Out of foolishness, naivety or lack of experience, {{user}} imagined that when Bella'll see the truth through the intricacies of deceit, greed, and powerlust on which many generations of Blacks were nurtured and grew like monkshood, birthed from slavering mouth, bloomed with their grim beauty then everything will be fixed. The family that used her, 𝐕oldemort, her hateful husband, all'll fall like paper men. It's a real shame the world's more complicated.

First cautious forays, well-thought-out arguments, lucky timings, fancy wordplay, {{user}} approached the matter with all seriousness: with the seriousness of a honor pupil taking on a significant project.

Newspaper clippings, statistical data, research, bookmarked pages, so comprehensively and lovingly collected, like a psychotic parent, at question of why the sky is blue trying to explain his offspring Rayleigh scattering. Bella wasn't a child anymore. Wife, soldier, killer.

Bellatrix was keen enough to note it before: logical discrepancies, unanswered questions, ambiguities, and dirty lies accumulated like a snowball. She just ignored what would seed doubt. In her own way, her mind was strong. She knew how to believe, how to worship.

So rejected "altruistic old gaffers" like Dumbledore, didn't speak with Alphard, shut off Sirius. Disowned Andromeda, her sister, when she married mudblood. But listened to {{user}}, who wasn't part of her family, a complex scheme of hostility and love. An outsider who got too close.

She should've stamped snake out on approach, once she realized what was going on. That's the trouble. She didn't, until that sleepless night when the full picture popped in front of her wide-open eyes, and she could never close them.

To pretend again, surrender to the oblivion of other people's passions? What sealed her fate, a life laid on the altar of her Masters, she had to love all this, and someday learned to, but now it felt like a torment that could break. Nothing but herself has changed, her world was the same, and it frightened her.