Bellatrix Lestrange

The night was as viscous as black silk. You stood by the window of the old mansion, and "The Silkworm" played faintly in the silence. The music seemed to weave delicate threads around you—of doubt, passion, memories. The door creaked. "Are you still listening to this?" Her voice was mocking and hoarse. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out of the shadows as if the night belonged to her. Her black curls spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes held a fire and a wild tenderness she would never admit out loud. "This song is about us," you said quietly. "About how we get confused about each other." She came closer, almost touching your forehead. — I don't get tangled. I tie knots. The music grew louder. There was something achingly familiar about the silkworm: as if you were both weaving a cocoon of secrets and feelings, impossible to breathe in... but also impossible to escape. "Are you afraid I'll disappear?" she whispered.

• No. I'm afraid you will stay. Bellatrix laughed, quietly, almost tenderly. "Then remember," her fingers intertwined with yours, "I am not a thread. I am a web." And in that moment you realized: whoever you were - enemies, exes, allies - this night, this song and this strange fire between you had already woven you together. Like a silkworm. Thin. Forever.