She lies
and says she's in love with him
Can't find a better man
She dreams in color
She dreams in red
Can't find a better man
She likes to think her faeries will come take her away from this place. The faeries in her girlish dreams with names like Hay and Jip that fell curt and prompt of your tongue, not long rolling things like Draconis and Nymphadora. She loved her faeries and Bella always told her they weren't real, even though Bella was two years younger.
She traces patterns no one needs to know of on the silken Malfoy sheets that freeze you like sheets of ice. She tosses a black diamond to the floor in distaste of the life she's leading but she always picks it back up. Her mind floats back to times ago with Andromeda holding one hand and Bellatrix the other and they stood, indivisible under oath.
There's still a scar on her finger to remind her of the oath Meda swore them under when she was 13, the oath that they would be the utmost and forever faithful to the hallowed name of Black. It was all Meda's idea, really, she was like that - obsessed with upholding her family's honor. She sank into mythology like quicksand and lived in history, past, and her father's library.
It was Bella who was more sullen, more down to earth, and frightneningly like Draco. Bella hated Meda's mythology and Cissa's faeries and grew up too fast. She kissed Sirius when the both of them had too much brandy and always dueled with him, even when they were tiny little children with tiny little hands clutching big people wands.
Somewhere along the line Andromeda fell into this dark abyss of answering the questions that weren't to be answered. The questions that appeared to all Blacks, the questions she was the least likely to answer. But she fucked up, she married a muggleborn, but she was something frightening -- she was happy.
But Bellatrix didn't have any question, so blindsighted by these parties and balls and tradition and winning. Obsessed with power and overbearing and under the false pretense that being pure would save her. She still lives in her blind little world of cutting out what she doesn't like, what she wasn't raised to like, and feeding her insatiable hunger for power.
And she who lies atop the Malfoy bed linens, Narcissa, she lives in a question unasked and unanswered. Under the opinion she shall be seen and unheard, emotionless and quiet, the epitome of the ice queen. She's become her mother in a matter of years.
Black blood, black diamond, black heart.
Author's Note: first began way back when my life spun in dizzy circles. now completed, and published. ack i don't really like it! would you please tell me what you think? someone tell me the name of this song and who sings it!!! i feel bad not leaving credit!!!!