She told me to come but I was already there. - AC/DC, You Shook Me All Night Long.
Sometimes, I wonder what she thinks about, behind her deadly heavily-lidded eyes. I don't think I want to know, it makes her seem mysterious, and I like mysterious.
Her tongue speaks of sin as casually as one talks of the weather. Her eyes promise pain if she doesn't get her way, and sometimes even if she does. Her murmurs in my ear are that of horror and darkness, things that would make an ordinary man tremble, but I am not ordinary. Her kisses are poison, but I'm not afraid of death.
Her name is Bellatrix, and she's mine. She swears she isn't mine, not in spirit, anyway; and I guess she's right.
She scoffs at people in love, and takes my hands, pulling me deeper and deeper into her world of murder. I don't care, I'm not faint hearted and I react as strongly to the adrenaline, as she does.
Other men have wanted her, but they all hesitated when they realised how far she wants to go, and that she's toxic; she will use you, abuse you, and kill you with those dark red lips, like that of a vampire.
I like her best when she's covered in blood, right after a kill. I like her even better when I listen to the curses rolling of her tongue, and her dark eyes full of desire.
She is what little children fear, the monster hiding under their beds, while they lie terrified, hoping they will be spared.
She has no fears, and if she did, she wouldn't tell me. Sometimes I wish she would kill me, if it means the last thing I will see is her pale face, and her smirk.
I love it when she's mad. She gets mad easily, and she stays mad. She doesn't know the meaning of the phrase 'forgive and forget'.
She hates a lot. Her hate is what kept her alive, back when we were in Azkaban. It was her that kept me alive, but I can't tell her that.
They say she lost her beauty. She hasn't, she's still beautiful, even after all these years. True, she looks like Death itself, but as I said I'm not afraid of death.
I don't want her to say 'I love you'; instead I want to continue this game we're playing.
She calls herself a Black Rose. I call her a beautiful nymph; too many men have died for. Too many men have cried for. She laughs at this.
You're a fool. She taunts. A fool because you love me. And I will use it to crush you.
Her laugh is cold, sending shivers down my spine, and I love it. I love it. She teases and taunts me, and she loves it. She loves to make me hurt, but not too much.
Men don't know whether to envy me or to be relived they aren't with her. Some are a mixture of both.
I am Rodolphus Lestrange, and Bellatrix isn't mine; I am hers.