I: thought [and we never know we're crazy until the wardens come]
These stupid thoughts made it quite hard to think, actually. She would shake her torrent of dark curls furiously, ignoring the stares from her fellow Slytherins and the sniggers from the Gryffindors, all of them too afraid to get close enough to really make her mad—for her anger was quite famous and her disregard for the emotions of others frightful, making her both the most feared person and the most sought-after female in the school, if only a fifth year. It was all very well to sit by the lake and muse alone, reveling in the delicious splendor of solitude, but the thoughts that came when one did not concentrate on what was on the agenda to think about for the day were, simply put, maddening. It made her feel like a lunatic in a cage, snarling and skulking about, long fingernails and wild hair, schoolmates and muggles alike poking their fingers through the bars to goggle at her.
II: pretty [it's all in the eyes of the beholder, really—but what if he's not there?]
It made her feel like a pathetic loser. Her dress, lacy and black and on the very cutting edge of madness, made the boys stare, their eyes wide with want. But she knew they wouldn't come until the dancing was done, and so she would stand fiercely on the outskirts, stolid and beautiful, her hair a wild heaven and her lips hazy red with foreboding. The multi fairy lights would glow and she would stare, in throat-hurting envy, at her pretty little sister in her pale blue whirling with Lucius Malfoy, while beside her, Severus would stare in almost the same way at Evans and Potter, his Adam's apple protruding from his skinny neck as he fidgeted lightly with the cuffs of his robes. Somehow, in the dark, their hands would find each other and grasp tight, knuckles almost white from the pressure of want overlayed upon need. It made her wonder what a delightful spectacle they might cause if they took to the floor. But she was Bellatrix, and so it was not to be. She only wished that the boys' eyes upon her were red, instead of that nasty grey color, and ached hard for her father's important (and handsome) friend, who had told her that she was a beauty.
III: opposite [nothing can make one feel guilty, short of a paradox]
Something about the way Lucius treated her sister made her wonder hard about him. She saw the way he stared longingly after her, even while knowing she was his, and the way his large hands clasped her small ones, the gentle cutting of their two pale jaws as they kissed sweetly, their matching blonde heads silky and iridescent. It made her feel all the more powerful and positively triumphant afterward, as said blonde Slytherin seventh year fucked her hard against the dungeon wall. After the sex, he would kiss her so bruisingly that her lips were swollen for days, and so unfeelingly that she almost wanted to cry; almost. She wanted to ask him if he kissed her sister like that, but knew the answer would be a scornful 'what do you take me for?' look that indicated an explicit no. Because even if he had kissed her sister like that, she knew he wouldn't have meant it. Lucius loved little Narcissa, for all her foolishness and naïveté. Bellatrix was different; dark and hollow and impossible to hurt; dying inside but really impossible to love. She wouldn't let them? No, they only wouldn't let themselves.
IV: real [why are you, of all people, the only one who can ever hope to understand?]
She and Severus were too alike for words. Though, of course, she would never dream that she herself was as ugly as he was. These weekend walks never got tiresome, really; each of them could give what the other wanted most in the world. Bellatrix could give Severus a pretty girl to walk beside, hand-in-hand, causing Potter and his crew to stop in their tracks and gawk in awe and envy and that utterly unmentionable redhead to sneer and snipe while pouting quite noticeably. Severus gave Bellatrix something to pretend upon; it was all so easy to delusion herself into thinking (if only for a moment) that he actually cared. It was fun to get out of the drudgery of schoolwork and the hulking haunting crumblestones of the dark castle. Out here, everything was unfriendly and bright and intoxicatingly sane and positively wild. It was only when they sat ramrod straight under the great oak together, muttering words of sheer loathing while their hands were still curiously intertwined, that she ever understood that love was never what it was supposed to be. And she was grateful for Severus, for even if he was only pretending, it was so wonderful to tell herself that she had a friend.
V: macho [it's better, really, being one of the guys]
It wasn't really that she didn't know why they preferred her company; it was that she held all the power with them. Though Lucius was the much-ballyhooed leader of their little pack, she was the unspoken authority, the only girl and a very sexy one, at that. She would sneak out of her dorm to meet the boys on the other staircase, and they would slip silently, some of them giggling girlishly to an icy glare from Lucius or a fiery one from Bellatrix, down below the school to the very cavernous heart: the dungeons. They would form a circle there, the absence of light seeming so rebellious that even Severus would positively gleam with excitement. It didn't much matter what they discussed, whether it was which Slytherin girl was the best lay (Bellatrix would make a little smirk as the boys all turned their eyes towards her) or their eagerness to receive their marks (at this point, Lucius would pull up his sleeve for all to admire). She would stealth back into her dorm as morning danced lithely into the little picture-window, ignoring the cries of "Bellatrix!" as Cissy, Greengrass, and Parkinson pulled their pillows over their heads at the outrage of losing beauty sleep.
VI: sisters [she'll always be there, even when you hate her so much you want to tear out her hair and your own]
Cissy was the only one ever allowed to call her Bella. She would, of course, make a few exceptions later in life, but would never forget her little sister's childish overuse of the very fitting nickname. Her sister was a much-taunted beauty, a little girl who seemed never to grow up, a child who forever seemed to let her love get the better of her. Sometimes, though, when Bella sat on Cissy's bed while her sister painted her nails a ghastly, nauseatingly over-feminine pale pink, Narcissa would sigh and stare out the window, her blue eyes always searching. Bella would pretend to be interested in the latest copy of Über-Witch, Narcissa's favorite magazine, until Cissa turned sharply toward her and exploded, Doesn't he love me at all? Bella would put down the giggly mag, turn to her sister, and say, Of course. A crystal tear would drip down Narcissa's porcelain cheek (so unlike Bella's messy, over-hysterical crying) and she would utter primly but shakily, Then why does he make me wait? Bella then would always scooch up to the headboard to sit beside her sister, put her arm around her, and croon, Shhh. Shhh. He'll come, you wait and see. By and by, he did come, and Bellatrix would have to watch them strut about-and-out together, impeccable and flawless, leaving her alone in the empty common room. It made her feel horrible inside, but not as horrible as she felt when he had caused her baby sister such heartache.
VII: day [haven't you noticed that black tends to look striking in the sun?]
Black was, undoubtedly, her very favorite color, for obvious reasons. It went well with her dark hair, which was supposedly going to turn entirely black when she reached her twenties, something she couldn't wait for. Yes, Bellatrix loved all things black, which led her to love the darkness, which led her to hate the day. It was so bright, and so falsely cheerful, and made her want to run and jump and dance for joy, which disgusted her. She walked round with a permanent scowl on her face, while inside, she seethed and bubbled with repressed elation. One day she was grounded, however; thrust shockingly into a clean blue sky, heart aflame with spindly green wings. Severus Snape sauntered up, murmuring, Why the long face? She scowled, wanting to bite back the same question at him but deciding quite wisely to save her breath. He breathed right into her ear, whispering, I hate you. Her answer ruffled his raven hair, borne away crazily like a scarlet leaf on a wayward breeze: I hate you more. He drew back, not even pretending to be offended. Kiss me, Bellatrix Riddle, he ordered, and she complied, their lips grating sloppily against each other in such a perfectly imperfect kiss that she forgot to question the Riddle. She drew back, scowling again, but inside, her grin was wider than the sunshine.
VIII: water [he's a rebel, same as you—he's only chosen the wrong side and you the right—or is it the other way round?]
When the spring got warm enough to touch, she would steal away from the stately family dinners, running purposefully into the woods, where she knew her little stream-thing waited. It would always be there, burbling away, and she would practice her dark magic until she couldn't wait any longer, then shucking off her robes and stockings, skydiving into the water, arms and legs flailing in the fear of flying. Clothed in nothing but her bra and underwear, she would duck her head under the chilly water and scream, the force making bubbles in the crystal-clear liquid. Coming up utterly refreshed, she'd float on her back like a soap bubble and daydream the afternoon away. Sirius followed her once, and after, never stopped coming. He stood and stared at her pale body, toes curling over the edge, as she did nothing but tilt her head and lazily open her black eyes to stare back at him. You're crazy, cousin, he laughed, and then, I can see what all the Slytherins and half of Ravenclaw are raving about. She raised an eyebrow at him: Why don't you come in? and so he did, canonballing and completely naked. She'd forgotten that Sirius was never one to do things halfway; she'd forgotten a fair bit of things about her cousin, who used to be her favorite. They splashed each other and shouted in laughter and hoped that the rest of the family would never come. They stayed in that water until their bodies were wrinkled like prunes, and, when it got too late and cold to move, shook out their identical raven curls and dressed again, before glaring at each other and stalking back to the manor on separate paths.
IX: betrothed [he's gay; or perhaps immune to lust]
Rodolphus Lestrange was not handsome. He was not interesting, and not very smart, and not anyone Bellatrix wanted to spend the rest of her sorry life with, that was certain. He was just a whole bunch of nots, and that added up to a whole lot of nothing—a whole lot of a hole. Musing on this wasn't fun; it was frustrating and stupid. Narcissa was lucky; she was betrothed to someone she was madly in love with, even if he was the least decent man on the planet. At school, Bellatrix would call Lestrange 'Roddy' and climb on his lap, grinding her hips against his, while he stared out the window in apparent solemnity. The other boys would whoop and holler and beg for some of their own, but Rodolphus chose to irritate Bella, because he was most of all not responsive. At her parent's house, Bellatrix would dress pointedly in her most revealing robes, and sit directly across from Rodolphus, laughing and smiling and lowering her long lashes wickedly. Narcissa looked shocked and demure at her sister's behavior, and her parents cast disapproving glances her way, but Bella knew this at least: their marriage was going to be miserable, and Rodolphus would make it so.
X: bubbles [leaving at the beginning makes impossibly sure you'll never get left behind]
Bellatrix loved bathing, especially in the prefect's bathroom, where she did not belong. It was invigorating to break the rules so deliberately; she almost wished a prefect (or even better, a teacher) would walk in on her and order her out. So every day, five minutes into History of Magic, she would raise her hand and give Professor Binns a simper as she asked to go to the loo, and it worked like a charm every time: out she was, out free to roam the school, with her perfect attendance record unmarred. She would usually make her way to the prefect's bath and turn on all the taps, filling it up with scalding water and rainbow bubbles. She'd float naked in it until lunch hour, then clamber out and dry off, skipping ahead to join her fellow Slytherins on the way to the dining hall. It was the perfect way to skip class—and who really cared about History of Magic, anyways? The only History class she'd enjoy was one where they'd learn about her own history, and she was sure that this particular subject (The History of the Most Noble House of Black) would never be offered in a school with such a buffoon for a Head.
XI: slave [orders, always orders—aren't you in bondage too?]
Bellatrix loved the house-elves, really she did. The very idea of such a personage (*cough* elf-age) sent a little yummy quiver up her spine, the same one which came whenever she screamed, MILLA! at the top of her lungs and the little wizened brown thing came running, bowing and scraping and muttering nervously, squeaking in fear all the while. Milla really was quite an excellent elf, so undyingly loyal, thanks in the most part to Narcissa, who called it 'a dear little thing' and often petted the top of its ugly bald head as if it were a dog. Bellatrix preferred to practice her dark magic on this one, particularly because it would always leap up, stammering, Yes, Mistress, after every Cruciatus or Imperious. At this, Narcissa would cry and shriek and run for the bedroom to sob, and 'Dromeda, when she was still around, would scream at Bellatrix to Stop it, now! before taking the same route as Cissa had. Bella would feel an odd thrill-twisty in her stomach and think, Cowards. It was just as well, though, the nauseous pain that would come after, with the realization that she herself would act as a slave to any one of the men who wanted her.
XII: unwanted [being the favored child IS the aim]
She still recalled that day, standing before the mirror with Cissy and 'Dromeda, ages nine, six, and five, respectively. She'd looked at Narcissa's silver-blonde hair (so like their mother's) and Andromeda's copper-colored locks (so like their father's) and asked, while frowning in puzzlement at her riotous cloud of ebony curls, Why do I look so different from you? Her childish words were always remembered, more so because it was true: even at six her prominent bone structure and black eyes were an obvious contrast with Cissa and 'Dromeda's delicate cheekbones and china-blue eyes. Andromeda had gazed contemptuously at her younger sister and spat, Because you were a mistake. Bella's lower lip had trembled and her eyes had flashed and a few objects had gone crashing to the floor, while she insisted, No! No, you're a LIAR, Andromeda Black, and I DON'T believe you! It's true, Andromeda had shrugged, I heard mother talking to Mrs. Malfoy about you, she said you were a 'problem' and she and father only ever meant to have me, but once you were here they figured they needed another one to round us out. Ask her if you don't believe me! Go on, ask! Bella had dissolved into tears, knowing at once how her mother and father seemed to adore her sisters and simply overlook her. Even now! Even now that Andromeda had left, blacked off the family tree, her mother and father doted on Narcissa and turned away from her in a kind of fear, as if something was wrong with her and always had been. Bella pretended she didn't care; she pretended very well. But deep down inside, she figured that she'd have three daughters of her own someday, and she'd name the first one Prudence, and the last one Lolita, after a muggle book Severus had told her about. But the middle one, she'd name Morgana, and she'd love that little girl so much! Really love her, and she would tell her so. It was all-important, the telling.
XIII: elegant [it feels so good to be admired]
Once it was known that she was favored by the man her father called The Dark Lord, Bellatrix felt a kind of pride in her heart that seemed to emanate forth. It wasn't only that the man was handsome (for he was, despite his scarlet eyes) or that he looked at her in such a way, as if she were the only woman in the world, it was that he admired her skill at dark magic. He told her that she was the very brightest girl he'd ever seen, and she glowed with satisfaction. Her parents were proud too, and that was the most important. The Dark Lord planned to take her on, teach her himself, it seemed, and once this was known, her parents threw another one of their famous parties—this time, for her and her alone. They made her wear white. They made her wear white and she was determined to hate it, but once the gauzy dress was on her, she glaring furiously at her reflection, her mother gaped and Cissa gasped and she saw that she was beautiful. The dress was as light as fairy wings, all of goblin-made lace and spider silk. And in the great gold ballroom, graceful and poised, on the arm of the most important man in the world, she felt as if she were flying. She was fifteen and he thought she was beautiful. And what was more, everyone did. She could tell by the way they stared.
XIV: initiation [becoming who you are—or who you think you are—is liberating]
It was sublime. It was decadent, invigorating, pleasurable, exhilarating. It was good, and for a moment, good was all she knew. Her lord's want poked at the pale, papery underside of her left forearm and, slithering bitingly, a thick, inky snake-and-skull commenced to brand her thin arm. Bella gazed at it transforming, transfixed at the winding pain, and as the searing heat ceased, irises snapped up and she held his in hers, her eyes wide and trusting, his glinting with some inexplicable unforeseen delight. She looked about her and the world was transformed. It seemed she was taller, her vision sharper, her body tenser yet limber. Lucius stood by, giving her a satisfied nod. Bella credited herself for not blushing; for any other girl, she was sure, would have. And Severus, lurking in a dark shadow, nursing his new mark as if it hurt him but trying to hide it all the same, said-without-saying, This was a mistake. Bellatrix gave him a disdainful glare, tossing her curls invisibly, then turned back to her lord and stared at his eyes again. She found power in them, and power was thrilling, and thrilling washed over and she knew she was important. Severus's words seemed to echo over and over but she pushed them away, steeling herself to just watch and be watched. He looked at her and she looked at him and the world held its breath; but Severus was still there, almost-calling-out, Bella, this was a mistake.
XV: want [and you know you'll always be the same]
She was fifteen. It was unbeknownst to her how many of them there were, but the only ones she knew of were herself, Severus, and Lucius. For the first time, she felt happy, complete, full, powerful, but never—never loved. Love was a fairytale, and love simply didn't happen. She accepted the world as it was, and with it, accepted that he couldn't love her back. And so she would wait—his, his most faithful, his most loyal, one and always his, forever yearning for something she couldn't have and didn't dare touch. It was already so; and she knew it would be thus for as far as she could look forward, as far into the future that she could manage. She didn't dare remind herself that she was a fool; Severus could be the one to do that. But she wasn't free. She wouldn't ever be free, not until the very last realization that Sev and Cissa had been right all along, but that—that didn't bear thinking of, didn't merit admittance. And so she was fifteen, and childhood was over. She wasn't the girl that she was; and this hurt most of all. She wasn't really anything, and so she made herself cast musings aside, grow straighter and stronger and harsher, until she was nothing else but his. But then—then, after all, she could never really be.
And so she stood, and forgot, and waited to live. But really [really she was only waiting for life to pass her by]
end