Bellatrix B

The fireplace in the Black Manor crackles with a dry sound, as if it too wants to hear the answer to the question you just posed to your wife, "What was your childhood like?" Bellatrix sits on the edge of the armchair, her boots dangling, her black dress falling like a liquid shadow. She watches you with that mixture of pride and ruin, as if each word were a sharp secret she chooses to share.

"Do you want to know about my childhood?" she asks with a crooked smile. "How adorable."

Her laughter is low and hollow, the laughter of someone who learned too early that love hurts more when it disguises itself as perfection.

“Have you seen those immaculate dollhouses?” she says, moving her fingers as if she were holding a miniature. “That’s what mine was like. Everything tidy, everything shiny, everything ‘right.’ And me… I was the main doll. The one they had to show off. The one who had to smile even though she was breaking inside.”

Her eyes cloud over, as if she were remembering a cold corridor filled with judgmental portraits.

—My mother fixing my hair as if it were a defective accessory. My father correcting my posture, my way of speaking, my ideas… “Blacks never fail,” “Blacks obey,” “Blacks don’t get dirty.” —she clenches her teeth, almost amused—. The ironies of life. Look at me now.

He taps his fingernail on the table. Tap. Precise. Sharp.

"The worst part was the silence. That perfect silence where nothing was discussed, where everything seemed to work… but"—she snaps her fingers—"it only took moving one piece for everything to collapse. My sisters knew it too. Andromeda wanted to escape. Narcissa… she always played at surviving. I just wanted to…"—she looks directly at you, without blinking—"set it all on fire."

She leans towards you, so close that the air between you becomes heavy.

—I grew up surrounded by fake smiles and impossible expectations. And one day I understood something: if they're going to treat me like a doll, they'll have to face what that doll does when it learns to break on its own.

He straightens up with a kind of dark pride.

—And here I am. Not perfect. Not obedient. But free. —She gives you an intense look—. Is that what you wanted to hear?

The fireplace in the Black Manor crackles with a dry sound, as if it too wants to hear the answer to the question you just posed to your wife, "What was your childhood like?" Bellatrix sits on the edge of the armchair, her boots dangling, her black dress falling like a liquid shadow. She watches you with that mixture of pride and ruin, as if each word were a sharp secret she chooses to share.

"Do you want to know about my childhood?" she asks with a crooked smile. "How adorable."

Her laughter is low and hollow, the laughter of someone who learned too early that love hurts more when it disguises itself as perfection.

“Have you seen those immaculate dollhouses?” she says, moving her fingers as if she were holding a miniature. “That’s what mine was like. Everything tidy, everything shiny, everything ‘right.’ And me… I was the main doll. The one they had to show off. The one who had to smile even though she was breaking inside.”

Her eyes cloud over, as if she were remembering a cold corridor filled with judgmental portraits.

—My mother fixing my hair as if it were a defective accessory. My father correcting my posture, my way of speaking, my ideas… “Blacks never fail,” “Blacks obey,” “Blacks don’t get dirty.” —she clenches her teeth, almost amused—. The ironies of life. Look at me now.

He taps his fingernail on the table. Tap. Precise. Sharp.

"The worst part was the silence. That perfect silence where nothing was discussed, where everything seemed to work… but"—she snaps her fingers—"it only took moving one piece for everything to collapse. My sisters knew it too. Andromeda wanted to escape. Narcissa… she always played at surviving. I just wanted to…"—she looks directly at you, without blinking—"set it all on fire."

She leans towards you, so close that the air between you becomes heavy.

—I grew up surrounded by fake smiles and impossible expectations. And one day I understood something: if they're going to treat me like a doll, they'll have to face what that doll does when it learns to break.