prologue.
Believe it or not, there was a time when Bellatrix Lestrange was not as cruel as we know her to be and as she is known for. Once upon a time, there was an age of innocence, however quickly shattered it was. And although it can be hard to wrap our minds around since we all know her as her later, Dark Lord-worshipping self, she was once a child as well; she was once an untainted soul as we all are at the beginning, for we are not born with malicious intent already in our minds: that is something that we gain along the way.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, Bellatrix Lestrange, or, at the age that we are talking about, Bellatrix Black, was never a nice child necessarily, being raised in the strict, sophisticated environment that was of the House of Black, but she once was clear of the outright evil intent towards muggleborns and muggles that overcame her later self and became her entire personality. She did what her mother told her, and she didn’t question it, but that was not because she was already invested in that belief: that was because she was a child, and one ought to do what their mother tells them, for fear of consequences, at least.
Bellatrix Black was not all that bad, but, as most children do, she followed in her parent’s footsteps and was therefore led astray.
But now, we’re focusing on her clear-of-crime past, rather than her future wrongdoings; right now we’re looking at the time that she was ignorant in the way that is of a child, rather than the ignorance that is of knowing, yet not caring at all.
—
Eyes like an unripe strawberry. Or a jewel. They’re too big for their face, ever the more magnificent for it. They have an uncanny sort of luster to them; they’re sad. Wait no, they’re just dead.
Bellatrix Black is losing a staring contest with one of the house elf heads mounted on Grimmauld Place’s walls and wondering what having her face displayed on a wall would feel like. The thought makes something heavy settle onto her chest and she resolves that she doesn’t truly wish to know.
Despite her disgust, her mind goes to the gruesomeness of it. Is it being displayed as a prize? A trophy? A receipt? For what purpose?
The sudden emergence of goosebumps down her back makes her fancy, ruffly green dress feel altogether too tight, perhaps even suffocating.
Her brows furrow in confusion. It wasn’t too small earlier when she put it on. The black bow that she had found inherently obnoxious but that her mother insisted that she wear suddenly held the weight of just about an entire basket of unripe strawberries.
“Bella,” a whisper from Andy reminded her that she was in a house, and indeed a house in which she and her sisters were putting on what her mother called a “show” to placate her aunt.
The four of them—Andy, herself, Cissa, and her mother—were visiting Grimmauld Place on the demands of the matron of the household, Walburga Black. Her mother, Druella Black, did not necessarily want to be there, but if they had to go, then in her mind they had to look their very best.
Andromeda had no smile on her face, yet there was no malice in her lack of expression. It was incorrigibly smooth; it was a show.
Bellatrix fixed her face, putting on a vaguely angry look to mask something else that was beneath it. She didn’t know what she was hiding, effectively hiding whatever it was from herself just as well. That’s the thing that scared her the most.
Fear? A frown will cure that.