As the Driven Snow

Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is never the same, when you're not here.

“Bellatrix Black. I remember you from school. The terror of Slytherin House.”

“That's the nicest anyone's ever put it, Lestrange.”

“That Black Bitch more common, is it?”

“A bit, yes. Now fuck off. I've got work to do. ”

Sometimes I think the Dark Lord sends you off on missions without me because we distract each other. We do, I know that we do, and I cannot stop that. I hated you with such ferocity that when I decided to love you, the same fervor was inevitable. I still feel that burning inside of me, sharp and hot, whenever I see you.

“What are you doing over there? It's finished. We've killed them all.”

“Nothing.”

“Why's your hand…you're one sick bitch, Black, you know that?”

“Fuck off, Lestrange, before I hex you and you can't do anything with that hard prick beneath your trousers.”

“You're mad, Black. Absolutely mad.”

“No, Lestrange. I'm right. Come prove me wrong, then. If you can.”

I can tell who you are in a mask, even though we are all supposed to look the same. Even in the dark, I know you. Something about the way you stand, the way your body is poised in the night which we conquer with our spells of death and pain. The way your head rises and your neck curves as you look to the moon. I will always know it's you; there is no mask that will disguise your beauty from me. Age, the ravages of prison or death—in my lucid moments, I know it's our only future—these are but masks that will never hide your pulsing, dangerous beauty from my gaze.

“So this is what you wanted, is it? You like feeling it?”

“Maybe. Make it worth my while and we'll see.”

“Oh, I'll show you, Black. Never fear.”

“I'm not afraid of anything, Lestrange. Least of all you.”

When I'm home alone, I sleep in our bed and play with the knife. I run the sharp edge of it over my lips—I feel your kiss in the sharp bite of steel. You have never kissed me without biting, never given me pleasure without pain. This is why I love you, I think. Others tried to give me pain, or pleasure, and sometimes even both—but it was always uncertain, cautious.

You never hesitated.

“Gonna give it you, Black. Just like you want, hot and painful, yeah?”

“You don't know what I want, Lestrange.”

“Oh, but I do, Black. I do…”

I leave my hair down as I lie alone in our bed, sprawled on the crisp linen sheets. You always wanted to have white sheets—you said you liked the look of me, sin on innocence, spread out for you. I laughed, but you look just as sinful to me, all naked limbs and scarred skin. I've always found the parts of you marred by violence the most beautiful.

“See that? An Auror got too close and almost eviscerated me. Left that scar. I bet you like scars, don't you, Black?”

“Shut up, Lestrange. I have my own scars. I don't need to ogle yours.”

“I bet they're beautiful. Show me.”

“You want to see them, you'll have to take my clothes off. With that knife you have. You haven't even used it yet. I hope you know how.”

“Oh, I know how, Black. Trust me.”

I move the knife down my throat, and my pulse speeds up as I remember how you hold it against me when you are between my legs, fucking me hard. You've nicked me before and I leave the scars there without removing them. Sometimes, you run your tongue along them while we fuck and it always makes me come.

“Be careful with that knife, Lestrange! Are you trying to kill me or fuck me?”

“Both, Black. Both. We'll see which when we're done, won't we?”

The knife is cold as I sketch the point around my nipples. It doesn't feel the same when I do it. There is a pressure and intent that is lacking as it traces slow circles around each breast. It still feels good, and I still arch my back and moan.

My free hand trails across the skin of my abdomen, marked with a thousand silver scars from your lust. The moonlight spills across my body from the open window, and the little slivers gleam silver on my naked skin. It's an image you'd appreciate, if you were here. The scars look like daggers.

“Tell me who gave you this scar, Black.”

“Why, Lestrange? So you can pat them on the back, tell them what a man they are for cutting me?”

“No. So I can kill them.”

I trail the knife over my stomach, wanting so badly to cut. My hand slides between my legs, where I am wet, aching. I twist my body on the sheets, and the cold air blows in and tightens my nipples. It's snowing outside, and snowflakes are landing on my flushed body, carried in by the wind. My back arches up as my fingers slide inside, teasing. I'm not trying to replace you. I'm seeing what you see, when you touch me. I'm worshipping myself, so that when you come home, I will understand your adoration.

“You're so fucking beautiful, Black. So hot, so tight. You're like the Cruciatus and the Killing Curse and chocolate all in one.”

“You're crazy, Lestrange. Fucking mad.”

“You want it. You're wet for me. I can feel it. Think you can take it, Black?”

“Oh, I can take it. If you make me scream, I may let you live when it's over, Lestrange.”

I like to think of you in your bed, wherever that may be tonight, surrounded by however many souls you have taken with your quietly spoken curses. Does your hand slide inside your robes to caress yourself, hot and hard with the terrible lust that death caused within you?

“Shut up. Don't want to talk now. Want to fuck you, take you, God yes, so hot…”

“The Aurors will come soon, Lestrange.”

“Yes. And so will we. Now shut that pretty mouth of yours.”

I am writhing on the bed, hot and wet. The knife caresses my inner thighs, the blade cold from the chill night air. I give in to the temptation and slide the blade over my swollen flesh, trembling in terror and delight under the caress.

“You like that, don't you? Feels good? You're so fucking tight, God…”

“Been a while, has it?”

“Shut up and enjoy it, Black. I can tell you like it, you're so wet, so hot...”

“I have a name, Lestrange.”

“Black suits you better, my evil little witch. Scream my name and maybe I'll call out yours.”

I like it when you hold the tip of the knife to my throat and this is what I think about as I tilt the knife so the hilt is pressed against my clit. I move the knife, crying out as the blade slices the skin on my left hand. You will see the scars when you get home, and know what I've done.

“God, Lestrange, you fuck like a maniac.”

“Shut up, Black. You like it. Your nails…God, you've bloodied me, you bitch.”

“That backhand was unnecessarily cruel, Lestrange. Do it again.”

My free hand is scratching my thigh, and blood is dripping off my body to darken the white bed sheets that you're so fond of. I will not wash them; I'll show them to you, when you get home. I slide the knife hilt inside me and rub my clit with my fingers, furiously, one leg flung over the side and my back arching off the bed. The wind has picked up, and the shutters are banging against the house, snow is blowing into the room and getting caught in my hair.

“Going to come for me, aren't you, Black?”

“Fuck…Lestrange, the Aurors…”

“Yes, they'll be here, they'll catch us, better hurry, better come on my cock and…ah, God, hurry…”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah? I fucking love the way you hate me.”

When I come it is with a rush of pleasure and pain so intense I see white sparks, perhaps the star they named me after, as they explode behind my closed eyelids. I climax on the hilt of your knife. Not for the first time, and not the last, but it is not your name I cry out in the darkness.

It is my own.

“That was…fuck, Black.”

“Lestrange. We. Have. To. Leave. Now.”

“Fine. Going to take you back somewhere and fuck you against a wall. Want to make you bleed. Want you to scream.”

“The Aurors are here. Quickly. Wait—”

“Why, Black. How romantic. I didn't know you liked kissing.”

“Shut up and get us out of here, Lestrange. Then maybe I'll let you cut me, make me scream. If you can.”

In the quiet aftermath, I catch my breath and laugh delightedly. I am covered in sweat and snow, and there is blood on my hand and between my legs where the knife has slipped and cut me. You will run your tongue up each small red scratch and call me beautiful. I will grab your hair and arch into your mouth, and tell you I love you.

“Where are we?”

”Some place we won't be rushed. Take your clothes off. We have all the time in the world, now, Bellatrix. Now I can make you scream.”

“All the time in the world,” I say, sleepily, as I curl up in the bed and wrap my wool cloak around me. It comforts me to sleep in the cloak when you are gone. I use my wand to shut the window, but I leave the curtains open so I can see the moonlight.

~Finis