It lay there, soft and warm and dead in the tall green grass. Soft brown hair matted with blood, wet and warm and sweet in the hazy late afternoon sun. Wasps droned a faint threatening hum, slinking lazily around the flower gardens that grew fresh sweet-smelling. Black Manson was visible over the grassy hill that smelled of midsummer, turrets and trimming and balconies in marble glory. Windows gleamed black in the dying beauty of the sun. The three sisters looked down at the dead rabbit. They looked from one to the other with dark eyes, questioning, hesitant. They knew it was a test. Bellatrix stepped forward first, unafraid, dark curls already breaking loose from satin restraints. They were not fooled by gaudy wrappers, chains were chains. She bent down low, felt the warmth of the sun on her neck, tasted the crimson blood on a graceful finger, smiling at the metallic taste. She laughed, gay and beguiling. Narcissa blinked at her with clear cut eyes, then looked away. She turned her back on the beast, and scampered after her sister with firm steps, a smile distant on her face, cool indifference in her eyes. Only Andromeda stayed. Only Andromeda cried. The face withdrew from the window and smiled. Two out of three was not quite so bad, Andromeda would learn. Two out of three was very good indeed.