At six years old, she didn't understand. She walked home in the rain, tracked mud through the foyer, and stared up at her mother with delighted green eyes when she found her in the sitting room. At the sight of her daughter, raven hair in water soaked tendrils and mud to her knees, Druella snapped. Pureblooded ladies do not march in the rain! They do not play in the mud! I told you to stay inside! Ignited even at such a young age, the girl's little face scrunched in ire and she balled her little hands into little fists and stomped her little foot. I don't care about your stupid pureblooded ladies! I'm not a lady! I'm a dragon! Dragons do whatever they want! The girl made a habit of pushing her limits around the house, and in order to avoid a tiresome shouting match, Druella usually caved and let her eldest daughter have her way. It was just easier that way, especially when the whims of a six year old tended to be less than important.

Not today.

The girl's angry shriek crescendoed into a terrified wail as her mother seized her wrist and slapped her. By the fifth and final strike to the right side of her face, Bella cowered and tried to wrench her arm away in an effort to make the swings stop. Pain and fear and confusion made tears blur her vision and she must have begged her mother to stop a hundred times before it actually happened. Get out of my sight! Druella released her daughter's arm with a shove that sent the girl backwards a few steps. Unable to do anything other than heed her mother's order, Bella bolted outside once more. Even in obedience she refused to comply entirely.

And so the little girl sat in the garden, knees drawn to her chest and arms around them as she shook the tears out of her body. Rain continued to fall steadily, but it didn't matter - she was already wet and muddy. When she finally quieted somewhat, a barely coherent noise made itself apparent, and Bella lifted her head. A soft squeak, almost like a swing in need of a bit of oil, came from somewhere to her left. Curiosity won over self-pity, and the girl crawled through the flowers until she discovered the source of the sound. Skinny and waterlogged, the kitten was pathetic and probably dying and Bella loved it instantly.

"Don't cry," she cooed brokenly as she scooped up the bony little animal. "Don't cry, Flower."

The six year old grew to a twelve year old who understood, finally. Slaps turned to cutting charms, and tears turned to mocking laughter. The crying six year old became a twelve year old out for blood, but that scrawny little animal - closer to fat these days - still sleeps on her bed and she still starts journal entries with Dear Flower even though it would be the death of her reputation if her peers ever discovered it. Bellatrix always insisted she didn't have an interest in loving anything, even though she lit an upperclassman's robes on fire during her first year when he teased her for her cat's name. No one dared correct her again, especially when it pertained to the coin of grey and black fur that slept on her bed