This is a happy house,
we're happy here
in a happy house.
For others around her, for others who could stay within those perimeters of constant confusing actions and toxic personality, there was something about her to behold.
She was attractive, she had presence.
(Some kind of unknown force which inevitably told you danger! Danger! And run, run, run).
She had some kind of power. Power which was constrained exactly to her will. As if she could draw it in like a shield and flexibly hold it around her body. Expand it with deliberate force, knock useless pawns over, scatter them around the floor like the queen in a game of exceptionally violent wizards chess.
(It was like nothing else anyone had seen).
She was never told she was academic, nor exceptionally gifted. She wasn't topping potions and she was rather useless at herbology. But anyone who saw her perform, like the dancer, chaotic on the stage, she was powerful.
Bloody fucking hell Bella, you're powerful.
Shit, she was. It was her solstice. She had power.
(and wasn't that attractive?)
She had the power to make others hurt, to make them scream, make them curse or writhe in pain. Pawns again, in her game, sacrificed for her greater good. She was yet to meet her king.
(Yet to meet her match, someone just as powerful and shit crazy).
Someone she could follow without feeling demeaned. For she really was her own soul, untamed.
(fucking wild).
Oh Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella. Why did you do that? Mess everything up? You're a fucking disgrace child!
Her mother's voice was ringing, ringing loud and unbearable through her ears. Ears made of porcelain, breakable, soft and weak.
(Words, she found, were like water to her fire, like fire to her ice).
And mama knew how to use it. Use it, control it, unleash it. Break her down to powder, blow her around like careless wind.
Mama was speaking, speaking in her mind, echoing off her skull, ricocheting through her brain, firing off like a synapse, secreting hatred like an overworked pituitary gland.
She didn't mean it, she's sixteen, so young, and can't you see I'm trying so hard with this disobedient child?
She could see the ministry shaking their heads and pursing their lips into thin lines, looking her over, broken and bruised by the only women who knew how to hurt her.
Hereditary? No. Heritage. Heritage hysteria.
And they were gone.
Sirius was snarling, teeth flashing at her like a dog. She would have supposed it was threatening for a boy of eight years. He positioned himself defensively, facing her with vicious eyes, back to Regulus who cowered in the corner, screaming and crying.
Six years old and blessed with the curse. What a wonder.
(and she hated children).
Weak, weak, children, screaming. Nothing Bella would have cared for. Mother running, Walburga striding in like the matriarch she was and flicking her wand unexpectedly at Bella, sending her flying into the opposite stone wall, crumpling to the floor as the curse ached on her right shoulder.
Walburga, tossing Sirius aside as she set Regulus straight, giving him a harsh once over and silencing both boys with little more than a threatening glance.
Her aunt commanded attention. Mama was bland in her presence, and Bella realised what power was, who power was.
And Walburga Black turned her wand on Bella again.
The Weeknd - House of Balloons