Perhaps when I was younger, I may have believed in love. Perhaps in the past I may have envisaged my future, in a white dress strolling confidently down a beautiful sunlit isle. There would be no worries, no keeping up the family honour. Just the man I loved and I. Happy.
We'd have children, and let them play in our orchard, whilst we talked about mundane things, all the while giving each other sly looks and smiles, because we'd be more in love than anyone we knew. People would be jealous of us, and talk behind our backs. But we would just laugh and take it in our stride. We would have each other, and that would be the thing that mattered.
And when our children grew up and had families of their own, we'd fade away as the cold nights grew. We'd become oblivion, buried six feet under. Still together. Always.
When I was younger I believed in lots of things.
As I grew I became aware that love has no place in the world that was set out for me. No one of my calibre loves. My mother and father were proud of their second eldest child, always coming top in class. I needed my mother and father like a normal person needs arms. My oldest sister married a muggle born and was never welcomed in the family again. My youngest married Lucius Malfoy, and although he was worth ten times that of Ted Tonks, Narcissa started to see us less and less. Her husband was perfect, why should she spend time with us?
I was given the impression that to love a man would result in being disowned, and I refused to be separated from my family. Suddenly the apples in the Orchard were rotting and I was jolted at the Alter. I thought about my childish daydreams less and less. New, and more dangerous ideas, were forming in my head.
My mother and father loved each other, yes, but not nearly as much as the love they shared for the Dark Lord. Imagine, a man living up to his promise, a land without blood traitors and Mudbloods. Just the Pure and the ones with self-respect. Imagine, living without having to hide, stepping over the bruised and swollen spines of the humans too stupid to learn magic. I admit that the idea of being superior had a strong hold over me.
Poor Bellatrix, never married. Lived with her parents. Never had her sisters looks but so clever.
And my parents would cherish me even more. If I joined with the Dark Lord, I would be the favourite. If I were to choose my parents views, instead of the views I had as a child, then they would be proud. So proud.
I set out to meet the Dark Lord and after many years of searching my dream came true. There he was, stood in front of me, his cold smile almost chilling me.
And those eyes, those deep, vibrant eyes. As I stared up into them on the first night we met, it was as though he knew my desperation to be the favourite, to be talked about for generations for being the greatest of the Blacks. The purest of the purebloods.
He spoke in nothing more than a whisper, but yet I could hear every single word, every single inflection of his voice.
"Bellatrix," He said to me, mulling my name over in his head. My arms erupted in Goosebumps as he said my voice. A part of me almost lusted for him to be saying it with some passion in his voice. I wished for him to be telling me how proud he was off me, his most trusted servant.
Instead, he told me in his cold, high voice how muggles were nothing but filth, and Witches and Wizards that were descended from them held nothing in his mind but anger. I felt myself agreeing with everything he said, even the things I'd never really thought or cared about before. He sent me out to do his bidding, and the quest I set out on for acceptance became less about my parents and more about him.
As I lay in bed at night, my thoughts were always on him, and the things he'd do.
I remember the first time I saw him smile. I told him about how I had tortured Fabian Prewett. I hadn't killed him, it was on the Dark Lords request that no pure blood was to be spilled. Just shaken. He smiled at me, but for some reason it didn't make me feel happy at all. Infact, it was worse than being in the presence of a Dementor. The happiness was sucked from me, and I understood at once that I could never make him happy, not in the way he made me. He humoured me, and felt that this was the amount of effort I was worth. He could never love me.
It was that month I married Rodolphus Le'Strange. I hoped to Merlin that he would be there, or even better, that he would be there and try and stop me, telling the world that I should marry him instead.
He didn't. But I knew he wouldn't.
He told me it was a commendable choice. The same bored, tired voice, and yet I always replied with my voice full of ecstasy, trying to demonstrate the longing for him to even touch me. To hold me tight and tell me everything was ok. To make me a woman.
I could never tell him how I felt, for I knew that if he had even a glimpse of the passion I felt for him, he would disown me. Or even worse, pity me.
When he disappeared, I felt sick like I had never felt sick before. I screamed and screamed until my throat ripped, the walls around me spinning. I was quite unhinged.
The hatred of what he had done, how he had deserted me, filled my body until I could take no more. I was with extreme ease that I pointed my wand at the Longbottoms and tortured them to insanity.
As I sat my lone cell, my mind started to ease. Suddenly, the isle was back, the jealous family members, and the faceless man stood waiting for me in my flowing white gown. I never reached him. As I strode down to meet him, just before I finally got to see his face, a massive bang brought me back to the present.
My cell had been blown apart, and there he stood. He held out his hand to me, and carefully, I took it.
He looked down at me, his expression curious. Thinking back, I knew then that I would never question my master again, never doubt anything he did.
He came back for me, and I will always be his.