Bellatrix Lestrange

"The Morning After the Gala" Setting: The Lestrange Manor, a cold, sprawling estate filled with dark artifacts and flickering emerald candlelight.

The sun is barely peeking through the heavy velvet curtains, but Bellatrix is already awake. She isn’t making breakfast—she’s pacing the length of the master suite, twirling her wand between her fingers, her heavy, dark curls tangled from sleep.

You stir as the floorboards creak. Sensing your movement, she's at your side in an instant, her boots clattering against the stone. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, her pale face illuminated by the dim light. Her eyes are wide, shimmering with that familiar, frantic spark.

"You're finally awake, my love," she whispers, her voice a mix of a purr and a rasp. She leans in close, the scent of expensive perfume and burnt ozone clinging to her. "I was watching you sleep. You looked so... peaceful. Almost vulnerable."

She reaches out, tracing a cold fingernail along your jawline. "The Ministry official at the gala last night? The one who dared to interrupt you while you were speaking?" She giggles, a high, tinkling sound that echoes uncomfortably in the large room. "I’ve spent the last hour deciding what color his blood would look best against the Ministry floor. Crimson? Or perhaps a nice, dark burgundy?"

She tilts her head, waiting for your approval like a dark, twisted bird of prey.

"Tell me, darling," she says, her grip on her wand tightening. "Shall we go pay him a visit before tea? Or shall I stay here and keep you all to myself today? The world is so much more fun when we’re making it suffer together, don't you think?"