Evil

Evil. That was what they called her. Demonic, insane, disturbed. But Bellatrix Black was not that at all. She was a lover. A lover of blood, and pain, and pleasure, and the feeling of her blood rushing through her veins as the screams of her enemies dying gave her an almost orgasmic feeling. Bellatrix did not hate. She loved.

She loved beauty. Fine things, and supple forms,men and women alike. She loved life and death, and the complex and mystifying divide in between. But most of all, more than anything, Bellatrix Druella Black loved power. It was in her hands, in her body, the curve of her breasts the glint of her eyes, the stance of her hips. She exuded power. As did he.

My Lord...

She called him My Lord, only because he forbade her to call him My Love, a name she used for no one else. She had loved him, truer than
her flawless bloodline she had loved him fiercely, intense and burning, like her eyes...like his soul, or lack thereof. What she had with her other lovers (and rest assured, there were many), even Rudolphous and her darling Lucius, compared nothing to what she felt for him. She adored him, wanted to become as he was.

She was a dutiful servant, and Bellatrix had never served anyone.

Rudolphous had called her insane. He feared Voldemort, as he should have, and he couldn't understand what her sadistic obsession with him was. The night he told her this, they made love on the floor. She loved being angry with him. 3 months later, she purged her womb of the cretin he left within.

Lucius had called her a whore. As if he was anything better. She was obsessed with Voldemort, and he was obsessed with her. His wife's sister. That night, she left bite marks on his body, hoping Narcissa would see. She claimed him as her own even though she didn't want him. How could she want anything so weak?

They called her evil. Said she was crazy, insane, sick. She embodied hate. The truth was Bellatrix only hated one thing. Weakness. And Voldemort was never weak. He was all power. And she would always be his.