She misses their initial disappointment. The only obvious notes of displeasure are her infant squalls. Her first, magical embrace with an exhausted mother tainted by a heady sigh and a lack of luster from her father's only mildly tender gaze.
"The next one, Cygnus. I promise."
But now she is older, knees scrapped, stance wild and proud, sneer of superiority prominent even for that age. She will be beautiful, which gains more notice than her growing and prodigious skills that are whispered in her ear with an affectionate tone from her father. Even as her mother's frown deepens with each passing disappointment.
Her first grip on a wand is a stolen moment from her father's pocket. He will not mind. Even as mother yells, his slight smile doesn't go missed by a still childlike gaze. So the family cat floats near the rafters for hours before anyone notices the wands absence. Even through the screams and reminders of obedience, she revels in the power flowing through veins beneath translucent skin. Surely it glows, pulsating with purity, with beautiful purpose. She is meant for great things. The world is at her fingertips. The means hidden in her fierce will and the glorious strength that flows through her magical breast.
But utterance of her desires earns her a sharp smack and a colder remark.
"Don't be absurd, girl. Your future is sealed by what lies between your legs. Wish for sons. Strong sons that carry your name and lineage. That will be your purpose. Your duty. Toujours Pur, Bellatrix. Toujours Pur."
"Toujours Pur." A respectful, humbled, nod in agreement, a hollow repeat of a familiar phrase when it is so weighted down with displeasure. So long as that Power lies within her, why do they try to deny it? Why do they deny her? Why?
The bitterness on her tongue is not sated by her father's reassurances either.
Yes. She has skill. Yes. Her blood is good, and pure.
But no. She is Women. First born or no, she will inherit only a dowry. Her use only as good as the marriage she can make, how many branches she contributes to their beautiful, perfect, pure tree.
Sixteen years, her attendance and natural talents in her studies are unsurpassed. Anyone at the end of such a wand, who glances into her conscious free gaze and vicious snarl will surely taste fear. People will fall before her, should she will it. But such achievements are clouded by one fact.
She has not bled. And never will.
Shame hides her secret. Her mother's pride, and her own, seal their lips, and guided by meek hope, she is promised to a man of good standing, wealth, and pure lineage. An achievement that at last wins an approving smile from icy, red lips. And yet, no matter her mortification, her passion is no less quenched.
Power will be mine. I fail no more!
Fervent lips now mutter, even as resentful eyes fall on her grim reminder. She must tell him. Tell him soon that she is-- she is.... Her use, her duty crushed by a barren belly. He should know. He must know their union is for naught. And yet shame is tossed aside by war, and a brighter leader, a cleaner more gloriously pure future that she may head by talents she had always silently believed to be more useful.
Toujours Pur. TOUJOURS PUR!
She now shouts, even as her sister, then cousin fall from grace, their beautiful, once perfect, but still pure tree is trimmed. Growing slimmer. But a Cause, passions drive her, her disgrace finally overshadowed.
And Him. HIM! HER KING! And she shall be his Queen. Flee from her Shame! Disgrace! Kneel to her, husband! TRUE DUTY IS HERE AT LAST! Shouts of delight spill past a smile of beauty that hides the smallest stain of madness, propelled by a will that they quenched in her for far too long!
RUE ME! MY WRATH WILL OUT! TOUJOURS PUR, YOU FILTH!
But still-- still he does not know. Now Shame and resentment grow heavy, time dusting away at her triumph to reveal that shining, glimmering and horrible truth. Because she is not Man. Delusion may hide it, but Power shall not glow within her core. Not when she has failed at her essence.
And for the first time, Bellatrix Lestrange is the one to feel fear nip at her heels. Surely there is nothing worse than to lay your shame bare? At the truth dangling from her tongue, her veins turn to ice, her heart cold with terror.
He should know. He must know.
She faintly whispers, the words blowing hopelessly at the embers of her dwindling strength of will.
I must tell, Rodolphus. I must...
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