Don't Look Away: A Drabble Collection, a harry potter fanfic

I began this a while ago, writing bits and pieces here and here, editing and whatnot, changing little things, all that (does anyone blame me for keeping it a total secret? LOL). It has been really cool, considering how busy I've been and not having a lot of time to write. It's just little scenes in my mind that may or may not appear be expanded in the future. I've been falling in love with this, one drabble at a time, and I hope you like it too. Tell me your favorite(s) (if you like this at all), okay?

What was I going to say? Oh, right, I have met so many amazing people on this site. They're the ones who keep me writing, and are also awesome friends as well as writers. I take pride in, slowly and steadily, converting them (if they weren't already) into full-on Bellatrix/Rodolphus shippers. You know who you are. And of course, all those who I might not know as well, but whose reviews (mostly for "AiL") make me strangely happy too. So, this drabble collection is especially dedicated to (sorry if I forget anyone, I swear it's not intentional): Jacalyn Hyde, xoxLewrahxox, xx starlight-moon xx, DaringD, Attraversiamo, LazyCatfish27, Av3322, riskinglife, notwolf.

All this sentiment is making me feel a bit awkward, LOL. So, I'll pretend I'm not being sappy, and, with my usual shamelessness, I'll finish with two words: Reviews, please!

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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"Don't look away, don't run away, baby, it's only life
Don't lose your faith, don't run away, baby, it's only life."
- Kate Voegele, "It's Only Life"

---

A is for Astrology

"Look, Rod," the sixteen-year-old girl says, gesturing to one corner of the night sky as they lie in the grass, their hands intertwined. "That's the constellation Orion. And there, his left shoulder" – Bellatrix points emphatically – "is my star. Do you see it?"

Squinting, Rodolphus points in the same general direction. "That one?" He honestly has no idea how to differentiate between the stars that spilled overhead.

"No, that's Rigel . . . Orion's left foot" – Bellatrix frowns – "how can you confuse them?!" She shakes her head in giddy disbelief. She tries to explain again, but she admits defeat when his blind guessing has her unsuccessfully trying to stifle her laughter. "Oh, forget it."

Suddenly serious, Bellatrix says after a wistful pause, "People say that the stars can predict the future. Astrology, they call it. Do you suppose it's possible?"

"Maybe. It hardly matters though. We'll create our own future without heeding to a bunch of stars."

Bellatrix is quiet, so quiet that Rodolphus wonders if she has fallen asleep, or if his solemn honesty has frightened her. But then she turns to him with the entire world in her eyes, a smile only for him. "Yeah, I'd like that."

B is for Bliss

When Bellatrix flounces down onto the grass beside him, Rodolphus' jaw almost drops. On account of the summer heat, the fifteen-year-old girl has, unsurprisingly, set aside her wardrobe of vivid dark colors. It is also unsurprising that she is wearing a simply lace sundress.

But it is white. It isn't any of the lightest pastels . . . it's an utter lack of color, it's . . . white. He has never been able to imagine her wearing it, but now he cannot understand why.

Rodolphus silently reaches over for a wild blossom, quickly settling on an exotic peach orchid. As Bellatrix watches him with a wry smile, he breaks off part of the stem and tucks the elegant flower behind her left ear. He grins. "There. Perfection, mia Bella."

Bellatrix thanks him, beaming, and begins to nibble at a chocolate covered strawberry. Rodolphus finds that he is unable to take his eyes off her. She makes a strange angel, but there is no denying that she looks simply divine, the sunlight stroking her dark curls and making her gray eyes sparkle. Everything seems to be perfect, but it feels off, somehow.

It isn't until Bellatrix throws a strawberry at him that Rodolphus feels that things are as they should be.

C is for Comfort

When she hears the news, Bellatrix starts shaking. After several moments, a stifled sob slips unwillingly past her throat, causing Rodolphus to watch her with growing concern.

"I hate him, I hate him!" she screams, throwing herself against her husband, pounding her fists repeatedly against his chest. Rodolphus strokes her dark hair and then pulls her against him tightly, forcing her to still.

Bellatrix whimpers pitifully in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. Tomorrow, she will not admit to giving way to such weakness, but today . . . Regulus' abrupt death has released a flood of anguished emotions that she is unable to ignore, unable to suppress as she usually does.

So Rodolphus holds her comfortingly as she cries; not only for Regulus, but for Sirius, for Andromeda, for every little piece of her childhood that has been torn away from her in this cruel, cruel world.

D is for Dancing

"No, Avery!" Her words are accompanied by a childish stomp of her foot, but she is ignored by the other fourth years partaking in this week's mandatory lesson on ballroom dance. "You're getting the steps wrong!"

Rodolphus watches, utterly amused, as Bellatrix snaps at poor Avery, who has stumbled twice and stepped on her foot three times already. The boy's movements are clearly not up to par to his dancing partner, who executes the steps as easily as one might breathe.

Rodolphus shakes his head, and, stepping forward, taps Avery boldly on the shoulder. The boy looks at him gratefully before he steps aside, and Rodolphus takes his place. Having learned the steps as a young child, he moves with equal grace, until even Bellatrix is looking mildly impressed.

When the dance ends, there is a burst of applause. Rodolphus bows gallantly at their audience while Bellatrix sweeps the skirts of her school uniform into a makeshift curtsy, somehow managing to look every inch the belle of the ball.

E is for Ease

Rodolphus stares unseeingly into the distance, overwhelmed by the utter despair of the situation. She is in the cell across from his, and he feels the urge to blame this all on her. There is no doubt that they will be spending the rest of their lives in Azkaban, a realization that makes him shiver in distress.

"Rodolphus?"

He ignores Bellatrix's faint whisper, watching as she turns away from him, rejected. In the painful silence, he is filled with a sudden surge of guilt for trying to hold her responsible for all that has happened. She is his partner, his lover, his wife.

"Mia Bella." She looks up slowly, moisture on her cheeks. He swallows the lump in his throat, and, trying to ease her, mouths silently, "I miss you."

Bellatrix stares unwaveringly at him, and he feels a determined mental probing. Rodolphus opens his mind to her immediately, and he feels her comforting presence as she shakily lowers her Occlumency shields as well. Her thoughts resonate inside his mind, the words as painfully clear as if she spoken them aloud.

I miss you too.

F is for First

Afterwards, they lay quietly for several minutes, still entwined, hazily trying to catch their breaths. The silence is strange but comforting, and neither of them wants to break it yet.

Then, Rodolphus gently brushes sweat-damp curls from her face, feeling that some words are necessary. "Bella," he whispers awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. "I forgot that it would hu—"

"Stop," Bellatrix interrupts. "Don't spoil it." Her words come out harsher than she intends, perhaps from the pain associated with a first time or her unwillingness to cheapen the experience with unnecessary sentiment.

Rodolphus nods, slowly leaning forward and brushing his lips against her forehead. As he kisses her, Bellatrix swears she feels him, past coherence, mouth the three words in her heart. He hesitantly pulls her closer, and, because Bellatrix could never have exposed herself so vulnerably to anyone else as she did tonight . . . she lets him.

G is for Gossip

"I can't believe he took her," Eliza Warrington whispers lividly. "Of all the people! To the spring ball!"

One of her cronies sighs wistfully, "They do look pretty together . . ."

"What?" Eliza hisses dangerously.

Dancing a few feet away, Bellatrix resists the urge to smirk. It is impossible to miss the jealousy in the older girl's voice, especially when it is written all over her face as well.

"Someone's having an absolute fit," she murmurs condescendingly to Rodolphus, her graceful steps not faltering at any moment. Bellatrix always moves flawlessly, and tonight, gowned in beautiful emerald silk, she only looks all the more dazzling.

Rodolphus merely smirks. "What did you expect? She is hardly known for her sweet disposition." His steps are careless enough to be charming, and he looks equally handsome in his splendid navy robes. Suddenly, he suggests, "Imagine if we gave Ms. Warrington something to really be upset about."

"Why, how cruel that would be of us, Mr. Lestrange," Bellatrix replies lightly, blinking in such an innocent way that it juxtaposes sharply with her dark features.

"I knew you'd agree." He kisses her, and they are rewarded with the sound of Eliza stomping off, probably to find some unsuspecting student to vent her fury on.

H is for Home

Bellatrix trails her brightly-painted fingernails along the side of the newly-purchased chaise lounge that she is laying on. "Oh, this is lovely, Rodolphus," she says approvingly.

Arrogantly, Rodolphus drawls, "Of course. I do happen to have excellent taste."

"Only in furniture?" she teases brightly, practically giddy after returning from a splendid honeymoon and finding herself the mistress of such a beautiful manor.

"Well, I daresay that there might be another . . . example." Leaning closer, her husband kisses her, gently at first, then with greater need, encouraged by her always responsive enthusiasm.

Breaking off the kiss, Bellatrix asks huskily, "Are you certain that we're alone?"

Rodolphus grins. "Quite."

Smirking impishly, she asks, "Then what are you waiting for?"

Immediately, Rodolphus lifts her into his arms, pressing a passionate kiss against her throat as he carries her over to the large bed.

The best part about having a home of their own, they discover, is the privacy to do whatever they want, whenever they want.

I is for Identity

"Bellatrix," she whispers frantically, a word that hardly has meaning. "Bellatrix, Bellatrix . . ." There are moments she can't remember her name, moments she forgets that she even has one.

It is a sign that she is going mad. Little by little, piece by piece, this existence is slowly killing her, tearing her apart in the confines of her own bloody mind.

She can't give in, she won't. She won't give in because she refuses to and she has to be strong because . . .

Another word flickers in her mind briefly, suddenly.

"Lestrange," she murmurs. And the memories come rushing back, of the dark-haired man she thought she would get to spend forever with. Curling into a protective ball, childlike, she forces herself not to forget this, forget him, biting her lip until the coppery taste of blood fills her mouth.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, Bellatrix . . ."

She does not know, but her husband is doing the same thing, dozens of cells away, trying not to forget himself and the person that means everything to him.

J is for Jealousy

"You'll never guess who I saw today," Rodolphus announces.

Bellatrix does not bother turning from the vanity as she combs her dark, unruly curls. "Who?"

"Demetria Greengrass" – Rodolphus smirks – "you remember her, don't you?" He grins as he fondly recalls their later school years; in-between break-ups, he had occasionally courted the delicate blonde, something that had thoroughly irked Bellatrix to no end, even though she had acted in the same manner, flirting shamelessly with her many suitors in retaliation.

Bellatrix sets down her comb very deliberately before she half-turns in her seat and glares at him. "You best have an explanation for that idiotic grin you're wearing."

Rodolphus chuckles lowly, amused. He murmurs, "Jealousy is such a pretty color on you, mia cara." Planting a light kiss on her forehead, he adds, "However, absolutely unnecessary. I am utterly glad that I'm married to you."

Bellatrix smirks, as if he is simply stating what should be blatantly obvious. "Of course." She calmly returns to tending her hair, leaving Rodolphus mildly confused at her sudden change of mood.

Why is it, he wonders, that women are always so unpredictable?

K is for Kill

"Stupid girl," Bellatrix mutters, sipping at a glass of Firewhiskey, wincing slightly at the taste. Rodolphus glances at her from the other side of his room – she isn't supposed to be here, but it's hardly the first rule they've broken tonight – as the eighteen-year-old girl continues in the same scornful whisper, "What did her foolishness get her?"

Death. The girl was a petite little thing, a new Auror who was too bold, too determined to prove herself in the field against Death Eaters. Yaxley had ordered Bellatrix to deal with the unexpected problem, and she did.

"It's normal to feel a bit strange after your first kill," Rodolphus tells her knowingly. "Just remember your goal." He walks over to the desk and refills his own glass, easily tossing down a large swig of the alcohol.

Nodding briefly, Bellatrix looks up at him and corrects resolutely, "Our goal." She lifts her glass to him, and he raises his in response. They drink, the ring of clinking glasses hanging in the air like the final unforgettable note of some melancholy chord.

L is for Loss

Bellatrix wakes in their bed, dazed and alone. Her gaze flickers aimlessly around the room, and her grip on the blankets tightens involuntarily. Something feels very wrong. Then, suddenly, it all comes back to her, and she cannot stifle a soft cry of horror as she remembers.

Horrible cramps that leave her sobbing on the floor, clutching her stomach as blood pools around her. Rodolphus holds her, frantically ordering one of their house elves to summon a Healer, though they both know it is too late. They can do nothing, and the sense of utter helplessness kills them both. She cries in his arms as their child dies inside her, between them.

There is whispering outside. Bellatrix hears the Healer telling her husband that after this, it will be difficult, maybe impossible, for her to conceive again.

She curls up on her side, and cries until she falls until an exhausted sleep.

Rodolphus comes to her later. Bellatrix lashes out at him with both words and actions, but he refuses to leave, holding her tightly until she stops struggling. They are heartbroken and they will never be able to get back to how it was before, but damn it, they will learn to cope.

Somehow.

M is for Mischief

"Stupid, pointless waste of time . . ." Rodolphus mutters distastefully as he untransfigures another snuffbox. As he hands the struggling mouse by the tail to Bellatrix Black – who has a similar look of dislike on her face – he fixes her with another annoyed glare for getting him into this joint detention.

She immediately drops the mouse onto the floor. Rodolphus curses under his breath and dives for it, falling flat on his face. "Ow." Bellatrix fights desperately not to burst into sadistic laughter. Practically throwing the offending mouse into the cage, he marches back to the desk, rubbing his jaw as he hears an exasperated McGonagall deduct ten more points from Slytherin.

This, however, does not discourage Rodolphus from stepping behind Bellatrix and nonchalantly dropping a particularly wiggly snuffbox onto her head.

A painful kick to his shin and the loss of fifteen House points later, Rodolphus grins broadly as he recalls Bellatrix's stunned, unladylike yelping – especially when she realizes the object was not, at the time, a mouse – and the professor's visible agitation at their mischief. All things considered, totally worth it.

N is for Never

Bellatrix stares unwaveringly into the fireplace, mesmerized by the fiery blaze of the flickering flames. It is the peak of summer, and the temperatures are almost unbearably warm to most people, but the heat doesn't actually bother her.

After Azkaban, it is difficult to feel anything but cold. She inclines her head slightly, trying to savor this warmth. Instead, she only feels tired. Tired of all the fighting, tired of all the casualties, tired of everything.

The door creaks open behind her, and there is the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps. Bellatrix smiles, turning . . .

. . . and then her eyes flicker open, and she finds herself completely alone. She bites her lip, feeling hollow.

It has been exactly forty-seven days since the battle at the Department of Mysteries, exactly forty-seven days since he was taken away from her. Still, she has the same dream, night after night, of reaching for someone who is never there. It disheartens her, and she occasionally finds herself in doubt of whether or not they will ever be reunited.

A stifled sob slips unwillingly past her throat, and she clings desperately to the only hope she has, to the only thing she can be certain of.

I will never let go, I promise.

O is for Offer

One hour after Bellatrix assures the Dark Lord that she will "prune her family tree," Rodolphus finds her in their room, shivering from the chilly air and staring plaintively out the window. No matter how strongly and frequently she voices her hatred for her blood-traitor relatives, Rodolphus knows that there are some things easier said than done.

"I could do it, if you like," Rodolphus offers emotionlessly.

Without turning, she asks in the same dispassionate tone, "Would you?"

"I would die for you."

"I know." Bellatrix laughs lowly, unable to decide if this is a good thing, before adding softly, "And I for you." She sighs, conflicted. "But you won't have to kill for me, not this time. It's my problem to deal with."

Rodolphus nods silently, and, stepping forward to stand beside his wife, slips off his cloak and drapes the heavy garment over her shaking shoulders. She will always have his help, whether she asks for it or not.

P is for Paranoia

Rodolphus hears muted footsteps approaching him. Someone is going to regret sneaking up on me, he thinks sardonically, quietly drawing his wand.

Two seconds later, he whirls, shouting, "Flagrate!"

As the burning, fiery flames of rope leave the tip of his wand, there is a familiar shriek of surprise as the figure dodges. Rodolphus blanches with shock when he realizes exactly who it is. "Bella? I thought you weren't returning until tomorrow . . ."

Bellatrix exhales sharply, quickly composing herself. Then, she raises an eyebrow at the scorch mark on the wall. She quips, "Well, I've heard of being stressed out prior to a wedding, but this is ridiculous."

Rodolphus does not crack a smile, suddenly realizing the full implication of what has just happened. If he used a different spell, if she hadn't ducked in time . . .

"Bloody hell, Bellatrix! You could have been killed!" he says in a strangled voice. "Don't you ever do that again!"

Eyes wide, she pouts at his reprimand, though she remains silent. When Rodolphus loses his temper, it is better not to push him over the edge, better not to tempt the ruthlessness that he occasionally exhibits.

It takes a lot out of her, but she manages to mumble an apology. He embraces her tightly, very aware of the Dark Mark emblazed on his arm. Knowing very well how dangerous these times can be, his paranoia is perfectly justified.

Q is for Question

"Bella, I have a question for you," Rodolphus says, between skimming kisses down her throat. "Did you promise to meet Rosier in the common room this evening?"

"Why, yes, I did," Bellatrix purrs, tangling her fingers in his hair.

"And what, may I ask" – Rodolphus grips her shoulders and slams her against the dungeon wall with a low, mocking growl – "were you planning to do with him?"

"Oh, you know. Do some revision, discuss the weather, the usual," she deadpans.

I'm not amused, love." The slight quirking of the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise, however.

"No? Then does it amuse you that, instead of me, Rosier will find the ever tiresome Patricia Parkinson, who has some crazy notion that he's had a change of heart and is now madly in love with her?"

Rodolphus snickers at the mention of the slutty, unattractive, and currently disillusioned girl. "Really? Now why would she think that?" Bellatrix shrugs slyly, and he shakes his head in false disapproval. "You're incorrigible."

Bellatrix smirks before she pulls him down for another heated kiss, one which he is all too glad to reciprocate. Huskily, she murmurs, "You know, Lestrange, you do have the strangest ways of complaining about my faults."

R is for Resolve

Bellatrix strides determinedly towards the bedroom, intent on discussing the final preparations for the upcoming battle. "Rodolphus," she calls, and then comes to a sudden halt. "What are you doing?"

He looks up, startled. "I was looking for a book," he explains, sounding almost guilty. "And . . . I found this."

What the hell can be so distracting? Bellatrix stomps over, an unspoken anger welling up inside. Her eyes widen, her anger fading away, and she quietly takes a seat beside him.

It is a photograph album. However, Bellatrix never expected for it to be of them. From their teenage trysts to their wedding day to the bliss of married life . . .

Looking back, it all seems so long ago.

She swallows the lump in her throat. "Those were good times, weren't they?" she asks, her voice strangely soft, vulnerable.

"The best," Rodolphus agrees faintly. Something flickers in his gaze – the hardening of resolve. "We'll have those again, mia Bella. We'll win this, and we'll have everything again."

Bellatrix nods, though she is unable to recall the last instance she felt such doubt. Because either the success they had fought for would soon be realized, or —

Rodolphus' hand wordlessly finds hers, pressing softly; a motion meant to distract her from the realm of thought that is too painful for either of them to consider.

No. Neither of them would think of the alternative.

---

S is for Speechless

Rodolphus pulls out a red velvet jewelry box from his robes and opens it, revealing a ribbon choker, adorned with a translucent ruby pendant. It sparkles in the light, the faint glint of an enchanted star. "Do you like it?"

Bellatrix feels her breath catch sharply in her throat. She slowly reaches over and grazes the piece of jewelry with soft fingertips, looking up at him questioningly with wide eyes. "Wasn't it expensive?"

Rodolphus snorts, albeit affectionately. "Tell me about it. I've never purchased anything like it, in my sixteen years."

He holds it out to her, tantalizingly. Bellatrix is awed by how prettily the ruby shimmers, how well-suited the delicate choker is to her tastes. "Wow, Rod, it's—"

"Going to look lovely around your neck," he finishes for her. He reaches over and fastens the clasp as he murmurs, "Happy Birthday, mia Bella." When she remains silent, he prompts, the corner of his mouth lifting into an arrogant grin, "Now, what do you say?"

Bellatrix is speechless, utterly lost for words. Smiling wickedly, she kisses him instead.

T is for Tranquil

Fourteen years in Azkaban has made Rodolphus an insomniac.

He watches his wife as she sleeps, safe in his arms. Even when she rests, she looks tired and worn out by the long years of suffering. It doesn't concern him — she is always beautiful in his eyes, and he is only proud of her for surviving like he did.

Rodolphus strokes her cheek gently, wondering how she can be so fragile in slumber, when it is a completely different matter when she is awake. He needs – wants – to look after her because Bellatrix always needs to be watched over. She is a danger to others (obviously), but, occasionally, even to herself.

He leans closer and brushes his lips against hers, too softly to wake her. She unconsciously startles a little, and, though completely unaware, curls up closer to him.

He smiles slightly, closing his eyes. It is a small comfort, but one nonetheless.

U is for Unease

Bellatrix sits in front of the window, straining to see through the darkness of the night as the heavy rain pours down endlessly. She incessantly turns to the grandfather clock, watching the countless hours pass by, excruciatingly slow.

Near the crack of dawn, she presses her forehead against the glass, trying to suppress her fears. What would she do if he did not return, all because of a trivial fight? More importantly, what would she be without him? She would be without her partner, her companion, her everything.

Bellatrix stands abruptly, unnerved by her own thoughts. She walks over to the cabinet, removing a bottle of Firewhiskey and pouring herself a drink. Raising it to her lips, she throws its contents down and slams the glass back onto the table, gasping as she feels it burn all the way to her stomach.

The door creaks open slowly, and Bellatrix turns. Rodolphus stands before her tentatively, soaking wet, holding a small wrapped package – a token meant to earn back her good graces. She lets out a breath that she did not realize she was holding, breathing out, "Rodolphus."

He sets the package on the table, grinning crookedly, and Bellatrix embraces him. He draws her into a passionate kiss, and the gift lies forgotten, because it has never actually been missed in the first place.

V is for Violets

There is a beautiful bouquet of flowers waiting for her at the Slytherin table. Bellatrix reaches for them, a small smile tugging at her lips at the sight of the bright hues of blue and purple and magenta — violets.

It is hardly a rare occurrence for her to receive flowers, but these are the first from this particular sender, and she has a feeling that they won't be the last. She grins as she studies the card, which says: 'Violets cannot compare to your beauty but neither can anything else. – R.T.L.'

When Bellatrix carefully lifts the bouquet into her arms, she hears a familiar voice ask confidently, "How do you like them?"

She turns, answering nonchalantly, "I would have preferred tiger lilies."

Unfazed, Rodolphus responds with an arrogant grin, "Ah . . . beautiful and honest."

Laughing, Bellatrix swats playfully at him. "Cut that out. Flattery doesn't get you anywhere, you know."

Noting the pleasure in her eyes as she gently traces the delicate petals and leans forward to savor their ambrosial scent, Rodolphus grins smugly. "Quite the contrary, in fact."

W is for Work

"Filthy blood-traitors . . ." Bellatrix mutters under her breath, her voice the only indication that the dark alley they are standing in is not as empty as it appears to be. As they wait, she is unable to refrain from making such comments regarding their targets – two purebloods, the husband a Hitwizard that has been particularly troublesome as of late.

Veiled by the darkness as well, Rodolphus shushes her sharply. "They will get what is coming to them, love, if you will just keep quiet." He glances around their surroundings once more, satisfied that the streets are indeed empty. "Let's go," he whispers.

They complete their mission with very little difficulty. As they leave, Rodolphus smiles slightly as Bellatrix raises her wand with an exulted laugh. The incantation tumbles from her lips easily, and the Mark bursts into vivid life above the house, an aurora borealis against the ink of the black sky.

X is for Xenial

The six-year-old boy moves quickly through the grounds. The adults' garden party is being held at his home this week, so he knows all the good hiding places, but this means he has to win the game or be mocked endlessly.

He comes to a sudden halt in a nearby meadow. A dark-haired girl is sitting by the stream, shredding wildflowers. "What are you doing?" he asks, walking over.

She turns, and he is certain he has never seen anything quite so pretty. The sunlight strokes her hair, and it is tempting to give one of her bouncing curls a good, hard tug.

"Hiding," the girl says defiantly. "Not studying French."

"Why? Girls are supposed to study lots of things."

Her gray eyes flash insolently. "Who says?"

Not sure what to say to someone who challenges his every word, he mumbles, "Everyone does."

"Well, maybe I don't want to do what everyone says."

The boy shrugs, unconcerned. "I can speak French," he announces boastfully.

"No you can't."

"I can too!" He recites a slightly advanced passage that he memorized from his lessons, stumbling only a little over the more difficult words.

Trying not to look impressed, the girl pauses before offering, "You're alright . . . for a boy." Before he can reply, he hears his friends calling in the distance. He scampers off with a quick goodbye.

Later, he realizes that he doesn't even know her name. He shrugs. How special can she be, anyways?

Y is for Yuletide

Rodolphus finds Bellatrix standing by the refreshments, holly and ivy woven through her ebony hair, sipping delicately from a flute of champagne. "Ms. Black," he addresses, the words rolling off his tongue easily, though he is unable hide the slight smirk that accompanies the formal greeting.

"Mr. Lestrange," she responds carelessly, her mouth curving into the semblance of a coy smile. Without looking, she gently places the empty flute onto the table behind her. "Are you enjoying tonight's gala?"

"Somewhat, Ms. Black," he replies, letting his eyes drift obviously, appreciatively over her choice of dress – a crimson gown tightly-corseted to accentuate her figure, its neckline cut low to reveal a tasteful amount of cleavage.

Bellatrix raises an arched eyebrow, uttering softly, "Oh?"

"I will find tonight much more enjoyable when you dance with me."

Bellatrix grins before abruptly walking away from him. Undeterred, Rodolphus follows and grasps her arm, firmly. He raises her hand to his lips, pressing a searing kiss to the inside of her wrist before pulling her possessively to him for a waltz. "You haven't been nice enough this year to get me for Christmas," she teases.

Z is for Zenith

In the aftermath of the Dark Lord's defeat, no one notices a woman slink from the piles of dead bodies that litter the Hogwarts grounds. She makes her way towards the Forbidden Forest, desperately hoping that it is not too late, that he is not already gone . . .

After watching her fall, he runs, only to later realize he has no one to run to . . . besides her. He lingers at their designated location – planned in the unlikely case that the Dark Lord falls once more – clinging to the faint hope that, perhaps, a miracle might happen, that maybe she isn't dead and lost to him forever . . .

She finds him, and, after his shock passes – she confusedly explains about casting a non-verbal shield at a lethal spell that wasn't the Killing Curse – he embraces her tightly.

The pair watches as the bodies of Death Eaters are being dumped in a mass grave, painfully aware of how either of them – maybe both – could have been there. They have already lost out on most of their lives for the Cause – is there even a cause anymore? – but they will not lose each other.

They will have to leave Britain as quickly as possible. They don't know where they will go, or if they will ever return. The only thing that they do know is that this unexpected chance to start anew will be the highest point of their lives.

After a long moment, Rodolphus places a telling hand on her shoulder. It is a silent reminder that they need to leave, and she nods. They turn and slip away from all this, and neither of them looks back.

Author's Note(s): Did I ever mention that I have allergies? In addition to all the usual – pollen, pet dander, peaches – I'm also allergic to unhappy endings (unless they're romantic unhappy endings like Titanic. And I will still cry, every time). The last one is my romantic optimism again. I was writing all those sad, angsty scenes and it really bummed me out, so I had to do it. Also, I refuse to accept how Bellatrix died in DH. So there. –juts out chin stubbornly- Anyways, I hoped you all enjoyed reading this, and please tell me what you think. Love.