Bellatrix/Lily and Unrequited Love.


Nervousness didn't become Bellatrix Lestrange. Being nervous meant being weak, and being weak meant you were nothing. It's a simple breakdown and yet so complex. Bellatrix was no stranger to complexity.

Complexity, when her sisters and her sat endlessly at the table, trying to master the refined art of cutting with a fork and knife elegantly. When she sat in front of a mirror, her mother fussed over her black, untamed curls, and tried to restrain them with numerous hair clips and bobby pins. When she was constantly compared to Narcissa, who was dainty and porcelain and perfect, while Bellatrix was the wild, rebellious witch with a foul mouth. She spent many minutes over a sink as she tried to wash away the Scourgify her mother used on her mouth.

The Blacks were a complex family, model citizens, and Bellatrix was one of them. She knew the nuances of complexity.

A flash of dark red hair caught her attention as she walked into the pub, her straight-backed stride and haughty expression demanding respect. She caught sight of the red hair again and its owner, the one whose laugh had haunted Bellatrix's dreams for weeks.

No matter what, she couldn't shake off Lily Evans. Lily Evans was everywhere she was, all charm and cheer and spunk packed into one body. How a Muggleborn could be so indifferent and fearless against the mighty Thirteen families was beyond Bellatrix — Muggleborns belonged at the bottom. Evans belonged at the bottom. Her blood was filthy and muddy and yet —

Evans reached out to touch her companion's hand, her laughter reaching Bellatrix's ears, and Bellatrix almost faltered. There was one more thing about Evans — she was utterly bewitching, so naturally she'd stolen the hearts of more than just Bellatrix.

James Potter. Bellatrix struggled to contain the tide of jealousy within her. Here she'd been, about to approach Lily, nervousness wracking her stomach and Potter had just swooped in and snatched her up. Bellatrix was left behind in the ashes, the bitter taste of her defeat on her tongue.

As she slid into a private booth, she watched the pair through narrowed eyes. Her view was unobstructed and she could see Lily sliding closer to him, their shoulders brushing — now they were leaning in, their foreheads touching —

Bellatrix slammed her hand loudly on the table, earning her a few startled, reproachful looks, but she hardly noticed them. Hot, angry tears blurred her vision and she stood abruptly. She couldn't breathe because her lungs were constricted from the emotional backlash of watching them —

"Something wrong, miss?" a patron dared to ask, but she shot him such an acrid glare that he withered and scuttled away. Not daring to look at the nauseating couple, she stormed out of the pub.

Sometime during the hellish fever dream, rain had started to pour from the sky. Quite fitting.

She didn't open her mouth until she was far, far from the pub, far from Lily Evans, and screamed her agony.

It was heard by no one and was lost forever to the thunder and wind, and Bellatrix fell to her knees and sobbed.

She hated being weak.


531 words

Written for

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