Trust me girl,
You wanna be high for this.

Terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified. It's a strange feeling for a girl of nineteen.

(And she's only a fucking child, in some ways.)

But she's always been good at hiding that away. Trapping it, soothing it, living with it (albeit painfully). She's a Black for fucks sake, so it's only natural that she's good at hiding what she feels, and what she knows. Deceit is a hereditary thing in that mess of a family.

Besides, Bellatrix doesn't do scared. She fears nothing. 'Too fucking insane' they'd say, and she'd agree. Crazy was better than fearful.

Fear was weak and weakness was a sin.

Lucius always taunted her with that, saying there was a weakness in everyone. He would fucking know too; having a weakness for overt finery, and sinful deeds with his sister in law.

Narcissa was, after all, always too good.

She needs to be strong now though, to prove herself. She has a mission, and unless she wants to die in the web of deceit that her master has created, it has to get done.

After all, life has always dealt her those difficult cards. Perhaps it knows she's the only one able to play them. However, she's never been scared of them.

And here she was, looking into the pleading eyes of the prisoner. Matted hair strung around her face. Lips swollen and chapped from crying and pleading. Please, please,please.

But it's the eyes which terrify her. Big and brown, encircled with red rims and showcased in hollow sockets. If killing was easy, murderers never looked into the eyes of their victims, she thinks. And she won't, she wouldn't dare.

Perhaps, just maybe, she couldn't.

Thatis scary. Mostly because Bellatrix has never thought anything was beyond her. This is something really different.

Shit.

A hand rests itself on her shoulder, almost comfortingly. Gripping her bare skin firmly, she spins around.

He can read it in her eyes, she knows. If the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then the panes must be smashed, because not even a deceiving reflection could mask her fear.

'What do you want,' she enunciates, flexing her jaw at the boy (just a boy) standing before her.

Rodolphus smirks, digging around his pockets for a minute, before flourishing a packet of snowy white.

She stares, and understands. The eyes beyond the bar watch in trepidation. Rodulphus simply holds it out expectantly.

'You'll want to be high for this.'

The Weeknd - High For This