Left For Dead
Waiting
Bellatrix was being held in a room with four confining walls, a barred door and no windows. It was tiled black from top to bottom. Dementors stood guard in each of the four corners. The dark witch had been in this room for three miserable days. Snakelike ropes bound her at the wrists and cut so hard that, if she dared move, they would slice open the pale skin. She had learnt this the hard way.
Rodolphus, Rabastan and Barty Crouch sat close to her on a wooden bench in the middle of the room. Each minute seemed like a lifetime as it passed by. The chill of the Dementors froze her to the core and turned any glimmer of hope to misery. Bellatrix had accepted days before that she was going to spend her future with these creatures in a much worse cell in the fortress of Azkaban prison. Not to would be the height of disloyalty to her master and the Cause. For now, a waiting room in the Ministry, patrolled by Aurors and with only four of the soul-suckers; it was luxury.
Sleepless hour moved into sleepless hour. Her eyes became dark and heavy, her clothes smelled with wear and the men around her took it in turn to have their angry strop. Bella was certain that they would be saved. That was all that kept her going. Their master wold return and rescue them from this fate whether in an hour or a year. She would be ready when he did.
Trial
Judging by the atmosphere in the courtroom, it was not to be a merciful trial. Two great doors at one end opened and a swarm of Dementors floated eerily inside. Bellatrix and her companions were surrounded by them. Her great mass of unruly black curls were visible as the four were ushered into great iron chairs. As she sat in her throne, Bella held her chin high as if proud to be there. Chains leapt to life and bound her. She didn't wince once. Having been secured, the creatures backed away from the court and released it from the sudden chill. For the first time in over a week, Bellatrix felt the rush of humanly warmth and breathed in the thick air indulgently.
Her dark, dangerous eyes cast over the crowd. The aged faces of the Wizengamot merged into a sea of wrinkles and greying hair but Barty Crouch Senior, upon a pedestal, stood out against the silvery background. To the side of him, Bella's eye caught on a familiar face. The witch met Narcissa's eyes with a cold recognition. The only woman she had ever adored, the woman who abandoned her to the clutches of the Ministry, sat there obediently with her darling husband. Bellatrix's proud expression turned to one of disgust. Lucius should be sat in this iron throne as much as she should. He had managed to snake away. Of course. He always had been slippery.
Bella turned away from the Malfoys and looked upon the looming figure of Mr Crouch. He cleared his throat and the trial began…
On hearing her final sentence – a lifetime imprisonment in a high security cell in Azkaban – Bellatrix suddenly felt hazy in disbelief. Some part of her had believed she would get out of this alive. Before she knew what was happening, shouts and cries from the Wizengamot trying to drown her, the dark witch had been released from her chains and was standing. Passionate words poured from her sinful mouth over the rabble – dark promises and a declaration that she doubted would ever stop ringing in these aged wizards' ears.
One of the Aurors belted her across the face to shut her up and she spat at him in response. The burly officers finally pulled her back and restrained her thrashing form. Threatened with numerous wand tips, Bella forced herself to stop struggling and was led away from the court.
Bellatrix felt her insides squirm. She was alone now. From now until she rotten in her cell, she would be alone. Suddenly, she felt like a child ripped from its mother. She kept glancing back over her shoulder to where she had seen her sister. Only Lucius remained in the spot, trying to seem neither for nor against the outcome of the trial. Bellatrix's wild eyes searched the crowd but there was no sight of Narcissa. There was no chance for a goodbye. No last peck on the lips before the Dementors claimed hers. Bella wanted to scream for her but, before she knew it, she was once again engulfed by the icy coldness of the soul-sucking creatures' presence. She tried to resist but she had no weapon, no strength, no will. She was slipping back into the darkness.
"He'll come for us…" she whispered to herself over and over again, "He'll return and he'll free us…" Bellatrix had every belief in her master. As long as that belief – that obsession – lived, so would she.
Azkaban
The filthy, rat infested cell that Bellatrix spent year after year trapped inside began to nick away at her sanity. On arriving at the fortress, she had been stripped and forced into a cloth gown that was still stained from the previous occupant's use. Dark blood stains tainted the greying cotton. She did not change out of the rag bar for the hose down prisoners received every few months. Still dripping with ice cold water, she'd be forced back into the thing.
After a while, Bellatrix became accustomed to the dirt. Her meals, a plate of cold porridge twice a day, was flung onto the wet stone and, more often than not, spilled out of its container. She had probably ingested as much muck as was ridden on her.
The Dementors toyed with her mind day and night. They plagued her with dark thoughts. Any resistance was met by more torture. Happiness was turned to bitterness. Hope was turned to disheartenment.
She didn't sleep. Not unless she passed out from the chill or overpowering exhaustion. When she did slip into awaiting blackness, terrible images taunted her and made every escape into the dark as horrific as her waking hours.
On several occasions, Bellatrix became to violently ill that she was convinced she would die. Retching and throwing up bile for long hours at a time, she was given no help. The misery and sickness only fuelled the Dementors' hunger. Malnutrition made her bloat but, always, she returned to a terrifyingly skeletal frame.
Forced to live in her own excrement, she might have been better off dead. There was no care for hygiene in these cells. The high security prisoners were lucky if they survived the disgusting conditions that they were forced to live in. Being a woman did not give Bellatrix any kind of lenience. No help was provided for her each month when she bled. Luckily, she did not have to live with the disgusting element for long. Becoming too thin and weak to support even the idea of a child, the witch stopped bleeding.
The only thing that kept her going was the desperate idea that her master would save her. He would not let her die like this. She thought of her sister occasionally too; mostly wondering why, in the endless years she's spent behind bars, she had never once had a visitor. Perhaps it wasn't within Narcissa's control to come or not. Perhaps she did not want to come. Still, horrible ideas inundated her mind – always thinking the worse, always full of intense cruelty.
Out of the blue, on a pitifully normal day inside the filthy prison, Bellatrix was awoken by a familiar sensation that coursed through her. Dazed, blinking hard and swatting a spider off of her forehead, she realised the source of the shooting pains. With a gasp of shock, the ruined witch grasped at her left wrist, hand upturned, and gazed disbelievingly at the Dark Mark that had been brought to life upon her greyed skin.
Since that fateful night, the skull and snake had been faded and lifeless but, now, assured as anyone could be, Bellatrix saw it clear as day.
"He's back…" she whispered to herself with a maddened laugh that pierced through the chill, "He's back!" she proclaimed. Several more shouts came from the surrounding cells although she couldn't tell whose voices they were. Bella hadn't seen any living soul apart from the odd Auror in the fourteen years she'd been incarcerated. She didn't doubt most of her companions had long since died – her husband included – but, now, to match the screams and cries of agony that usually seeped through the dank halls, jeering joined them. Bellatrix had thought, for sure, that it was a sign their master was coming for them. He would break them out as soon as possible to re-join his ranks. Sadly, she was to be disappointed.
A little over six months passed by – not that Bellatrix had any idea of the time of year – and the Dark Lord hadn't attempted to free them. She had begun to lose hope completely as she begged, day and night, to her forearm to be saved from such a hellish fate.
From outside the stone walls of the fortress, Bellatrix's was alerted by the sound of mass explosions. Wide eyed and mouth gaping, Bella barely had time to recognise what was happening before the side of the disgusting confines were blown apart. The cold rush of salty air rushed into the cavernous ruin. Rain speckled the dampened grime of the floor as she used the wall to scramble to her feet. The witch edged to the gaping hole in the side of the building, eyes bulging as she took in the sight of the free world before her. Her cracked lips stretched into a grin, splitting with the effort as she did so. The laugh that escaped her rang through the dilapidated halls. Wicked and shill, the dark witch felt utter joy wash over her with the salty spray of the sea for the first time in fourteen long years.
Bellatrix Lestrange was free.