Characters: Bellatrix Lestrange/Severus Snape

Word Count: 1630

Tags/Warnings: First War with Voldemort, Torture (other people not each other, Legilimency, Unhealthy Relationships

Summary: Proper mad, that one. Or: A relationship in five parts.

one.

It's her laugh he hears first, that manic cackle across the room: loud and lively and strangely familiar. Then, suddenly, they're standing in front of her. He's held in place by Lucius' larger hand, long fingers curled over his shoulder, the older boy's body a step behind his. Eyes, dark and curious, trail over him. A quick assessment: greasy hair, tattered robes. No one of importance.

"Who's this?"

Disinterested, almost instantly. Severus feels it when their eyes meet; a natural inclination to Legilimency both a blessing and a curse. He breathes through his nose, feels Lucius' hand tighten. A warning, maybe, not to respond. Might even be an attempt at comfort. He's still learning how to tell the difference.

"Severus Snape," Lucius says for him, all party host and politics, and Severus hates the drawl of his voice but still takes note of the tone. Tucks it away for later; a lesson on polite all, it's what he's been invited for. "I've told you about him."

Recognition, then, but still no acceptance. Still nothing less than disdain. "The half-blood," she spits, dark lips sneering around the word, and Severus hates her already.

two.

The Dark Lord's favourite. An interesting title, especially when shared. Especially when one is so prone to jealousy.

"Why's he so bloody interested in you for?" she'd growled at him once, eyes flashing and attention solely focused, dismissive of her sister's exasperated, Bella! as she'd circled him like a predator would prey. But he'd grown out of that role by that stage: victim turned victor, whispers on promise and potential following him like a shadow.

He'd smiled, he remembers. Fleeting and feral. A flash of sharp, yellow teeth and his message clear as crystal.

Wouldn't you like to know.

three.

Adrenaline, burning and heady. It heightens his senses, quickens his breath. The training room crackles with power, evidence of its previous occupants, but there's no magic, now. No wands, either. Just the thick wall of tension, the glittering edge of a dagger's blade.

How about we play? A proposition she hadn't thought he'd accept. As if he wouldn't rise to the challenge.

Now, the edge of her knife cuts through his robes, almost breaks through to skin. Small and scrawny used to be an insult, but he's quick on his feet; manages to step back just in time. He catches her arm in his and twists until he can see the pain creep across her face. Another twist, harsher this time, and her body meets the bench. His own follows: the two of them pressed flush together and the tip of his dagger at her chin. Blood blossoms, bright and beautiful. Severus grins.

"Really, Bella," he drawls, all but panting, breath hot where it hits her cheek, "bested by a half-blood?" He tuts—tries to, at least. It's not as mocking as he'd have liked. "What would Daddy say?"

A scream, then. Low and guttural. She pushes off the bench and he steps back with the force of it, ducks to escape the slash she makes at his throat. He laughs at the failed attempt: derisive and goading. Knows it gets under her skin.

Bellatrix answers with another swipe, efforts doubled, eyes alight with her sadistic streak. He blocks the stab at his rib, arm, abdomen. Isn't quick enough to catch the one at his shoulder; the blade crafting a thick cut through his robes and lodging in the skin.

She laughs at the string of swears he lets slip: taunting and triumphant as she pulls the dagger out without care. He reaches for the wound, watches her wipe the blood from her own chin.

"Better luck next time," she tells him, finger brought to her mouth. A flash of pink; her tongue licking it clean.

She disappears, then. Leaves him with his loss; her cackle echoing even after she's gone. Severus sighs and draws his wand.

"Sometimes," Lucius says from where he'd been watching, "I think you two should just fuck each other."

Severus doesn't need to look to know he's smirking; has the image burnt into his memory. The curled lip, the crinkle at his eye, the mischievous glint. A reoccurring theme, that age-old tease: if I didn't know better…

He scowls.

four.

The body twitches: the flutter of an eyelid, the involuntary jerk of an arm, a muscle spasm in his cheek. Lingering effects of the Cruciatus. Severus takes hold of a fistful of hair and pulls the head back, forces eye contact.

"Are you going to talk yet?" he drones. It's futile, he knows. Tight-lipped, this one. The information they need buried beneath layers of defence. It's why His Lordship had sent the both of them: Bella to loosen the tongue, Severus to take whatever he can get.

His response is bloodied spit. It misses his face but catches his robe, and Severus tries not to let his irritation show. Thinks, they never learn.

But he does. He steps back as Bellatrix's curse hits: red and angry and dangerous. The man's cries echo across the clearing, the surrounding woods vast enough to mute the sound. He can scream however much he likes. Severus knows no one will come running.

He watches as blood dribbles from the man's mouth, pools on the dirty ground. Hands clench, unclench, grapple for something to hold on to as the body contorts in a way that shouldn't be possible. It's not beautiful, exactly. Is cruel, savage, inhuman. But he can appreciate the art. The skill with which Bellatrix executes her torture.

When she stops, the body slumps again. A dead weight, only he knows better. Severus crouches, careful with his touch, and tries again.

He sifts through memories as he would pages of a book. Takes information that doesn't belong to him: a wedding day, an office job, the big, brown eyes of a child. What they need is still hidden behind a protective wall, sturdy despite the cracks. Severus swallows the frustrated groan itching his throat and tries another route.

The child: big, brown eyes morphing to something else. A small hand wrapped around a finger, a toddler's first step, the cry of Papa! Papa! Papa! and the sickening feel of love that comes with it. And then, somewhere on the peripheral, easy enough to grasp: a location. Address. The image of a home and the air of safety that surrounds it.

He retracts and looks to Bella. "He has a son in Elgin," he tells her. An obvious threat, more so with how her eyes light up. The laugh that bubbles in her chest. Severus turns back to their victim, unsurprised when its fear that greets him: the sheer panic interesting with how it contorts the face. "Perhaps that might loosen your tongue?"

Unsurprising, too, is the way their victim cracks. Find the right weakness and anything will crumble, Severus thinks, as the man sobs a location and begs for a mercy neither of them will give. Bellatrix laughs, loud and unhinged. Her eyes demonic, deranged as she resumes her assault, curse after curse flying off her tongue for no other reason than fun. He knows better than to stop her, and so he doesn't. Just impatiently waits for the curse to come, the flash of green light. A welcome conclusion at this point.

Proper mad, that one, Avery had said once, pointing at Bellatrix across the room. Severus wonders what it means for him.

five.

"Well done," says the Dark Lord, voice a slippery hiss in the quiet room. His eyes glint, pleased with the information they'd given him; his praise a rare feat. Beside him, Bellatrix preens.

Two voices, far from similar, with the same response. "Thank you, My Lord."

The quick dismissal is expected. Severus turns even as Bellatrix looks for a reason to linger. She yields when there isn't one, muddy and bloodied robe dragging across the floor as she follows him outside, trudging away from the abandoned house and back toward the Apparition point.

When they're far enough away, she steals the cigarette he'd lit and brings it to her mouth; a fluid act full of entitlement, as if it's expected she gets what she wants. Severus glares, grinds his teeth. Lets the derogatory name slip past his lips, but Bellatrix only smiles.

She's always better, after. The mix of adrenaline and endorphins and the Dark Lord's praise like a drug that runs through her veins. Hostility fades to something else entirely: friendship, almost. Or at the very least, a sense of amicability. He finds he doesn't mind. Not when it often ends the same way.

Her eyes meet his: a deliberate act. An invitation. Severus peeks inside and catches the surface thoughts, Bellatrix's wants. The bed he keeps at her sister's home, robes torn and bodies bare, the growing heat that's clouding her mind. He doesn't need to look further. Can't help the little quip even as his own body heats.

"With a half-blood?" he says, the drawl dripping disdain. A fabricated act, one he has perfected. "Have you really stopped so low?"

He does it every time. A variation of it, at least. It's a reminder of what he is, of that first encounter. Of what she subjects herself to.

If I didn't know better…

What's more is that Bellatrix responds the same way, every time. Like she can't help but fall for it. A glower: dark and dangerous. A hand curled around his neck, nails breaking skin with the force of the hold. A loud crack as they Disapparate and then his body thrown to the bed: hostility and hatred creeping back to its usual place as Severus refuses to keep his mouth shut.

He wonders if she realises he likes her better that way.