fate, it doesn't cut, the soul is not so vibrant
"Bellatrix! What in Merlins name do you think you're doing?"
Bellatrix Black scoffed and met her mother's horrified gaze through the smudged, cracked mirror. "I'm an autotonsorialist, Mother. Obviously."
Druella couldn't quite fit her tongue around the word. "A…Autoton…Oh for the love of Black! You stupid girl! What kind of lady cuts her own hair?"
"I never claimed to be a lady, you old hag. I merely stated that I was an autotonsoralist."
"How dare you-!"
"What? Are you done yet? Your voice grates on my nerves." Bellatrix drawled and resumed savagely cutting at her thick mass of curls. Her ten year old eyes glimmered with a darkness most children couldn't comprehend each time the scissors snapped their steel fangs, severing yet another lock. A vicious smile marred her narrow face.
"Druella, Druella ~ killed so sweet by Bella ~ scissors, scissors ~ bloody, bloody scissors~"
Her mother stormed out of the bathroom, creating a false cloud of anger to mask the fear that plunged deep in her heart as her daughter sang the same verse over and over again. "You useless brat! You can get yourself locked away in Azkaban for all I care! CYGNUS!"
"~ Druella, Druella ~ she was killed by Bella ~ hands so ~ bloody ~ bloody, bloody hands~"
autotonsorialist ~ one who cuts their own hair.