Mornings like this reminded her why she enjoyed being alone. The cold air that sliced through her as she stood on the balcony off their bedroom. The railing was too frozen to touch, trails of ice lingering on the intricate iron patterns. She kicked at the pile of snow growing near the edge of the balcony, watching it as it fell to the ground like all of the other things in life: crashing tragically without even a chance.
Somewhere the river that ran in the trees surrounding the manor began to thaw in the morning sunlight, though no sign of life was visible from this vantage point. She looked again, toward the empty, blackened windows on the opposite wall facing into the courtyard.
How long had it been? Days? Weeks maybe? The days ran together in a warm whiskey tinged blur. Now as she stood on the balcony, her limbs numbing in the unforgiving December air, her head pounding and her entire being aching, she regretted the previous days stupidity — as she always did. Mrs. Lestrange was nothing if not a creature of habit.
Finally admitting that nothing was changing outside, she surrendered, comforted immediately by the fingers of warmth that met her as the door closed. She drifted toward the bathroom with no haste in mind, another empty day before her. A warm bath in mind, she made her way toward the garish tub but paused, catching her reflection in the mirror.
He was good to her, as he'd always promised her he would be; no matter how hard either of them had tried, he still could not love her and she could not feel welcome in the house. But they did try, at least. The bathroom was large and designed exactly the way she'd asked (as was much of the rest of the home). A large vanity mirror hung on the wall opposite the tub, a dressing table directly under it.
Bella sat down, her eyes never leaving her own reflection. The woman in the mirror with the dead eyes and sickly pallor was not her. She had life, was full of excitement and danger and all of the things she'd forced herself to become. She was not the woman she was seeing now.
She slipped the robe off of her shoulders, gasping quietly to herself as the remains of the night however many sunsets ago showed themselves to her for the first time. She wore her bruises proudly, a necklace of scarlet and violet jewels resting near her collarbones.
Her bony fingers, still numb with cold, traced the outline. They were fading now; would be gone in a day or two's time. As so many other things in this house, they were her own secrets. It was never a sad sight in her sick, masochistic eyes, rather a trophy. Her marks were enough to prove that someone cared enough for her well-being to tell her, show her when she was going to far beyond her realm.
The hollowness of the house hit again, like a shot of lead to the stomach. Not a sound had resounded in the halls in what felt like ages. Elbows on her knees, head in her hands, in the silent seclusion of the bathroom, she broke. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to cry, tears that burned her cheeks and quiet sobs that felt so empty in her being.
The arms that went around her shoulders caught her by surprise, but not so much as the face in the mirror when she gained the strength to look up. The woman she knew was back with her eyes of fire and cheeks tinted red. Next to her was a man she didn't believe she was seeing, kneeling by her chair. She turned slowly to face him, ashamed of her moment of weakness.
"I am so sorry, Bellatrix."
"I missed you," she choked, trying to control her voice.
"You always do," he muttered, guilt flickering in his eyes as he assessed the damage on her otherwise flawless skin.
She watched his face for a moment, this man, her husband, cupping his face in her hands. "Why don't you understand by now?"
"But how can — "
"I always will."