Fic: Alternate Endings, Part 2
Apr. 25th, 2006 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Title: Alternate Endings, Part 2
Rating: R for subject matter
Characters: Rita, Bellatrix
Warnings: Character death
Summary: During the war, Rita is captured by Deatheaters and held hostage for negotiations with the Ministry. In what will be the last week of her life if the Ministry do not give in, Rita and Bellatrix spend the nights talking.
A/N: For the Rita Skeeter Gen Challenge at
ritaskeeter_ and the
fanfic100 prompt 'friends'. Inspired by the film The Crying Game. Companion to Alternate Endings, Part 1, the second of two 'endings' fics, which may or may not be how I see Rita's future by the time I come out the end of this ff100 tunnel, hence the 'alternate' suggestion. This story is set in the same universe as the rest of my ff100 fics, in which Rita Skeeter is the eldest sister of three, with the other two being Stella and Alice, the latter of whom became a Longbottom. Many thanks to
egyptian_moon and
lilith_morgana for the beta reading.
Just being alive
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
-- Kate Bush, ‘Moments of Pleasure’
1.
Clap. Clap. Trapped like a bug in a jar.
2.
“Did you think that I didn’t know? Did you think that I wouldn’t find out? You lost your touch, Skeeter. Played too many sides against each other, and now it’s come back to haunt you.”
In a big way.
Bellatrix Lestrange moved like a woman possessed by a spirit, fast and light on her feet, never content to be still, always restless. She pressed her wand into Rita’s throat, laughed maniacally.
“We might let you live, you know. If the Ministry and the Order give us what we want.”
“And what’s that?” Rita was scared. She felt fear hot in her fingertips, but she fought it the same way she always had: asking questions. Always a journalist.
“They’ve got Lucius. And they’ve got my sister.” A muscle in Bellatrix’s arm twitched; Rita lifted her eyes to meet the other woman’s and pressed herself closer to the wand at her throat.
“You deserve to lose her forever.”
Bellatrix backhanded her savagely across the face.
3.
“Give me a cigarette, will you?”
Bellatrix grunted, tossed the packet at Rita, then surged forward and lit the thing with her wand. Rita took a long drag, felt her head spin and her hands shake, then an inexplicable calm chased through her veins.
She glanced about the room – a dusty attic in some godforsaken manor home in the middle of nowhere. They’d bound her to the chair – not with ropes, of course, but with a spell. She could move – stand and stretch if she wanted to – but if she took more than a step away the pain was hideous.
“You know,” Rita sucked the cigarette, watched its tip burn red, and blew a puff of smoke in Bellatrix’s direction. “I was the wrong person to ransom. No one gives a fuck if I live or die.”
Bellatrix breathed curls of smoke into the air; swung a foot on the stool she’d settled on. “You should have picked a side then, shouldn’t you?”
Rita snorted. “I don’t follow anyone blindly, Bella. I’ve always been more Slytherin than you. Spending fifteen years in Azkaban is hardly ambitious. I mean, what’s he going to give you, in the end? What does he actually want? And what’s the Order but a bunch of people following the instructions of a dead leader who was just as manipulative as yours is charismatic? The end justified the means, for him. Greater good, all that bullshit. I don’t believe in either extreme.” She smirked at Bellatrix, who seemed to be trying to figure out whether to be insulted or not.
She seemed to decide on a judgement of her own. “You’ve never cared about anything, though. And look where it got you in the end, for all your ambition.”
Rita tried to choke herself on the cigarette smoke.
No one would miss her if she died. It only occurred to her later – after the ever silent Dolohov had replaced Bellatrix on guard shift – that she really did believe that.
4.
On the fourth day, Rita cried. It wasn’t loud or undignified, just tears streaming down her face and her knuckles slipping under her glasses to claw the moisture away. Still, Bellatrix sneered.
“I’d be proud to die for my cause.”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Rita let out a heavy sigh, ran her fingers under her eyes again and watched them come away smeared with mascara. Merlin, she was falling apart.
“I don’t have a cause, Bella, or if I do, it’s not one that anyone loves me for. I’ve been wondering, and I can’t find an answer – who will come to my funeral?”
“Well, I would, Rita – we were in school together, after all – but I’m afraid the Ministry doesn’t like me making public appearances much.” Her lips twitched into a wry smile. She was sitting on her stool again, this time with one foot on an upturned bucket, twirling her wand in one hand. She cocked a brow, turned her head to look directly at Rita. “Would Stella come to your funeral, do you think?”
Rita’s eyes were dry again in an instant, glittering instead with the poisonous malice she usually channelled into her quill. “You just forget she exists, Bella. Just forget about her. She’s not been involved with the wizarding world for twenty years; she’s not part of this fight. Forget she exists.”
Bellatrix gave a little laugh, paused in twirling the wand. “I’m not going to go out and kill her, Rita. I don’t need the full collection.”
The full collection. Rita shivered. It seemed her fate had already been decided.
5.
“The Ministry won’t budge,” Bellatrix said as she entered the room, closing the door in a swirl of robes and slipping her wand into her pocket. “I’m going to kill you in the morning.”
Rita picked a few stray strands of blonde hair off her knee. The fingers of her right hand shook.
“Will you open a window, Bella?”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m going to die tomorrow, I’d like to feel the night air one more time.”
Bellatrix peered at her sceptically for a moment, but moved across the room to throw the shutters of one window open. “Feel the night air?” she asked, somewhat sardonically. “Isn’t that a little bit poetic for you, Skeeter?”
Rita felt the breeze on her skin, smelt night flowers, watched the candles in the room flicker. “It’s a beetle thing. Permit me the self-indulgence, would you? Do you have any cigarettes?”
Bellatrix nodded, reached into her pocket, moved forward and extended an open pack; waited for Rita to take one. When she’d lit it she pulled her seat close to Rita’s, only a metre away, lit a cigarette of her own and laid the wand on her knee, pointing in Rita’s direction. “Can’t have you transforming and trying to brave the binding spell, can we?”
“I’ve never had a good tolerance for pain, Bella.”
“I know.”
The two women were silent for a time, surveying each other. Both lifted the cigarettes to their lips.
Bellatrix was gaunt; all hollow cheeks and sallow skin. The black hair that had been her youthful vanity was just a scraggly mess from too many years untended to. Her teeth and fingers had yellowed from the cigarettes, a habit she’d picked up in Azkaban. Cravings reminded you that you were alive, she’d said, and the next cigarette was an attainable goal.
Rita’s beauty charms had held up for the first two days, but were failing now. Lacquered curls hung limp, makeup was smearing and running whenever she touched her face. Her stockings were laddered and the beautiful blue robes she’d been wearing when they caught her were soiled from the too infrequent, too brief trips to the bathroom.
Rita felt like an old woman. Everything was falling apart. They’d both seen two wars and too much death; it had started to seep into their bones. They were both decaying.
Rita sucked cigarette smoke in, breathed it back out through lips stained pink with the remnants of red lipstick, blew a cloud in her captor’s face. Bellatrix did the same thing back. Smoke hung and twisted in the air before them like memory, like ghosts. Both women would once have called the other friend.
“Do you ever regret, Bella?” Rita asked, dropping her eyes to examine the chips in her nail polish.
“Regret what?” Bellatrix’s voice was cautious and guarded.
“Everything,” Rita replied, “Anything. The path you chose, the life you made, who you are.” She lifted her head again, pulled on the cigarette, and watched the other woman’s face through the smoke, her depthless black eyes and inscrutable expression.
“Regret my loyalty? No, never.”
“I don’t mean your loyalty, I mean your life, your own decisions.”
Bellatrix said nothing for a long time, looked from one side of the room to the other. Eventually, she let out a laugh, small and bitter.
“You know, I don’t know that I’ve ever made any.”
“You must have.” Rita’s response was quick, like she was interviewing someone who had just claimed to be entirely uninteresting.
Bellatrix lifted the cigarette to her lips; spoke in a puff of smoke. “I see why you made it into journalism. You make people think, and then you go silent and wait for them to talk.” Rita quirked a brow, smiled a little, said nothing. Bellatrix shook her head. “I don’t think much at all, Rita. It’s all instinct. Making decisions needs thought. I’ve never decided anything.”
Apparently, one’s impending death made even Bellatrix Lestrange honest.
“What was attacking Frank and Alice, then, if not a decision?”
Bellatrix glanced at the ceiling, back at Rita. “Anger. Fear. Desire.” Rita must have looked surprised, because Bella elaborated. “I like to hurt people. I enjoy it. It makes me feel alive. My Lord was gone, they couldn’t tell us where. They were there.”
Rita took a long drag, glanced at the cigarette burned almost down to the filter, tried to work out whether it was the tobacco or Bellatrix’s words that had suddenly made her feel sick. She tried to decide exactly how she felt about what Bellatrix had said. She didn’t have the strength to hate, not tonight, and she didn’t know whether that in itself was a betrayal.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”
~*~
At midnight, Rita convinced Bellatrix to let her sit by the window. The spell was still on her, but now she could sit with one arm out the window, lean against the sill, feel the night air against her fingers. She’d been still for quite a while when Bellatrix whispered behind her:
“Are you asleep?”
“Are you insane?”
Bellatrix barked a laugh. “It’s been suggested. Tell me, what does it feel like to know you’re going to die?”
“Is this another one of your little experiments?” Rita asked. “Like the insects, the cat, those muggles?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Death intrigues me. Does it make the night more beautiful?”
“No,” Rita replied. “It makes me wish it was, though. Makes me wish everything was perfect, just so I could enjoy it.”
“Are you scared?”
“No. And yes. Not at the moment. I don’t fully believe it. My mind keeps saying no, something will happen, you can’t die. But nothing will, will it?”
“Not unless the Ministry gives in at some point tonight.”
Rita snorted, turned away from the window; leaned against the sill. She contemplated her hands for a moment, then looked up. “I told you, they don’t care if I die. Not enough to give Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy away, at any rate. Will you enjoy killing me?”
Bellatrix considered. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see.”
6.
Dawn came grey and watery, sunlight filtered through cloud. Rita asked Bellatrix to do it outside.
“Why?” Bellatrix arched a brow. “So you can transform and try to escape?”
“No.” Rita shook her head of limp curls, although the idea had occurred to her. Beetles were much smaller targets than people. “I just want to be out there. Out of this prison. Please.”
Bellatrix weighed Rita with her gaze, stroked her wand. “Well, all right, then. But if you do try to escape I’ll catch you, and then I will enjoy it.” And there was that mad glint in her eyes that Rita had first seen in sixth year, and it chilled Rita to the bone just like it had back then.
Outside was like the memories of her childhood backyard – beautiful, green and damp. The air smelled of mist and wild thyme. Rita’s heels sank into the ground. Bellatrix walked her deep into the trees, wand pressing occasionally into Rita’s back.
Suddenly it felt real, hit Rita like an axe. These were the last moments of her life. Panic blinded her, burning hot, and she stumbled forward into the mud. She felt Bella’s fingers close around her arm and pull her up, and for just a moment she let herself be supported by the other woman, then lurched forward again. Hot tears tumbled down her cheeks.
A bird sounded in the trees. She thought of Alice who didn’t recognise her, of Stella who she hadn’t spoken to for three years, of her parents, of faith she had never had in the existence of an eternal soul. It wasn’t her life flashing before her eyes, just moments. Things she wished she had said, articles she wished she’d written, people she’d ripped apart that she really hadn’t hated, lovers she’d had and lost – usually through nasty, hastily spoken words. She wished she’d opened up to more people, wished she hadn’t made so many enemies. She wished she had her quill to record her thoughts, and hoped there would be at least one person who would mourn for her.
And then Bellatrix spoke. “Here. Here will do. On your knees.”
The tears were coming hard again; she sank to the ground limply, felt the damp soak right through her robes and stockings. She’d always hoped she’d die with dignity, but she didn’t think there was anything beautiful about this.
Bellatrix laid a hand on her shoulder, circled to face her. Tattered black robes swung around her ankles like a Dementor about to take her soul.
“Look at me, Rita.”
Rita clawed the tears from her eyes, lifted her head and found Bellatrix’s features stony and impassive.
“Do you want me to owl Stella and tell her?” She arched a brow in question and Rita saw a flicker of humanity in the dark depths of her eyes.
Rita nodded, once. “Her name is Quigley now.”
Bellatrix lowered her wand and pressed it against Rita’s chest. Wind ruffled her robes, blew hair across her face.
In the closed ward of St Mungo’s hospital, a woman who didn’t know her own name had no idea why she was crying.
“I’ll tell her you said you loved her.”
Bellatrix laid a finger under Rita’s chin, held her face up so their gaze would not drop.
“Avada Kedavra.”
Rating: R for subject matter
Characters: Rita, Bellatrix
Warnings: Character death
Summary: During the war, Rita is captured by Deatheaters and held hostage for negotiations with the Ministry. In what will be the last week of her life if the Ministry do not give in, Rita and Bellatrix spend the nights talking.
A/N: For the Rita Skeeter Gen Challenge at
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It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
-- Kate Bush, ‘Moments of Pleasure’
1.
Clap. Clap. Trapped like a bug in a jar.
2.
“Did you think that I didn’t know? Did you think that I wouldn’t find out? You lost your touch, Skeeter. Played too many sides against each other, and now it’s come back to haunt you.”
In a big way.
Bellatrix Lestrange moved like a woman possessed by a spirit, fast and light on her feet, never content to be still, always restless. She pressed her wand into Rita’s throat, laughed maniacally.
“We might let you live, you know. If the Ministry and the Order give us what we want.”
“And what’s that?” Rita was scared. She felt fear hot in her fingertips, but she fought it the same way she always had: asking questions. Always a journalist.
“They’ve got Lucius. And they’ve got my sister.” A muscle in Bellatrix’s arm twitched; Rita lifted her eyes to meet the other woman’s and pressed herself closer to the wand at her throat.
“You deserve to lose her forever.”
Bellatrix backhanded her savagely across the face.
3.
“Give me a cigarette, will you?”
Bellatrix grunted, tossed the packet at Rita, then surged forward and lit the thing with her wand. Rita took a long drag, felt her head spin and her hands shake, then an inexplicable calm chased through her veins.
She glanced about the room – a dusty attic in some godforsaken manor home in the middle of nowhere. They’d bound her to the chair – not with ropes, of course, but with a spell. She could move – stand and stretch if she wanted to – but if she took more than a step away the pain was hideous.
“You know,” Rita sucked the cigarette, watched its tip burn red, and blew a puff of smoke in Bellatrix’s direction. “I was the wrong person to ransom. No one gives a fuck if I live or die.”
Bellatrix breathed curls of smoke into the air; swung a foot on the stool she’d settled on. “You should have picked a side then, shouldn’t you?”
Rita snorted. “I don’t follow anyone blindly, Bella. I’ve always been more Slytherin than you. Spending fifteen years in Azkaban is hardly ambitious. I mean, what’s he going to give you, in the end? What does he actually want? And what’s the Order but a bunch of people following the instructions of a dead leader who was just as manipulative as yours is charismatic? The end justified the means, for him. Greater good, all that bullshit. I don’t believe in either extreme.” She smirked at Bellatrix, who seemed to be trying to figure out whether to be insulted or not.
She seemed to decide on a judgement of her own. “You’ve never cared about anything, though. And look where it got you in the end, for all your ambition.”
Rita tried to choke herself on the cigarette smoke.
No one would miss her if she died. It only occurred to her later – after the ever silent Dolohov had replaced Bellatrix on guard shift – that she really did believe that.
4.
On the fourth day, Rita cried. It wasn’t loud or undignified, just tears streaming down her face and her knuckles slipping under her glasses to claw the moisture away. Still, Bellatrix sneered.
“I’d be proud to die for my cause.”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Rita let out a heavy sigh, ran her fingers under her eyes again and watched them come away smeared with mascara. Merlin, she was falling apart.
“I don’t have a cause, Bella, or if I do, it’s not one that anyone loves me for. I’ve been wondering, and I can’t find an answer – who will come to my funeral?”
“Well, I would, Rita – we were in school together, after all – but I’m afraid the Ministry doesn’t like me making public appearances much.” Her lips twitched into a wry smile. She was sitting on her stool again, this time with one foot on an upturned bucket, twirling her wand in one hand. She cocked a brow, turned her head to look directly at Rita. “Would Stella come to your funeral, do you think?”
Rita’s eyes were dry again in an instant, glittering instead with the poisonous malice she usually channelled into her quill. “You just forget she exists, Bella. Just forget about her. She’s not been involved with the wizarding world for twenty years; she’s not part of this fight. Forget she exists.”
Bellatrix gave a little laugh, paused in twirling the wand. “I’m not going to go out and kill her, Rita. I don’t need the full collection.”
The full collection. Rita shivered. It seemed her fate had already been decided.
5.
“The Ministry won’t budge,” Bellatrix said as she entered the room, closing the door in a swirl of robes and slipping her wand into her pocket. “I’m going to kill you in the morning.”
Rita picked a few stray strands of blonde hair off her knee. The fingers of her right hand shook.
“Will you open a window, Bella?”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m going to die tomorrow, I’d like to feel the night air one more time.”
Bellatrix peered at her sceptically for a moment, but moved across the room to throw the shutters of one window open. “Feel the night air?” she asked, somewhat sardonically. “Isn’t that a little bit poetic for you, Skeeter?”
Rita felt the breeze on her skin, smelt night flowers, watched the candles in the room flicker. “It’s a beetle thing. Permit me the self-indulgence, would you? Do you have any cigarettes?”
Bellatrix nodded, reached into her pocket, moved forward and extended an open pack; waited for Rita to take one. When she’d lit it she pulled her seat close to Rita’s, only a metre away, lit a cigarette of her own and laid the wand on her knee, pointing in Rita’s direction. “Can’t have you transforming and trying to brave the binding spell, can we?”
“I’ve never had a good tolerance for pain, Bella.”
“I know.”
The two women were silent for a time, surveying each other. Both lifted the cigarettes to their lips.
Bellatrix was gaunt; all hollow cheeks and sallow skin. The black hair that had been her youthful vanity was just a scraggly mess from too many years untended to. Her teeth and fingers had yellowed from the cigarettes, a habit she’d picked up in Azkaban. Cravings reminded you that you were alive, she’d said, and the next cigarette was an attainable goal.
Rita’s beauty charms had held up for the first two days, but were failing now. Lacquered curls hung limp, makeup was smearing and running whenever she touched her face. Her stockings were laddered and the beautiful blue robes she’d been wearing when they caught her were soiled from the too infrequent, too brief trips to the bathroom.
Rita felt like an old woman. Everything was falling apart. They’d both seen two wars and too much death; it had started to seep into their bones. They were both decaying.
Rita sucked cigarette smoke in, breathed it back out through lips stained pink with the remnants of red lipstick, blew a cloud in her captor’s face. Bellatrix did the same thing back. Smoke hung and twisted in the air before them like memory, like ghosts. Both women would once have called the other friend.
“Do you ever regret, Bella?” Rita asked, dropping her eyes to examine the chips in her nail polish.
“Regret what?” Bellatrix’s voice was cautious and guarded.
“Everything,” Rita replied, “Anything. The path you chose, the life you made, who you are.” She lifted her head again, pulled on the cigarette, and watched the other woman’s face through the smoke, her depthless black eyes and inscrutable expression.
“Regret my loyalty? No, never.”
“I don’t mean your loyalty, I mean your life, your own decisions.”
Bellatrix said nothing for a long time, looked from one side of the room to the other. Eventually, she let out a laugh, small and bitter.
“You know, I don’t know that I’ve ever made any.”
“You must have.” Rita’s response was quick, like she was interviewing someone who had just claimed to be entirely uninteresting.
Bellatrix lifted the cigarette to her lips; spoke in a puff of smoke. “I see why you made it into journalism. You make people think, and then you go silent and wait for them to talk.” Rita quirked a brow, smiled a little, said nothing. Bellatrix shook her head. “I don’t think much at all, Rita. It’s all instinct. Making decisions needs thought. I’ve never decided anything.”
Apparently, one’s impending death made even Bellatrix Lestrange honest.
“What was attacking Frank and Alice, then, if not a decision?”
Bellatrix glanced at the ceiling, back at Rita. “Anger. Fear. Desire.” Rita must have looked surprised, because Bella elaborated. “I like to hurt people. I enjoy it. It makes me feel alive. My Lord was gone, they couldn’t tell us where. They were there.”
Rita took a long drag, glanced at the cigarette burned almost down to the filter, tried to work out whether it was the tobacco or Bellatrix’s words that had suddenly made her feel sick. She tried to decide exactly how she felt about what Bellatrix had said. She didn’t have the strength to hate, not tonight, and she didn’t know whether that in itself was a betrayal.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”
At midnight, Rita convinced Bellatrix to let her sit by the window. The spell was still on her, but now she could sit with one arm out the window, lean against the sill, feel the night air against her fingers. She’d been still for quite a while when Bellatrix whispered behind her:
“Are you asleep?”
“Are you insane?”
Bellatrix barked a laugh. “It’s been suggested. Tell me, what does it feel like to know you’re going to die?”
“Is this another one of your little experiments?” Rita asked. “Like the insects, the cat, those muggles?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Death intrigues me. Does it make the night more beautiful?”
“No,” Rita replied. “It makes me wish it was, though. Makes me wish everything was perfect, just so I could enjoy it.”
“Are you scared?”
“No. And yes. Not at the moment. I don’t fully believe it. My mind keeps saying no, something will happen, you can’t die. But nothing will, will it?”
“Not unless the Ministry gives in at some point tonight.”
Rita snorted, turned away from the window; leaned against the sill. She contemplated her hands for a moment, then looked up. “I told you, they don’t care if I die. Not enough to give Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy away, at any rate. Will you enjoy killing me?”
Bellatrix considered. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see.”
6.
Dawn came grey and watery, sunlight filtered through cloud. Rita asked Bellatrix to do it outside.
“Why?” Bellatrix arched a brow. “So you can transform and try to escape?”
“No.” Rita shook her head of limp curls, although the idea had occurred to her. Beetles were much smaller targets than people. “I just want to be out there. Out of this prison. Please.”
Bellatrix weighed Rita with her gaze, stroked her wand. “Well, all right, then. But if you do try to escape I’ll catch you, and then I will enjoy it.” And there was that mad glint in her eyes that Rita had first seen in sixth year, and it chilled Rita to the bone just like it had back then.
Outside was like the memories of her childhood backyard – beautiful, green and damp. The air smelled of mist and wild thyme. Rita’s heels sank into the ground. Bellatrix walked her deep into the trees, wand pressing occasionally into Rita’s back.
Suddenly it felt real, hit Rita like an axe. These were the last moments of her life. Panic blinded her, burning hot, and she stumbled forward into the mud. She felt Bella’s fingers close around her arm and pull her up, and for just a moment she let herself be supported by the other woman, then lurched forward again. Hot tears tumbled down her cheeks.
A bird sounded in the trees. She thought of Alice who didn’t recognise her, of Stella who she hadn’t spoken to for three years, of her parents, of faith she had never had in the existence of an eternal soul. It wasn’t her life flashing before her eyes, just moments. Things she wished she had said, articles she wished she’d written, people she’d ripped apart that she really hadn’t hated, lovers she’d had and lost – usually through nasty, hastily spoken words. She wished she’d opened up to more people, wished she hadn’t made so many enemies. She wished she had her quill to record her thoughts, and hoped there would be at least one person who would mourn for her.
And then Bellatrix spoke. “Here. Here will do. On your knees.”
The tears were coming hard again; she sank to the ground limply, felt the damp soak right through her robes and stockings. She’d always hoped she’d die with dignity, but she didn’t think there was anything beautiful about this.
Bellatrix laid a hand on her shoulder, circled to face her. Tattered black robes swung around her ankles like a Dementor about to take her soul.
“Look at me, Rita.”
Rita clawed the tears from her eyes, lifted her head and found Bellatrix’s features stony and impassive.
“Do you want me to owl Stella and tell her?” She arched a brow in question and Rita saw a flicker of humanity in the dark depths of her eyes.
Rita nodded, once. “Her name is Quigley now.”
Bellatrix lowered her wand and pressed it against Rita’s chest. Wind ruffled her robes, blew hair across her face.
In the closed ward of St Mungo’s hospital, a woman who didn’t know her own name had no idea why she was crying.
“I’ll tell her you said you loved her.”
Bellatrix laid a finger under Rita’s chin, held her face up so their gaze would not drop.
“Avada Kedavra.”
no subject
Date: 2006-04-26 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-01 05:10 pm (UTC):)
Thanks!
*sniff*
Date: 2010-11-24 01:42 pm (UTC)Thank you for making me cry.
This was incredibly well crafted and yes, I am a big sissy, but it really made me tear up in the end. I had so hoped that she would find a way to escape her destiny.
*sniffles*