A/N: It's me again. Once I get started, it's difficult to shut me up... u_u

Dedicated to the delightful Lizzie, aka, TuesdayNovember. I hope you don't mind strange fics being dedicated to you, dearest.

Disclaimer: Anything you might recognise (characters, setting, etc.) is not mine, it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc. No copyright infringement intended.

Immaculate

She'd chosen date, hour, moment, to betray her life and avenge her sixteenth year.

(Pierre Lapointe - La date, l'heure, le moment)

She had chosen carefully. Her plans were all laid out, prepared to the smallest detail, everything meticulously fleshed-out. Date, hour, moment. Everything. Nothing had been left to chance. This had to be perfect. Immaculate.

She had known that it would mean the end of it all when she set out to plan. And plans she had made. Unable to take it anymore, to take imperfection, mistrust, chaos.

She felt light, lighter than ever. Lighthearted at the prospect of being alone once more. Alone, blissfully alone. She'd been dreaming about this moment for an eternity, this moment of grace, of peace.

Since she had turned sixteen, she hadn't been alone. First had come courtship. Courtship from a pleasant man, not the man her father would have wanted her to marry, but a man she'd genuinely liked. Sixteen had been such a naive age. She'd fancied herself in love; she'd imagined him in love with her; she'd wanted to give birth to his children.

In the end, she had married him despite her family's objections. She'd always been a headstrong child, strong, unyielding. And thus, finally, her parents had granted her wish. She'd been married to Rodolphus Lestrange a month later.

He'd been a sweet man during those months of courtship. A sweet man, whispering tender endearments in her ear when her mother wasn't looking, lightly brushing her knuckles with his lips, stealing glances from across the room and smiling. She'd thought he was all that she wanted. He was good looking, rich, nice, and from an old Pureblood family. A perfect match, she had sighed as she'd combed her hair on their wedding day.

She'd been beautiful that day. Sixteen, all dolled up. Black hair spilling down her nearly translucent white skin over ivory robes. Eyes wide, innocent. A genuine, albeit cold smile on her face. Barefoot. She'd been stunningly beautiful, and she'd known it. A bride in the old Wizarding World was supposed to look like Bellatrix Black had that day. Immaculate.

Then it had been over. Too soon. Vows exchanged, hands held, kisses given. She'd been led out of the Ministry by her smiling husband. Her family had followed, then his. A match made in heaven. Her sister Narcissa had shed a few tears. Poor, weak Cissy.

Later, after the family gathering, after the celebration, after the speeches, they had left. Left for their bedroom. What had then happened, she hadn't been sure of. There had been pain, blood and a lot of blurry movement. It had been over fairly soon. She'd curled in a ball and slept, beside her snoring husband. She hadn't come out of the hotel suite for three days after that. Newlyweds, they'd whispered and smiled knowingly.

Years later, she'd thought about how impossible a match they had been. He had never been sweet, he'd never cared. But neither had she. Love had never been a possible future for them. So she had set out to be the perfect housewife. Like she had been the perfect daughter, the perfect fiancée, the perfect bride.

She'd tried, oh how she'd tried. Tried and tried, until her feet had ached, until her fingers had reddened, until tears had appeared in her eyes. She'd tried everything. Anything to make them believe everything was okay when she'd been feeling like a corpse. Anything to make him ignore her. Anything.

Inevitably she'd failed. Failed time and time again. They'd seen right through her. They'd said she'd become insane. They'd said she was unstable. Said she was weak. Said she didn't belong.

She'd given birth to his children. Twins. A boy and a girl. Corvus and Cassiopeia. They were both dark-haired, small, loud. They weren't perfect like she had been. They were Pureblood, but their behaviour didn't show it. Manners, social skills, grace, all the things she'd mastered at the tender age of three, had eluded those two. She'd been disappointed, very disappointed. But over the years she'd lost the ability to care.

Caring had never been her strong suit, and with her children her affection had quietly died, withered away in some dark recess of her mind. Her emotions had dwindled, as well. She'd found herself cold. Immobile, cold, still looking immaculate. Black hair, all curly and still tumbling down her back, even after her wedding night. Still white skin, still red lips. Yet she hadn't smiled in years, hadn't even been able to cry. She'd grown cold.

Marriages exist which you'd never suspect. These days people wouldn't know they were married when they walked down the street together, carefully studied looks of perfect indifference on their faces. Certainly they were beautiful still. But charades of love and affection had long since disappeared. No perfect match. Imperfect. Broken.

Thus she had chosen carefully. Her plans were all laid out, prepared to the smallest detail, everything meticulously fleshed-out. Date, hour, moment. Everything. Nothing was left to chance. This had to be perfect. Immaculate.

Perfection was what she had yearned for since she'd been old enough to comprehend the concept behind the word. She wouldn't tolerate imperfection. The image of innocence had to be maintained. Always. She'd bury them in the forest.

She'd made the plans in the evenings when her husband hadn't come home, had made plans, plans and more plans. She'd felt a storm threatening to break free. In those evenings, she'd mulled over her regrets. Regrets of a life she realised she could never have had. Dreams of regrets, of fresh starts.

The day had finally come. At dawn, she had gotten up. She had prepared her husband's breakfast in silence, watching him leave, daintily sipping her tea in the kitchen until she had heard her children upstairs. They'd laughed as they'd descended the stairs, all loud and messy and chaotic. She'd given them their porridge, watching them eat. Then she had drawn her wand and resolutely, without the slightest hint of remorse, spoken the words. Avada Kedavra, she'd said, voice absolutely calm.

After she'd cleaned the house as she did every ordinary morning, she sat down at the kitchen table. She looked at the assortment of chaos in front of her: a mother-of-pearl doll, an old record, a letter decorated by a crooked heart. Incendio, she murmured, and watched the table burn.

Everything was perfect. Immaculate.

A/N: Thoughts? Please review!

Anna Scathach