Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/299513.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Bellatrix_Lestrange
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Bellatrix_Lestrange, Lord_Voldemort
  Additional Tags:
      Blood, Torture, Dark_Magic, Dream_Sex, Non-Consensual_Somnophilia,
      Underage_Sex, Rape/Non-con_Elements
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-22 Words: 2976
****** The Master and Bellatrix ******
by Donna_Immaculata
Summary
     Cruciatus is Bellatrix' favourite curse.
Notes
     Written for the 2005 Reversathon.
The pain is razor-sharp, intense; like icy needles prickling inside her veins,
boring through her skin. It is a pain beyond cramps, beyond the dull throbbing
and blood-red pressure. She has long left that stage at which she would twitch
and scream. Now it is as though her skin was coated in fire-ice; a pure white
sensation that makes her hover on edge, light-headed and dizzy. It is sharp, it
is overwhelming, and it makes Bellatrix howl with laughter.
She lies spread-eagled on the dirty floor in the Dark Lord's chamber. They have
taken her clothes away -hehas done it, the Dark Lord himself. He touched her
chest and brushed aside her hair while opening the clasps of her robe, and then
he slapped her face, once, and she fell to the ground, where she remained
crouched at his feet. The curse did not come as a surprise to her mind; but it
did come as a shock to her senses. It always did, regardless of the number of
times the Dark Lord would punish her for her incompetence, her disobedience.
Bellatrix doesn't fight it. Fighting the Cruciatus is futile, she knows that
much. She lets the harsh pain wash over her, offering herself, her body, to the
Dark Lord. She screams and cries, because it hurts oh-so-much, and
itisunbearable, and there is no way that a human can endure it without losing
their mind.
But even as her insides are on fire and her skin seems to peel away from her
bones, there is always a different sensation lurking underneath: her body,
claimed by the all-consuming pain, is no longer hers. It is suspended in an
empty space, it detaches itself from her mind more and more, and she knows,
deep down inside, that one day, she won't find her way back into that brittle -
ugly, damaged- shell of too-thin skin and too-dry bones. She will end just like
the Longbottom woman, a living dead. But not yet. Not yet.
She always manages to keep herself from falling. She accepts the Dark Lord's
punishment willingly, and she learns to let herself drown in the sensation that
overwhelms her every time her throbbing blood threatens to burst through her
skin. It is exquisite; even when she can hardly breathe, because blood from her
bitten tongue and lips floods her mouth and runs down her throat, she knows
that she is not dying, not quite,not yet, and that it is due to him, her Lord
and Master, that she isn't.
The pain has changed now; the needle-sharp prickling is gradually subsiding,
and now legions of ants begin crawling through her veins, nibbling and tickling
as they run along. She can feel hundreds of little legs, each step they take a
sharp stab, stab, stab...drilling holes into the soft tissue, drawing blood
that floods her from inside. Her mind goes blank, and she can feel herself
drown in her own blood, spiralling down, deeper and deeper -
No.
That will not happen. She will not let herself fall from the edge.
Not yet.
With almighty effort, Bellatrix draws a harsh breath, gasping as oxygen hits
her lungs. Her body convulses, jerking up and almost immediately crashing back
down onto the stone floor. Her mouth is flooded with something vile and bitter,
and she realises that she has been vomiting violently and that now there is
only bile coming up in short spurts.
The Dark Lord has lifted the Cruciatus. Bellatrix waits for the white flakes to
stop dancing in front of her eyes. She blinks once, twice, and the room comes
back into focus. Her gaze falls on the Dark Lord, towering over her. He is
twirling his wand between two fingers, and his gaze is almost tender.
Almosthuman.
The Death Eaters stand in a circle around her. They are wearing their masks,
but even so Bellatrix knows exactly that they are looking at her hungrily, like
a pack of hyenas waiting for the lion to finish feasting on his victim. But the
Dark Lord will not allow them to touch her. She is his and his alone.
The pain ebbs away slowly, and Bellatrix stretches luxuriously, slinkily,
relishing the feeling of rebirth after a horrible ordeal. There is a soft
rustle, as the Death Eaters shuffle closer to her body, naked and filthy,
rolling on the floor. Her legs haven't stopped trembling yet, and she spreads
them wider, aware of the dark red flesh between her thighs, aware of the blood
that trickles out of her. She dips her fingers into her cunt and carries them
to her mouth. Unlike the blood from her bitten lips and under her fingernails,
with which she has clawed at herself in ecstatic agony, this is the blood that
holds power over life and death.
I.
She had known that the Dark Lord would offer the Potter boy to her. She alone
had remained by his side, she alone had returned with him after the battle at
the Department of Mysteries. The other Death Eaters had proved weak and
useless, but she had fought Potter, and the Dark Lord had rewarded her by
taking her away with him and back to his home.
He had to punish her, of course. She had failed him. But even as she was
writhing on the floor, she knew that he would also reward her, and she offered
herself to him more fully than she had ever done before. The final spasms had
not yet had time to subside when the Dark Lord invaded her. She felt a sharp
stab of pain at the intrusion, but in the next moment, she opened up for him.
His mind was like steel, forcing itself into hers, pushing away her thoughts
and feelings and claiming her in a manner more intimate than she had ever
experienced before. She invited him closer, nearer, more... Pulling back from
the sheer force of him, and then pressing back, submitting her mind to his,
letting him drown out her self. He could see everything. He should see
everything. From him, from her master, she had no secrets. No shame.
This time, it was different. When the Dark Lord invaded her mind, it was more
softly and gently than she had ever experienced before. He let his mind soothe
her pain, caress her feelings and entwine with her thoughts, like a lover, and
she almost started to sob.
"Bellatrix," she heard him say. "I know what you want."
A picture formed in her mind in a flash of colour. Darkness. Dampness. Lust. It
took her a moment before she realised that she was inside Harry Potter's head.
"He is protected by powerful magic. I can't reach him there," sounded the Dark
Lord's voice.
Pain. Anger. Need. Harry Potter was craving.
"But you, who you are a true connoisseur of pain, you can."
Rage. Agony. Ecstasy.
The presence in her mind withdrew, and she found herself on the floor, blinking
up at her master.
Harry Potter was under the protection of blood.
Bellatrix knew everything about blood.
He could not be reached. He could not be killed.
But he could be tormented.
II.
She had screamed herself hoarse that night. Her throat was raw and bleeding
before the Dark Lord lifted the curse and let her catch her breath. He then
pushed into her roughly, his mind taking over immediately.
"The boy," he whispered. "Look for the boy."
As always, his presence overwhelmed her at first. She felt strong and powerful,
and the feeling was magnified by the thrumming of her body, the after effect of
the Cruciatus. But then, she began to distinguish single pictures amidst the
swirl of sensations. She caught a glimpse of wall, covered in cheap wallpaper,
white linen, a hand, and then she delved in deeper, falling headfirst into
Harry Potter's mind.
The Dark Lord's connection to the boy was very strong indeed. The boy's mind
was so full of emotions, so intense, so vulnerable - it reminded her of the
soft flesh of the human underbelly, which could be torn open with nails and
teeth. Her master had no problems invading Potter's self, and she was riding
along on that magnificent mind. The picture blurred, and in the next moment,
she felt a tingle of lust such as she had not felt in years trickle down her
spine and pool into her cunt. The boy's lust. He was masturbating. There were
his fantasies - pitiful visions of skinny schoolgirls with frizzy hair and
spotty skin. There were no faces, only breasts and the hint of curly hair on
the apex of their thighs. Bellatrix could feel him trying shamefully to conjure
up the image of a cunt, but it wouldn't come, and she laughed, delightedly,
when she realised that the Boy Who Lived was an untouched virgin.
The Dark Lord's voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Show him," it whispered, "Make him hurt."
It was almost too easy; just as the girl in Potter's fantasy acquired brown,
bushy hair and a white schoolgirl shirt, Bellatrix pushed her on her back,
ripping off her skirt and forcing her legs apart. Between the white thighs, her
cunt was a gaping, bleeding hole. Bellatrix savoured the shock that shook
Potter's whole body when his orgasm washed over him, which was then immediately
replaced by red-hot guilt.
III.
Bellatrix' body trembled and convulsed as pain slithered its way inside her,
like a snake, jabbing at her with sharp, poisonous fangs. The Dark Lord's mind
slipped in in its tow. She felt her consciousness slipping away, but her master
caught her just in time, taking her over. She was weightless, helpless, as he
let her ride on his mind, night after night, ravishing the boy's feeble self.
But it was no longer enough. She wanted to touch, to taste, to feel.
Her body was quivering against the cold stone floor. The Dark Lord strode over
to her, pinning her down with his gaze, and she melted. She was his chosen one.
She was honoured beyond measure.
She was to break the boy.
The moon had come to a full circle. Soon, the boy would be taken away from the
Muggles by Dumbledore's servants, and would be conveyed to a well protected
hideout. She had to reach out for him before that happened. She had to touch
that body once, just as she had touched that mind over and over again for a
month. He was under the protection of powerful old magic, but that magic did
not mean he was untouchable. She could not cause him pain.
But she could cause him pleasure.
Her body gleamed in the moonlight with the salve that the Dark Lord had given
her, a salve that made her feel young and feather-light. When she mounted her
broom, naked, she could see that her body looked full and ripe, like a young
woman's, as though the years in Azkaban never happened. Laughing with
breathless joy, Bellatrix set off into the starlit sky.
The wards planted around the boy's home were powerful, but not as powerful as
the Dark Lord's will. She summoned the memory of that power that had filled her
and elevated her so many times and pushed herself forward. Tonight, the boy
would not be hurt. But even so, the wards, so very fine and yet so strong,
fought her, and for a moment, she feared that she would not be able to enter
the house. But then there was pain - sharp, prickling pain that made her skin
sting - and her stomach reeled. She fell to her knees and vomited, inching
herself slowly into the neat front garden. The wards were fighting her, but
she, who had endured the Dark Lord's punishment, was stronger. They could not
hold her back, not even when her head began to spin and her body seemed to
drift away towards nothingness. With another pull forward, she had managed to
breach the wards and was now standing in the Muggles' garden. Her stomach
cramped, forcing her blood out of her. She loved those moments, when she was
standing in the moonlight, naked, feeling how her body destroyed and repaired
itself. The blood that carried no life but the promise of life trickled down
her thighs. Bellatrix wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and mounted her
broom again.
She slid off her broomstick in Potter's room. Soundlessly, she glided over to
the bed. Potter was buried in his pillows, lying on his front and making soft
snuffling noises in his sleep. These were the moments when his mind was open
and defenceless, and she had no difficulties entering it. The images she
encountered in Potter's dreams made her dizzy with joy: they were nightmares,
telling of pain and death. Bellatrix removed a small, round object from the
chain around her neck. She wiped across its smooth surface lovingly and placed
it on the boy's nightstand. It was a silvery mirror.
She moved it this way and that, until it was positioned opposite the mirror on
the wall and the bed was captured between them. Potter gave a strangled groan.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall," hummed Bellatrix soundlessly, as she knelt on the
bed, straddling the boy's thighs. A witch or wizard would never willingly stand
between two mirrors, unless they wanted their soul stolen. But Bellatrix' soul
was no longer hers. It was all her master's.
For a moment, the picture in the mirror went blurry. But even as she was
looking, she saw fragments of the nightmares that she had encountered in
Potter's dreams flicker in it. It would capture Potter's dreams, and she could
store them and keep them safe and one day, she would be able to present them to
Potter. But not tonight. Tonight, she could not harm him.
But she could touch him.
Running her hand over his hair - rough and sticky with sweat - then down his
shoulders, his back, she glanced at the reflection of his dreams. She saw the
face of her cousin, contorted in a mixture of anger and fear, as he fell
backwards through the veil. Bellatrix pressed her fingertips to the silvery
surface, freezing the picture in Potter's mind. His breath quickened and he
began making small whimpering noises that delighted Bellatrix. His godfather's
face in the agony of death before his eyes and Bellatrix' hand cupping his arse
through the layers of bed sheets and clothes were a potent combination. He was
dreaming of his godfather's death and he was getting aroused by it.
Humming to herself, Bellatrix yanked away the bed sheet and pulled down
Potter's pants, exposing his pale, skinny arse. In the mirror, the picture
changed; Sirius' face no longer expressed rage and fear. His eyes were dark and
his lips parted, and he looked deranged and dangerous. Potter whimpered and
then sighed.
Bellatrix spat into her hand and spread the spit around the boy's cleft. He
jerked, spreading his legs a bit more. Slowly, her fingers wandered down
between his legs, leaving a shiny trail of spit in their wake. She felt him
shudder when her long nails scraped over the sensitive skin of his inner
thighs, and when she cupped his balls and pulled, his left leg kicked out
involuntarily.
Her eyes flickered back to the picture and she wet her lips with her tongue by
the sight. Sirius' face filled the surface, his eyes burning from within their
deep sockets. Potter began whimpering again as his dreams showed him his
godfather's face, sharply cut and contorted with pain or lust. It didn't matter
which one it was, because Potter was rutting himself against the sheets,
against her hand, which she wrapped tightly around his thin cock, feeling it
twitch under her fingers. So young and so fragile - she could crush him
effortlessly, emasculate him and watch his life trickle out of him in a stream
of blood.
The thought of watching Potter die as he lay limply between her thighs was
exhilarating. Bellatrix threw her head back, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
The heat between her own thighs had become unbearable. While she continued
wanking off the boy, whose frantic movements indicated that he was plummeting
rapidly towards his release, she thrust the fingers of her other hand deep
inside her cunt so harshly that she felt the delicate skin rip under her sharp
nails. The blood from the wound mingled with the blood from her womb, oozed
down on the writhing boy between her legs.
In Azkaban, her menses had stopped. But he had made them come back again, made
her bleed again, made her a woman again. For him, she was the female. The
breeder. The creator. But she could also be the destroyer. Her body destroyed
and created itself anew with each month, just like she was destroyed and
created anew with each punishment.
She felt the force of life rush through her as the tension left her body in
powerful spasms. Under her, the boy convulsed, too, crying out in his sleep.
She pressed both hands against the small of his back and ran them down over the
curve of his arse, watching his semen and her blood create mysterious patterns
- of unity, of fertility - on the white skin.
IV.
Her cousin's shadowed face still filled the mirror when she picked it up and
attacked it to the chain around her neck. She raised it to her lips and licked
across the surface with the flat of her tongue. "Soon," she whispered tenderly,
"soon, the Dark Lord will let me perform the ritual. The ritual he alone has
created to overcome death. And then, my beautiful cousin, you will be back in
our midst. And we will play, my darling, we will play."
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