Resurrection

“No, no, see there! What is that thing that shows? Is it some net of death? Or is the trap the woman there, the murderess?” —Aeschylus, Agamemnon

I do not know why he bothers, really.

I cannot imagine that this guard, with his rough hands and his brutish use of my body, really thinks he is hurting me deep down inside, in the corners of my mind, which is where I am certain he is aiming for. Certainly it is my mind he wishes to break, although my body shall provide an amenable substitute.

I know this because it is what I would do. It is what Rodolphus had done, under my gaze many times before when he breaks them, fragile men and women who do not know how to survive his assault. My husband is now chained in the cell next across from me, and they have held him so that he may watch my violation at the hands of the Azkaban guards.

I do not close my eyes under his assault. I think my lips are twisted into a smirk, but I cannot be sure. He has struck me brutally against the mouth several times, and though I struggled to contain my pleasure as the blow fell, my lips are swollen. He will not notice the scratch marks where I have cut myself with my nails, in order to bleed. I feel alive for the first time in so long as he thrusts inside me and his fingers bruise my flesh.

I watch Rodolphus as the guard takes me and the others jeer their approval. He watches me with a dark knowledge in his black eyes, though his face is expressionless. Rodolphus is angry that they touch me; not for raping me, but for bringing me the pleasure I have long been denied. I shall allow him to kill this one, for it seems it was his idea to feature me as the evening's entertainment.

The man is some nameless employee of the Ministry of Magic, and I bite my lip as I think of them, the hypocrites . They would condone such activities in the dark of an Azkaban night, but in the daylight they are too good and they condemn my Lord and those who follow him. I would have the world purified, and here I lie underneath a man who is seeking to sully me.

My sister would be horrified to see me, on a dirty floor with some nameless man's hands pulling at my breasts. My skin is pulled taut over my muscles—Azkaban has made me sharper, all sinew and bones—a perfect conduit for the curse I wield so well. At the thought of the Longbottom's screams, somewhere a Dementor will be pleased because I feel so happy. I willingly share my happiness with it; we are kindred, the Dementor and I, we feel such joy in the suffering of others.

I am sore from this man's use of me; my body will ache in the morning. He is taking too long, and I have never been a patient woman for such things. Rodolphus will attest to that—my body requires very little time to find completion. I found pleasure under this brutish oaf, but I will die before I give him the satisfaction of letting him know it. I stare at Rodolphus, whose hands are gripping the bars of his cell and I wonder what he is thinking. On the inside of his forearm, I see our Master's mark, a vague shadow marking his skin that looks white in the muted light of the prison. My hands are held above me, but I can turn my head to the side and see the Mark there on my forearm, dark and burned on my flesh, burned in my soul. I have not seen the sun in eons, and the Mark is stark and black against the paper-white skin of my left arm.

The man above me finishes and I stare at the snake writhing in the mouth of the skull while the next mine climbs on top of me. The man hisses in my ear, “You are nothing but a Death Eater's whore.”

I laugh, and he strikes me across the face. I taste blood and close my eyes in ecstasy at the sweet, coppery tang of it filling my mouth. It is more welcome to me than water. My eyes cross but when my vision straightens I see the man above me is wearing a wedding ring—I wonder if his wife knows what he does at work. I smirk; Rodolphus and I had no such secrets from each other.

“Not quite so beautiful anymore, are you, Death Eater's Whore?” he rasps, and I try to not to roll my eyes. The verbal abuse is weak and ineffectual; as if I have not been cursed a thousand times with words from the mouths of my victims. It has yet to bother me. They called me Whore at my trial; it is a sobriquet I am used to.

Rodolphus growls, I can hear him. I know he thinks I am beautiful, regardless of the fact I am bone-thin and covered in filth, and I want to tell him not to give them the satisfaction of his anger, for God knows, they shall not have it from me.

Contrary to what they shout, I was never Voldemort's whore. I was his faithful servant, yes, but my body was never his. That belonged only me, and had been given only to Rodolphus. They do not understand this, these men who think to break my body, they think that just because I am a woman I am nothing more than a receptacle for the Death Eater's lust.

I am so much more than that. This they will realize on the day I am freed from this place; this they will understand when I slit their throats with a knife and laugh as they lie bleeding at my feet. They will know finally, that the way to break me has never been to rape me on the dirty floor of my cell—they think this takes away what it is for me to be a woman, but what do they know? I have always liked it rough and it is merely an inconvenience to me—they are not the first group of guards by far to find violating the female Death Eater a sport for a cold night's watch. No doubt they won't be the last.

My virginity was given long ago on the Dark Lord's altar to Rodolphus Lestrange, for some spell the Dark Lord wished to use to find eternal life. I have never much mourned its loss—my womanhood is not inextricably woven inside that which is between my legs, that which is being used by the man on top of me.

My womanhood rests somewhere else—inside my mind, in my hands that slowly clench and unclench, dreaming of the knife with which I may use to slit his throat. It is in the sharp twist of my smile, it is in the burn of my eyes. It is in my vows to Rodolphus and my service to the Dark Lord. It is buried inside of me, surrounded by my love of pain and my beautiful capacity to bring death.

They may take my body countless times, and since the sun is far from risen I know they will. They signed their death warrant by touching me, and the roughness of their possessions are a passing pleasure, nothing more. It is in their eventual pain that I dwell within in my mind, and it is why I look at Rodolphus with a smile on my face, hidden from my inept lover by the fall of my hair.

I am a woman, and it amuses me this is how they think to break me. They do not know a woman's strength is not in her vagina, it is in her mind. This they can never have, this they will never conquer, and this is how I shall triumph over them all.

I close my eyes, thinking of my Lord's face and of the reward I shall have for remaining faithful. I think of the moment I shall be with Rodolphus again, and I imagine it is he on top of me. They strike me and taunt me, rape me and hurt me, and it only makes me stronger.

Let them try and break me, and learn the truth.

Bellatrix Lestrange will not be broken, because with each thrust, with each cruel taunt, and with each blow upon my person, the pieces that have scattered when I languished alone in this cell, bereft of both husband and Lord—they are unwittingly putting the pieces back together again, and may God have mercy on them when it is done.

Because I will not.