Burn Brighter
A fire is only beautiful to you when you control it
Bellatrix Black was a fire, an eternal blaze of inferno that never diminished or weakened, quite the contrary. Every attempt to thwart her only made her shine brighter, and burn stronger. She was fierce, but not in the way men wrote poems about, not in a lingering undertone, her bite not simply a facet of her personality that could be toned down and redirected. No, this Black was not the easily palatable young witch that people came to expect of pureblood heiresses. To put the words submission and Bella in quick succession was not a simple oxymoron but an impossibility less likely than hell freezing over (they were magical for Merlin’s sake, that isn't all that of a challenge). Her fire wasn't confined to simply shining bright in her eyes; her fire covered the entirety of her being, of her presence, of her character, as people got closer to her there was a genuine fear of being burnt. Even she was not immune to its effects, the invisible burn marks scarring her otherwise perfect body.
She often heard that she was lucky to be born a beautiful girl, or else she would have been sacrificed to one god or another. Not out of faith, but out of a pure need to get rid of her, for even an exorcism would not cure her of herself (can u remove the devil of his own body). And as she was warned about the danger she presented to herself, she would disregard it. It seemed her entourage had forgotten that Bella would more willingly burn at a stake of her fabrication than be diminished. She would walk paths of garden and beauty and fit in so perfectly in the setting that people didn't seem to notice the trail of ash and bones that seemed to follow her like an ever-lasting shadow (even something so mundane as the shadow was extraordinary when it belonged to her) that didn't depend on something as fickle as the change of light or the passing of time. She gracefully rose above a human's simple needs and characteristics to become something more (once again, although people were tempted to describe her as a goddess, they could not ignore her malice or the dangerous glint that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her eyes).
Men didn't write poems about women like her, but they did start wars. Men who were so blinded by their love of fire and destruction, that they could ignore how her flame expanded and swallowed them whole. Once they noticed their skin melting off their body, it was already too late for them. They were confused by the light of the fire glittering so brightly it blinded them, rendering them unable to notice the girl-demon from which the object of their fascination came. Her underlying hate fed their need to prove themselves men threw themselves into the fight eager to see the fire consume cities whole if they could share in the glory and could imagine the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes (women like her were never truly satisfied after all some of us are meant to be happy while others live with the burden of having to be great). While her fire entranced and repulsed in equal measure, the few less influenced by her inner fiendrery would either be the people she held in the highest form of respect (that she could manage for somebody that wasn't her) or her worst enemies. Because one thing that could be said about Bellatrix is that she didn't do things in halves. Her storm could only be weathered by few, those few were her family or would come as close as possible (it was so that the eldest of the Black sisters decided that Rodolphusast Lestrange could be blessed with a couple of minutes of her day).
And so Bellatrix showed once again that storms are only mesmerizing for the masses when you're safely watching from shelter, but for her breed of people being the eye of the storm was the reason to live.