Spitted
Bellatrix had always been an accomplished knife-thrower. While other girls were busy primping and preening themselves, she was learning to twirl knives with the boys. The skill held her in great stead the day she killed her sister's former house elf.
The knife spun out of her hand, thrown with deadly accuracy, spitting the withered little house elf in an instant.
She stood back and admired her handiwork, watching Dobby's pitiful figure gripping the knife wedged between his ribs, mewling in distress, the blood leaking out from between his small, nobbly fingers. He murmured breathlessly, keening softly in pain before slowly crumbling to the ground, his bulbous eyes rolling back in his head, the light in them extinguished forever.
Bellatrix gave a wild laugh, full of vicious glee, as she saw him dead on the ground, his foolish mudblood friends running towards his feeble corpse, all of them crying in despair.