The Pride of the Black Family
O. Crew
I remember the first time I killed someone. Quite an astounding feat for a child no older than four. A muggle toddler had some how wandered into the backyard of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and joined me in pulling out flowers from the garden of my older, disgusting, blood traitor sister. We popped the heads off at each other, giggling in childhood earnest, until one flower hit my eye. With a shriek of rage, that would later become my killing trademark, a flash of green light that I had seen the day prior when a decrepit house elf spilt tea on my mother, the corpse of the boy lay twisted amongst the decapitated flowers.
My aunt, Walburga, who had been alerted to my scream by Kreacher, came out onto the back porch. I stood in defiance of possible punishment, pointed my finger at the offending, lifeless boy and said, "He hit my eye." She walked to the body, nudged it with her toe, then swung me up into her arms, kissed my cheek and carried me into the house while laughing hysterically. The memory gets hazy after that, but I do know my parents held a grand part for the occasion. My father, Cygnus, gave a speech in my honor, detailing why I was the pride of the Black family and how my actions could lead the wizarding world to the revolution over Pureblood desired.
Had the Dark Lord not risen, I would have.
A/N: A little ditty I thought of while smoking a fag on my back porch. I might continue it, if I get enough initiative. No, I don't own these characters, but JK Rowling doesn't go deep enough into the mind of Bellatrix Lestrange for my taste, so I thought I'd explore the rarely tread ground. I make no money off this, and as I'm staying with my sister, out of her kindness, please don't sue, you won't get any money if you do.
