You are standing at the door, white dress, white veil, white everything. You can here the piano playing your song. You smile weakly. You take steps towards the altar.
You die a little; you see tears; you see people who don't give a crap; you see your soon-to-be husband.
You hear whispers of how slutty you are, and how good it is for you to be marrying. To be settled.
You touch your fiancè's hand. Your wands intwine. You feel tears running down your face. You try so hard to stop crying. Oh no-- he is lifting your veil-- your mask to the crowd. He smiles faintly and leans forward. This is it; this is what is expected of you. You kiss him back. You feel your heart sinking into a dark pit.
You walk with him to the apparating point. He turns and tucks your hair into your ear. You quiver. He stares at your beauty; your eyes. He whispers: "Its okay."
You can't help to think he's lying. But you know he means well. You apparate away with him.
You are seventeen. You are Bellatrix Black, now Lestrange. You do not love. You do not care. But you can't help to think: maybe you did love him.
It's too late.
You smile as you see your husband die. You see Molly Weasley curse you. You could just let go. Instead, you laugh. How naïve you were then. You see your life flash before your eyes.
That's it.
You spent your life as a Death Eater.
You spent it being a Black.
You are a Black.
You are forty-seven. You are Bellatrix Lestrange.
Lights out.
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