She added a little more to it every day. Yesterday, it had been curtains; six layers of the most delicate sheers in shades of turquoise, purple, silver, and blue, water-moired and edged in Indian-style beadwork. The day before that, Ginny's face added to the growing collection on the ceiling. Today it was a lamp, much like one she'd seen in an odd little shop once in Bristol, a pile of blown glass fishing floats characterized by the sea and wired together with copper and fairy lights inside.
It had just been her room when she started, but now it had become her place. Utterly her own, a little more beautiful and comforting with each adaptation of her mind's eye. The floor was carpet, the walls painted, vanilla orange incense burned in the brass elephant, and there was a cup of jasmine tea always hot from the tesubin when she fancied it.
It was hers, nothing was stone, nothing was cold, Daddy was humming at the edge of hearing with the steady clack-ticka-chunk-whir of the press, and if she let herself go all the way, the most Bellatrix could do was make her hands shake and a tinge of red fall over the fairy lights as she allowed the rill of her own screams to be lost into the whistle of the kettle downstairs.