A/N: Here's the last of Bella! We won't be seeing her again, but I sure had a blast writing her. I'd love to hear what you think about her evolution during her chapters. Hopefully, I've covered her sufficiently.

WC: 776

Friday 25th December 1970, 8 AM

Bella's spending the morning in bed. Well, not really. Because truthfully, she opened her eyes at 7 this morning and didn't have the courage to get up. So, she's been in this bed for an hour now – alone, yes, Aunt Walburga, even though she just got bloody engaged – and she's starting to get a little bored. She doubts that spending an hour in bed can qualify for spending the morning in bed, but she'll take what she can get.

It's quite funny, actually. Bella definitely isn't a morning person; she prefers the night. She loves the dark coolness of the hushed whispers of the moon and enjoys sleeping in as much as the next person, so she doesn't know why she awakened so early.

It's not because she's impatient to go and get her presents, that became lacklustre quite some time ago. Long gone is the little Bella who used to rush downstairs as soon as she woke up to discover what she had gotten for Yule. The excitement has faded into the dull resignation of adulthood, or perhaps the learned patience she's supposed to have. Though, Bella is anything but patient.

She's up, and staying in bed, for absolutely no reason, now she thinks about it. It's not even to drive her cousins mad with waiting, because someone decreed a long time ago they couldn't open the presents before every single member of the family was there. Though, of course, she enjoys the idea of having her cousins burn with the impatience. No, it's not even that.

Maybe she should get up, eventually, start the day, but why?

She looks at the Mark on her arm, dormant, for the moment, but ready to burn when necessary. It's scarily enchanting. That skull with the snake wrapped possessively and alluringly around it. There's something irredeemably beautiful about the darkness, the way it slithers, almost beckoning, hissing sweet nothings into your very blood, tugging deep at your inner magical core and plunging it's fangs deep into you, never letting go of you.

There's something so terribly, terribly tantalising about having someone hold that sort of power over you, of being in complete control and submission, and the Mark is only a reminder of that. And, after all, it's not just someone, it's the Dark Lord, the one and only. At least for her.

He is like His mark, in every single way. Sombrely handsome, the same way she would imagine an Angel fallen from the sky. He's completely irresistible, and she doesn't know if it's Him, or something about His magic that draws her to him.

It should strike her as wrong, perhaps, to think such thoughts about a man – a master – who is not her fiancé. But, of course, they both know it. Bella might be engaged to Rodolphus, but she is body and soul to the Dark Lord. She would eagerly do anything for him, even sell her soul to the Devil himself.

"Bella?" says someone as they knock at her door, breaking her out of her reverie.

"Come in," she calls and Regulus filters in.

"Aunt Druella sent me to fetch you," he tells her.

He's a little scared of her, she can tell, and she likes that. Fear is a form of power, she knows. But, it's only a little, and she can tell his excitement helps him overcome his fear.

"Oh?" is all she says.

"Umm, yes," he replies, unsure of what to say.

"Is everybody already up them?" she asks, stretching, "It's only 8, I think."

But, this time, he doesn't reply. She wonders why not, and sees him staring at something. She follows his gaze, and fins he is looking at her arm. Her left arm. Her Dark Mark. He looks positively enthralled and mystified, unable to tear his eyes off it. Bella quickly covers up the Mark and glares at him.

"What's that?" he asks.

"None of your concern," she replies swiftly and coldly. He shudders a little.

"But-"

"I said it was none of your concern, Regulus," she repeats, "Now, hurry down, will you?"

Regulus closes the door, a little more scared than he was before, and she hears his footsteps hurry away and down the stair. Bella lets out a breath. She's not ashamed of her Mark, on the contrary, she is beyond proud. It's just that it would be better if Mother and Father only found out once when she chose to tell them.

She pulls her nightgown on; it's the only day of the year they're allowed to go down in sleepwear, opens her door and goes down the stairs. Happy Yule, she thinks to herself.