was now. The halls that her cell was located were almost always empty. No dementors, nor aurors, she was alone. Twice a day her food slid into the pocket of the door, and she’d eat the slop. She’d sit opposite the wall of the cell door, looking through the four vertical bars that seeped in a gray light. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, she’d lost count long ago. But she knew that today someone was in the hall, and it wasn’t a Dementor. They were coming to rescue her from a prison she’d rather be in. When the door to her cell was blown from the hinges, she cowered to the corner. They ushered her out of her shackles and took her away, back to the pain, back to the world of pretending. She was sane of mind, in her mind, but on the outside she was a machine, ran by insanity and fueled by hate. She didn’t want to leave.
Over the years that followed, she faced her Lord few times, after her failure to bring him what he asked at the Ministry, she was forgotten, thrown away like trash. She had killed her cousin, in a fit of rage. Everyone new she’d done it, no one knew she hadn’t meant it, that it hurt her, that it haunted her. And now, she sat in front of the one man in all of the world who wouldn’t hurt her, who would understand, who would give her a chance for redemption. Albus Dumbledore.