one word for your fans: astronaut (falseeeyelashes) wrote,
one word for your fans: astronaut
falseeeyelashes

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fic: tea cup and saucer (hp)

tea cup and saucer

fandom:
harry potter
disclaimer: not mine
rating: pg
word count: 421
characters/pairings: bellatrix; slight bellatrix/rodolphus
summary: she slips; he breathes.

notes: deathly hallows spoilers.


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she’s afraid of a light in the dark

(spark, tori amos)


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For Whom It May Concern:

Upon the death of one Bellatrix Black Lestrange, nary a soul of the Wizarding World shall take to the streets in demonstration of their mourning. Instead, she shall pass – like so many bad memories disguised as dreams through the night – in silence.

It shall be the ultimate parting insult to the girl who always believed she would go down in nothing short of flames.

Still, she will laugh; that final breath will catch in her throat, a stillborn hiccup, a good-bye.


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Narcissa was the fair one, all graceful bends and curves and painted lips. She was the girl who could curtsy on cue, the apple of Mother’s eye.

Andromeda was the spirited one, with sharp wit and mind to match – a fair disappointment, Sirius once sneered.

Bella, Bella, my Bella, Father would coo, and smartly glance away when her teeth would begin to gnash.

(Now, now, my dear: Mother and Father speak in voices of ash, six feet beneath the earth’s surface, and Narcissa slides pale hands along broken marble and Andi pens obituaries with a shaking quill.

Your Lord is dead: how convenient.)


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As a child, a young woman even, Bellatrix Black always assumed all French men were inherently effeminate. The perfectly styled and coiffed hair, groomed moustache, the curling cigarette smoke, and maybe a beret, just for panache. 

Rodolphus is a Lestrange and the Lestranges are French, albeit English bred.

She lets the irony coil deep within, for scarcely five minutes after meeting he had bred a new definition of masculinity for her.

“For shame,” she had cursed. “For shame.” His hands were rough upon her skin.


-


Azkaban tasted like mothballs – how trivial – like the past, permeating through layers of skin, burrowing deep inside.

“You can’t shake it,” she mutters, still, outside the walls. “You can’t shake it, you won’t shake it – ”

She used to say this there, too, as she would curl about a corner, cold shivers racking her bony frame. Would you believe she still held her head high? Even as time stopped and stilled?

Her hair would catch along the brick wall. Her teeth would slide the length of her bottom lip, slow.


-


Now, now, Rodolphus sips long and slow; hot liquid scalds his tongue –

He breathes.


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fin.

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