A/N: A short blurb of writing I felt like writing...
[Azkaban]
There's only two. One at each end of the corridor, but it is enough. Someone is screaming, someone not in my row. My row is for old prisoners; my row has become unfeeling and dead. We are waiting for the day we will cease to be, hoping we will die of starvation before the dementors become restless and give us a kiss. The floor is concert and lightly matted with straw to try and cover up the stench. There is only a wooden bench in my cell, so rotted and moldy I'm afraid it would give out under my weight.
A bell tolls; screams rise. The dementors are on the march; the changing of the guards. The dementors grow excited and shift their hoods around, their decaying hands writhing. They make their way down the row, the two of them heading towards each other. I will get it worst because my cell is right in the middle, between the two. Then again, it's not as bad as the people whose cells are right next to the dementors. How tortuous it would be to be locked up in your sorrows for always and eternity. Screams are now filling my row as the dementors pass by. I can feel them itching closer and closer, ever so slowly and torturously.
I see them, even from the back of my cell. My head fills with screams and tortures, of yelling and pain, and death and loss. Being in here so long has only intensified my sorrow because I can hear them screaming all day and all night long. They don't cease.
It slowly eats at my brain.
They are both in front of my cell. The closest one gazes in and a sear goes through my left arm as though it has just pressed to a brand. Now the worst memories hit, memories from my childhood. My father and mother, screaming at each other. Those were some of the worst. As a small child, it was the most frightening thing to see your parents fight. Their screams now seemed to fill my head, reverberating in my ears the pain of yesteryears.
And finally, when I couldn't stand it any longer, the fear lessened, every so slightly. Just a bit more bearable. The dementors were passing. Relief came flooding into me.
Slowly the memories and the pain lessened. The dementors were at the end of the corridor now having switched places. Now they walk down the rows perpendicular to mine, a whole great line of dementors in this hell of a place. Azkaban in a giant grid box and at every intersection there is a new dementor.
There is no escaping Azkaban.
But, as the dementors finally come to a halt and start settling into place, something happens. A chorus of yells rise up; prisoners are screaming.
"It can't be!"
"It's him!"
"Master! Master! Take me away from here!"
At first I don't bother to try and look, for it is no use, he is not in my row. But then a sharp pain erupts in my left arm. I feel the Dark Mark grow white hot and I understand.
It's him.
I fling my self onto my the bars of my cell and yell, "Master! Master! Take me away! Reward me for my loyalty! I never did deny you!"
I can hear others yelling, "Master! Master!"
He is here to release us. I try and see to the ends of my rows, looking both ways, at all times trying to see him. My Master.
The dementors are oddly subdued. They do not move from their places.
"Master! Master! I am your most loyal!"
For what seemed like eternity I called to him, willing him to set me free. And then he came.
At the end of the hall, the dementor backed away in an odd bow. A foot appeared, a leg, a body. His face.
He was as I had never seen him before. I let out a gasp. He is magnificent.
"He has returned! The Dark Lord has RETURNED!" I screech. Chaos ensues; shouts erupt all over Azkaban. Some in fear, some in triumph. Mine is the latter.
He walks down my row and I keep my eyes downcast in a sign of respect, kneeling on the floor. I see a pair of shoes stop in front of me and an ice-cold hand take my chin.
"Bella," he murmurs. "It has been far too long."
I kiss the hem of his robes. "Master! Thou art truly great!" My heart is in my words.
And then the bars aren't there anymore. I am being helped to my feet. My husband is there and he shows a rare sign of affection is kisses me. His brother is behind him. Many of my fellow Death Eaters were beside him now. I could see my fellow prisoners are fearful to see the Dark Lord right in front of their cells having a reunion with his Death Eaters.
"Come." He sweeps down the row and we follow him right by the dementors who go into an odd bow as we pass.
And then we are outside, the torrent rain beating down on my sickly skin. I have not felt rain in years.
Freedom.
I'm handed a wand. It feels slick and right in my hand. A wand is like being handed power. I can feel the years of loyalty to the Dark Lord coursing through my veins and I remember why I had become a Death Eater. A sense of power and recklessness filled me.
As we prepare to disapperate I think of only one thing. The Death Eaters would rise again and they would throw this world into chaos once more.
That's all. The End. No more.
I feel as if the ending is rather abrupt especially because the beginning is detailed while the ending isn't.
Ah well... just a bit of writing in betwen trying to write Ch. 13 for A Weasley Named Malfoy
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[.lady patronus.]