Rodolphus Lestrange stared at his wife across from their cell. She sat there, leaning against the wall, curled up in a ball. She was staring out the bars of the cell. She was awfully scrawny now. It had been years that they had been locked in this place, in Azkaban. The mere mention of Azkaban sent frightened chills down people's spines. But not his Bella. She sat there silently, her clothes a ragged mess looking like a sack hanging on her skeletal structure. Her bones were sharp and angular, as her skin stretched over them. Her cheekbones stood out, her face was hollow and her eyes were sunk into their sockets.
Her hair. Oh that hair. Those thick ebony curls that hung down her waist, once shiny, silky, and vibrant now were a tangled mess. They looked lifeless, dry, and dirty, with a thick white streak running through them. He wondered sometimes if they felt as dry as they looked, but Rodolphus hadn't touched her since the night after they were thrown in here.
Those eyes. Those dark eyes, black mysterious heavy lidded eyes were now barely anything but sunken sockets. There was no fire in her eyes. There was no passion in her soul. She glanced at him for a second, with that glassy stare. That stare stabbed him like daggers. Bella barely ever looked at him anymore. His Bella wasn't there. Not anymore. She was as good as dead.
He remembered that night so clearly. That night at the Longbottom's. The idea was Bella's to torture them for information. Rodolphus had deemed her crazy, but he went along with her plan. Rabastan and Barty were just as crazy to want to go. Bellatrix had crossed the line that night. Hours of endless torture. And she regretted none of it. There was her gleeful maniacal laughter, as she danced around the house, the fire in her eyes, that passion in her soul as she took in the screams of her victims. It pleased her, it aroused her. It made her so vivacious.
She regretted none of it. She had sat at her trial like a Queen. Her Master's Queen. She had proclaimed her crime, and sat there with her head held high, naming her utmost allegiance to her lord, Voldemort. We were thrown in here, and she screamed. She screamed and she kicked and she yelled. I held her, till she pushed me away. She sat there, glaring daggers at walls. But never a single tear dropped from her eyes. My Bella never cried.
And now she was nothing but an empty shell. But I knew she never lost hope. She knew Lord Voldemort would return. I myself did not believe it, but she did. She might be crazy, but my Bella is always right. I longed to touch her. To run my hand through that hair, to look into her eyes, to press my lips against hers. To hold her in my arms and tell her that I love her, even if she never loved me back. But I was greatful, for the first time in our lives, I had her all to myself. She never looked at me, she never touched me. But I was all she had in the meantime, and she was all that I had. And in that twisted way, she was all mine.