C
contusion
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.• ° WRITING SAMPLES ° •.
Hail, you reader, it seems you've stumbled onto the writing samples of one Contusion/Ridley! I'll be gradually adding my best works as time goes on, so watch this space for more masterpieces.
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1: YOUR PUNISHMENT IS TO PUNISH.
Summary: Bellatrix Black, as a young and unblemished Death Eater, is brought hurtling back to the Earth itself by their Master.
Notes: 2.1k words. Does not include sexual content, but is violent in nature.
/////
Bellatrix had, regardless of what their Master now pondered, a brilliant night. Dolohov muttered in their vague vicinity, Narcissa grinned without sentiment, even the walking uselessness that was Sebastian Travers had a spare nod for them.
Raiding St. Mungo’s in broad daylight was a feat no group of Death Eaters had ever achieved. Even in their sullen garb of mask, robe and cloak, no anonymity would be preserved about who was behind it by the time the Daily Prophet documented it. There would be no more denying the true war now – the purpose was to terrorize, not to kill, not for supplies.
Success at a mission always garnered favour with others – success at such odds did more than that. It built up their reputation in the entire Wizarding community, discredited their enemies’ whispers & gave greater experience to every participant. Tales would now hum around everyone they had to influence… journalists, Aurors, representatives in every cause of the Ministry, all the children at Hogwarts…
Without Bellatrix’s stirring speech beforehand, the Dark Lord cried, perhaps there would be more than one casualty tonight. Such accolade from him warranted a bashful face, one that they seemed to be wearing continuously more frequently as the days dripped past. Mulciber had been hit with a stray curse & appeared to have been left behind for too long, without medical attention, to be saved.
“This is a victory, my loyal servants. Eddius Mulciber fought valiantly. Only those of us who are willing to risk e v e r y t h i n g for our mighty cause deserve such commemoration.”
He always chose his words so well – always knew exactly what to say to appeal to every member of the crowd, regardless of their desires & beliefs about being such hallowed, mighty figures. It fuelled their own abilities to do the same, even if it was on a lesser scale. Even if Bellatrix had the beginning reputation of being an overenthusiastic, gauche creature, it was them who was now looked to for support before missions.
Pride seemed to soar through them whenever their sentences caught wind, spreading through the apathetic crowd of those they were forced to call a comrade. Perhaps it was with the unwavering faith of which they spoke of whenever it came to their leader, their clear affinity on the battlefield… or if the rumours that spoke of an absent third Black child were being forgotten with every gone-and-come mission.
It mattered little, then, that their head was pounding from memories of the past. Soiled blood was sprinting frantically through their body – such an effort from one that made everything, especially being a Death Eater, so fucking effortless. Regardless of how torn they were internally, their gilded position of faithful lieutenant to the Dark Lord, to Voldemort - saying it out loud in his presence was an honour, something that stung their mouth gloriously - would not waver.
/// (It never would.)
The vacuum that opened & closed at will was currently forcing its way through, a great gaping wound that would soon consume whatever exultation lingered from this kind of monumental occasion; stars were almost ready to glint through. Bellatrix was not known for taking prisoners in any aspect of their life. They dealt with things as they came, and destroyed whatever was left over.
Trauma was the mordant mistress that so often possessed them, stole away their bodily controls & fading grasp on rationality. Safer like this. Safer to bleed out slowly, than to expose yourself all at once.
Narcissa had been giving her sage words of advice every time she and Bellatrix made eye contact, as if every word that flittered into her mind & out of her mouth was so precious to her eldest sibling, as if she couldn’t stand not seeing that minute spark of betrayal that bloomed ever so frequently in their eyes whenever she did so.
The two of them never spoke of their absent sister. She was a ghost in the wind, a figure only to be found in the reflection of pretentious shopfronts she would have scoffed at – Druella had already burned her off the family tapestry, with Bellatrix’s encouragement & Cygnus’s pleasure. Narcissa had stood aside from them, for once, apathetic. She, out of all of them, had appeared to have been the least appalled by her sister’s disappearance.
Solidity was what drew all Death Eaters together. Regardless of proficiency in battle, the rank your Pureblooded family held in wider society, even whether you truly agreed with the essence of the cause, strength was the last frontier that kept all of them from turning on each other.
That and their esteemed leader.
Being welcomed into his company was to be bewitched by his charm: only lesser Death Eaters noted his warped features, his hunched over body; Bellatrix refused to quiver in the sight of the only creature, man or woman or person they had ever known to be utterly invulnerable. Only fools would note how his entire body shook after casting a Curse, or how the reek of acidity followed everywhere he strode.
Not a note of hesitation could be found in their mind, as they followed Nagini – Voldemort’s very own mascot, Narcissa had hissed to them, upon their first meeting with the serpent – further into his chambers, located deep in the heart of an abandoned manor the Dark Lord currently favoured. There was nothing he could do to change their loyalty, which had been so swiftly given after the chaos of the past.
“Lieutenant – the eldest child – warrior…”
His voice cooed out to them, and their footsteps rushed to greet the figure behind the sound. He had no need to raise his voice; absolute obedience was demanded in every single one of his followers, and Bellatrix had no desire to disobey.
High ceilings & cruel tapestries were the trademark of any respectable Pureblood manor, and this one was no exception. Portraits of decrepit or deceased family members hung on the walls, and for a second they pondered why the Dark Lord had not seen fit to take them down. Two parallel fireplaces were blazing, framing his makeshift throne with exquisite symmetry at the very end of the room.
The Dark Lord was reputedly said to be heavenly, once – is, Bellatrix corrected, but the truth of the statement caught in their synapses. His cheekbones, once high and distinguished, had been fading away of late. Chiselled features seemed to be rotting away to something else entirely, to gauntness & commonity. These were disloyal thoughts, but still, his face was difficult to pull gazes away from due to the sheer confusion it summoned upon the onlooker.
“Come closer, child. I can sense… how cold you are.”
His shadowed hands beckoned to them, his face still tilted towards the floor. Beware. Their instincts were firing off, the same way they had during Care of Magical Creatures – as if something was assembling to strike.
“My lord?”
Their voice fell away to nothing – well, next to nothing. Bellatrix was never a quiet one, but they seemed to be forgetting how & why as the Dark Lord lifted his eyes to meet theirs.
“You have betrayed me, Bellatrix.”
And so it began.
Medical phenomena had & would never be, unsurprisingly, their speciality. After all, Hogwarts taught no mandatory equivalent to Human Biology. They had more interest in how to eviscerate flesh than how to heal it, so it was with little warning that they felt all of their blood slide to the back of their head.
Bellatrix was hanging loose in the air, like a war-torn puppet on a string; Voldemort’s face sneered cruelly at them, as unsympathetic for another being as one could be. His warped features were made more monstrous by the fact that they were now seen by them upside-down.
“What if other Death Eaters – brooded – the same way you did, the way you do now? Emerged youthful from their family with such scar tissue?”
The Cruciatus Curse was one that they were ill-acquainted with receiving, as it still made their stomach turn to administer it. Even to those who deserved it, there was something inhuman about the way the victims’ face looked during, like some malevolent spirit was in the process of invading their body & they had no internal defence to ward it off.
Other, lower Death Eaters may have possibly considered it an honour that their Master was angry – prouder members would have held in their screams, ambitious ones would have pleaded, fools would have begged for mercy.
Bellatrix was none of these things. They were a Black, through-and-through, with the telltale cheekbones, thin lips and prominent chin to prove it. They were strong. They were weak. They were alive. They should be dead.
“She should mean nothing to you. She should be fuel for your fight, for your reasoning for existence. You should have rejoiced when she was burned off the tapestry – should have loved your parents more for it – should have killed Narcissa for standing by, for not participating –”
Involuntary sibulaton poured from their lips, the sign of someone pushed to the edge of humanity, of loyalty, of anything meaningful that lingered still. Her torturer was a skilled Legilimens, and he picked through her memories of Andromeda looking for scars to set alight, for underbelly to draw out.
“So close to finding her location, so close to letting her live… I can feel your choices tearing through you. Such discord, such loathing. Do you even know what you want?”
Their neck started to ache, in a way that was sure to make sleep impossible, and Bellatrix could feel their experiences being pushed to the forefront… so eager to belong, so untrained in Occlumency… shading, loose hair shrouded their vision, yet still he did not stop –
“Not a man, not a woman… not loved, not desired… not intelligent, not satisfied with being beautiful… not a traitor to anything but myself, to my cause… a warrior? Proficient in the Dark Arts your father writes about? That’s what your grand ambition has been all these years?”
1. ANDROMEDA AS A CHILD
2. ANDROMEDA AS A WOMAN
3. ANDROMEDA AS A MUGGLE
4. ANDROMEDA DEAD
( PLEASE DON’T LET ANDROMEDA BE DEAD. )
5. DON’T LET HER LIVE
6. BURY HER WHERE SHE BREATHES
“And so you have come to obsess over Andromeda, to make judgement after judgement about her, I came come to make the judgement on you.”
They fell to the floor, bruised back to the ground. It was only then that Bellatrix realized that they had been kept above ground, the Cruciatus Curse flicking in at brief intervals to see what they could handle, only to punish, not to save, to help.
Heavy-soled footsteps directed themselves towards them & soon they found themselves at the mercy of Voldemort, once more. They kneeled in front of him, swallowing down their own blood.
“The wound is still there, child. You are a traitor as long as you carry this weight around with you. It has not healed, and it will not until you learn what it is to suffer. Truly suffer, not suffer these musings you have about your lost sister.”
They sucked in stray sobs, stray thoughts, stray beings that seemed to be lurking so disloyally in their mind. “I cannot seem to forget her, my Lord.”
Having a voice of a leader, of a warrior, of an icon… Bellatrix possessed all of these things & more. Golden-tongued, charismatic, well-spoken – it mattered little in front of someone who saw those things as assets to exploited instead of characteristics to be praised. In front of Voldemort, they reverted to having the voice of an ignorant child.
Serpentine, pale fingers stroked their eyelashes, a biting-cool contrast to their own superheated face. His digits made their way over everything that made them a member of their family, as if surveying to see if they were still intact after this clear show of disloyalty.
Revulsion ripped through their defences of any remaining shreds of courtsey, of all the lessons that Druella had forced onto her & Andromeda fleeting away – nobody got to touch them like this, they would revolt, betray, raze –
“Andromeda is still out there, scheming, laughing – she wins, every time you think of her. Do you not see that? She’s a filthy Muggle-loving slut, a whore for a society she knows nothing about.”
This was the first incident where Bellatrix noticed Voldemort did not speak about others, even family, as people. They were betrayals waiting to happen. Quick(silver) mind burning through, air rushing frantically into their throat & all that was left to do was pretend to agree.
Raiding St. Mungo’s in broad daylight was a feat no group of Death Eaters had ever achieved. Even in their sullen garb of mask, robe and cloak, no anonymity would be preserved about who was behind it by the time the Daily Prophet documented it. There would be no more denying the true war now – the purpose was to terrorize, not to kill, not for supplies.
Success at a mission always garnered favour with others – success at such odds did more than that. It built up their reputation in the entire Wizarding community, discredited their enemies’ whispers & gave greater experience to every participant. Tales would now hum around everyone they had to influence… journalists, Aurors, representatives in every cause of the Ministry, all the children at Hogwarts…
Without Bellatrix’s stirring speech beforehand, the Dark Lord cried, perhaps there would be more than one casualty tonight. Such accolade from him warranted a bashful face, one that they seemed to be wearing continuously more frequently as the days dripped past. Mulciber had been hit with a stray curse & appeared to have been left behind for too long, without medical attention, to be saved.
“This is a victory, my loyal servants. Eddius Mulciber fought valiantly. Only those of us who are willing to risk e v e r y t h i n g for our mighty cause deserve such commemoration.”
He always chose his words so well – always knew exactly what to say to appeal to every member of the crowd, regardless of their desires & beliefs about being such hallowed, mighty figures. It fuelled their own abilities to do the same, even if it was on a lesser scale. Even if Bellatrix had the beginning reputation of being an overenthusiastic, gauche creature, it was them who was now looked to for support before missions.
Pride seemed to soar through them whenever their sentences caught wind, spreading through the apathetic crowd of those they were forced to call a comrade. Perhaps it was with the unwavering faith of which they spoke of whenever it came to their leader, their clear affinity on the battlefield… or if the rumours that spoke of an absent third Black child were being forgotten with every gone-and-come mission.
It mattered little, then, that their head was pounding from memories of the past. Soiled blood was sprinting frantically through their body – such an effort from one that made everything, especially being a Death Eater, so fucking effortless. Regardless of how torn they were internally, their gilded position of faithful lieutenant to the Dark Lord, to Voldemort - saying it out loud in his presence was an honour, something that stung their mouth gloriously - would not waver.
/// (It never would.)
The vacuum that opened & closed at will was currently forcing its way through, a great gaping wound that would soon consume whatever exultation lingered from this kind of monumental occasion; stars were almost ready to glint through. Bellatrix was not known for taking prisoners in any aspect of their life. They dealt with things as they came, and destroyed whatever was left over.
Trauma was the mordant mistress that so often possessed them, stole away their bodily controls & fading grasp on rationality. Safer like this. Safer to bleed out slowly, than to expose yourself all at once.
Narcissa had been giving her sage words of advice every time she and Bellatrix made eye contact, as if every word that flittered into her mind & out of her mouth was so precious to her eldest sibling, as if she couldn’t stand not seeing that minute spark of betrayal that bloomed ever so frequently in their eyes whenever she did so.
The two of them never spoke of their absent sister. She was a ghost in the wind, a figure only to be found in the reflection of pretentious shopfronts she would have scoffed at – Druella had already burned her off the family tapestry, with Bellatrix’s encouragement & Cygnus’s pleasure. Narcissa had stood aside from them, for once, apathetic. She, out of all of them, had appeared to have been the least appalled by her sister’s disappearance.
Solidity was what drew all Death Eaters together. Regardless of proficiency in battle, the rank your Pureblooded family held in wider society, even whether you truly agreed with the essence of the cause, strength was the last frontier that kept all of them from turning on each other.
That and their esteemed leader.
Being welcomed into his company was to be bewitched by his charm: only lesser Death Eaters noted his warped features, his hunched over body; Bellatrix refused to quiver in the sight of the only creature, man or woman or person they had ever known to be utterly invulnerable. Only fools would note how his entire body shook after casting a Curse, or how the reek of acidity followed everywhere he strode.
Not a note of hesitation could be found in their mind, as they followed Nagini – Voldemort’s very own mascot, Narcissa had hissed to them, upon their first meeting with the serpent – further into his chambers, located deep in the heart of an abandoned manor the Dark Lord currently favoured. There was nothing he could do to change their loyalty, which had been so swiftly given after the chaos of the past.
“Lieutenant – the eldest child – warrior…”
His voice cooed out to them, and their footsteps rushed to greet the figure behind the sound. He had no need to raise his voice; absolute obedience was demanded in every single one of his followers, and Bellatrix had no desire to disobey.
High ceilings & cruel tapestries were the trademark of any respectable Pureblood manor, and this one was no exception. Portraits of decrepit or deceased family members hung on the walls, and for a second they pondered why the Dark Lord had not seen fit to take them down. Two parallel fireplaces were blazing, framing his makeshift throne with exquisite symmetry at the very end of the room.
The Dark Lord was reputedly said to be heavenly, once – is, Bellatrix corrected, but the truth of the statement caught in their synapses. His cheekbones, once high and distinguished, had been fading away of late. Chiselled features seemed to be rotting away to something else entirely, to gauntness & commonity. These were disloyal thoughts, but still, his face was difficult to pull gazes away from due to the sheer confusion it summoned upon the onlooker.
“Come closer, child. I can sense… how cold you are.”
His shadowed hands beckoned to them, his face still tilted towards the floor. Beware. Their instincts were firing off, the same way they had during Care of Magical Creatures – as if something was assembling to strike.
“My lord?”
Their voice fell away to nothing – well, next to nothing. Bellatrix was never a quiet one, but they seemed to be forgetting how & why as the Dark Lord lifted his eyes to meet theirs.
“You have betrayed me, Bellatrix.”
And so it began.
Medical phenomena had & would never be, unsurprisingly, their speciality. After all, Hogwarts taught no mandatory equivalent to Human Biology. They had more interest in how to eviscerate flesh than how to heal it, so it was with little warning that they felt all of their blood slide to the back of their head.
Bellatrix was hanging loose in the air, like a war-torn puppet on a string; Voldemort’s face sneered cruelly at them, as unsympathetic for another being as one could be. His warped features were made more monstrous by the fact that they were now seen by them upside-down.
“What if other Death Eaters – brooded – the same way you did, the way you do now? Emerged youthful from their family with such scar tissue?”
The Cruciatus Curse was one that they were ill-acquainted with receiving, as it still made their stomach turn to administer it. Even to those who deserved it, there was something inhuman about the way the victims’ face looked during, like some malevolent spirit was in the process of invading their body & they had no internal defence to ward it off.
Other, lower Death Eaters may have possibly considered it an honour that their Master was angry – prouder members would have held in their screams, ambitious ones would have pleaded, fools would have begged for mercy.
Bellatrix was none of these things. They were a Black, through-and-through, with the telltale cheekbones, thin lips and prominent chin to prove it. They were strong. They were weak. They were alive. They should be dead.
“She should mean nothing to you. She should be fuel for your fight, for your reasoning for existence. You should have rejoiced when she was burned off the tapestry – should have loved your parents more for it – should have killed Narcissa for standing by, for not participating –”
Involuntary sibulaton poured from their lips, the sign of someone pushed to the edge of humanity, of loyalty, of anything meaningful that lingered still. Her torturer was a skilled Legilimens, and he picked through her memories of Andromeda looking for scars to set alight, for underbelly to draw out.
“So close to finding her location, so close to letting her live… I can feel your choices tearing through you. Such discord, such loathing. Do you even know what you want?”
Their neck started to ache, in a way that was sure to make sleep impossible, and Bellatrix could feel their experiences being pushed to the forefront… so eager to belong, so untrained in Occlumency… shading, loose hair shrouded their vision, yet still he did not stop –
“Not a man, not a woman… not loved, not desired… not intelligent, not satisfied with being beautiful… not a traitor to anything but myself, to my cause… a warrior? Proficient in the Dark Arts your father writes about? That’s what your grand ambition has been all these years?”
1. ANDROMEDA AS A CHILD
2. ANDROMEDA AS A WOMAN
3. ANDROMEDA AS A MUGGLE
4. ANDROMEDA DEAD
( PLEASE DON’T LET ANDROMEDA BE DEAD. )
5. DON’T LET HER LIVE
6. BURY HER WHERE SHE BREATHES
“And so you have come to obsess over Andromeda, to make judgement after judgement about her, I came come to make the judgement on you.”
They fell to the floor, bruised back to the ground. It was only then that Bellatrix realized that they had been kept above ground, the Cruciatus Curse flicking in at brief intervals to see what they could handle, only to punish, not to save, to help.
Heavy-soled footsteps directed themselves towards them & soon they found themselves at the mercy of Voldemort, once more. They kneeled in front of him, swallowing down their own blood.
“The wound is still there, child. You are a traitor as long as you carry this weight around with you. It has not healed, and it will not until you learn what it is to suffer. Truly suffer, not suffer these musings you have about your lost sister.”
They sucked in stray sobs, stray thoughts, stray beings that seemed to be lurking so disloyally in their mind. “I cannot seem to forget her, my Lord.”
Having a voice of a leader, of a warrior, of an icon… Bellatrix possessed all of these things & more. Golden-tongued, charismatic, well-spoken – it mattered little in front of someone who saw those things as assets to exploited instead of characteristics to be praised. In front of Voldemort, they reverted to having the voice of an ignorant child.
Serpentine, pale fingers stroked their eyelashes, a biting-cool contrast to their own superheated face. His digits made their way over everything that made them a member of their family, as if surveying to see if they were still intact after this clear show of disloyalty.
Revulsion ripped through their defences of any remaining shreds of courtsey, of all the lessons that Druella had forced onto her & Andromeda fleeting away – nobody got to touch them like this, they would revolt, betray, raze –
“Andromeda is still out there, scheming, laughing – she wins, every time you think of her. Do you not see that? She’s a filthy Muggle-loving slut, a whore for a society she knows nothing about.”
This was the first incident where Bellatrix noticed Voldemort did not speak about others, even family, as people. They were betrayals waiting to happen. Quick(silver) mind burning through, air rushing frantically into their throat & all that was left to do was pretend to agree.