Perfection
26. perfection of moral virtue
"She's perfect," Mother said when Andromeda was born. "Just look at her."
Andromeda was truly perfect, quiet as could be, a cherubic baby who looked nothing like her older sister did when she was born. Bellatrix was a sullen, yellow thing who cried incessantly. Narcissa, to her credit, didn't have any hair until she was nearly a year old, and often turned bright red from hiccupping so often.
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"She's perfect," the guests said, as Narcissa entered, showing off her new dress robes. "You must be so proud."
Her parents nodded, and radiated pride as they watched Narcissa visit with her friends and guests, curtsying to some and bestowing cold, polite smiles on others. They knew she would never shame them by marrying a Mudblood, or ridicule their family by professing undying adoration to some fool wizard. Narcissa was the perfect daughter.
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"Perfect," the Dark Lord said, and she was delighted. She had known that, all though he did not assign anyone to undertake this task, it was hers. The traitors who had thought themselves safe hiding in a mere house were all dead. She had completed her task (perfectly), and pleased her Lord, and that is all that he ever asks of her.
"You may rise, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord said, and extended a gracious hand to her. She held it in her own, pressed a kiss to it, and stood.
What does she care of looks, or society? She is doing the right thing, and that is all that matters.