madness
you can't undo what's been done.

Bellatrix Lestrange is mad.

Not so mad as the others, not yet, never yet. Oh, she sings madly out of the iron bars that she squeezes between her bruised palms and screams names in her sleep and screams blindly at the things that hand her food; but does she remember from whence she came? She is, after all, only one women: and that one, last, sad woman who lies on the floor of her cell and weeps into the dust is near to the last of her line.

One other of her line lives in a shackled mansion on the edge of a dream, pale and taught, who keeps the curtains drawn and her lips thin and tight, and weeps at night with tangled silver hair flailing around her bony shoulders and hopes her son will never hear.

But Bellatrix Lestrange killed the only other with her sick laughter in her mouth; and now the only thought she can hold on to is that he smiled as he fell.

"Goodbye," she whispers, and cackles.