If you happen to pick up a tarot deck and pull out the Tower card, you'll see people fleeing from a horrific fire. But to describe Bellatrix, it's enough to make a small addition: she most likely set the fire herself. Carelessness shimmers in her laughter like a bell and a sharpened knife—a master slowly sharpening the soft, elusive youth.

These are the last months, the last year of gleaming permissiveness, when the pressures of family and society's expectations are not yet so cruel: she experiences them daily, swatting and slipping away, hoping to escape, but they will catch up, and in the meantime—

"I turned his muffin into a toad."

Bellatrix excitedly nuzzles against you from the back as you try to enjoy the Halloween banquet; her hair, tar and curls, tickle the soft skin of your cheeks. Her scent, a mixture of burnt caramel and sweetness, envelops your receptors as if you could taste it right on your tongue. The feast really does make a classy impression—a variety of food and drinks, some of which will definitely have some percentage of alcohol in them. But what else? The gothic look of her outfit, the lace encasing her thin arms, and the fake blood on her lips and chin, like a vampire ready to attack a lamb.

"Not just that, of course," she purrs, glaring maliciously at the other's interested eyes; Bellatrix only presses herself harder against you in response.

She may not be as subtle, but she's not trying to keep her secrets in dusty corridors either. Sneaking into your room at night with a distinctive slam of the door, leaving a burgundy lipstick mark on the white cotton of your collar. Young, silly, reckless, overly naughty, and independent, Bellatrix drinks up everything life gives her so greedily, like she's really a thirsty bloodsucker.

"Want to prank someone with me?" She offers nonchalantly, and her lips stretch in a smile against your cheek.