I've already written several oneshots on Bellatrix's time in Azkaban, so this is my take on her first few days out of it. Enjoy!
She watches as the Death Eaters, her kindred, far closer than her family ever was, stride past her cell, uncaring. She screams as they stop at every other, freeing every unloyal man they can find. She throws herself against the bars when one glances back - it's her Lord, the Dark Lord, and he's leaving. He's leaving her here, and now he's turned the corner, and he's gone, gone . . .
Bellatrix's eyes snap open. Sunlight pours in through the window; she snaps them shut again before thinking. Even pulling her arms above her head don't block out the light. Why is she here?
Then it all comes thundering back. The explosions, the breakout, the dementors turning away as she knew they would. The Death Eaters, unloyal, returning to fly her away. She remembers the ecstasy, the screaming, the hysterical, insane laughter. Just the memory is enough to bring her to her feet.
And the sunlight burns. She wobbles on her feet, barefoot, as she has been for the last fourteen years. A glance around the burning, too-bright room is all it takes to draw her back towards her bed. She brings her head down, hands covering her face, trying to hide from the sunlight. The first glimpse of it in over a decade.
She thought her return to the light would be glorious, once. She remembers waiting for it, longing for it.
But then, she's waited and longed for just about everything outside of Azkaban, hasn't she?
There's nothing impeding her Mark any longer. The skin almost throbs in anticipation as she runs her hand over it, her face, her lips. It burns, makes her feel alive as she hasn't in fourteen years.
She's still wearing her prison garb. She's not sure why. Her memories of last night are scattered, like the day after a night at a bar in times of old. Someone gave her a potion, she remembers. She scratched him, made his face bleed like she'd made her own so many times before. And she drank it. Because whatever liquid it was, it must be better than Azkaban.
Suddenly she feels a rush of hatred for her clothing. The same tattered excuse for a dress she's been wearing for years. Without bothering to think it through, she yanks it over her head. No cold air hits her body; it isn't cold here.
Rising on unsteady legs, Bellatrix squints through the bright light to an elaborate wardrobe. She totters toward it, taking more steps in a row than she has since she was brought in. Somewhere in her mind, she knows it would be more than indecent for her to go naked. The last loyal Death Eater must not be disrespected.
She glances toward the mirror on her way. Her face is haggard, skin stretched across her bones, eyes as deep as pits. She's as thin as a skeleton. Worse. Her hair falls in a tangled rat's nest far below her waist. She never cut it.
Almost hastily, she reaches the wardrobe and yanks open the drawers. No. Bath first. She hasn't had that luxury in forever.
It doesn't take her long to find the attached bathroom. She's getting the feel of this room. And the sunlight doesn't burn as much anymore.
Clawed feet support a bathtub as large as her Azkaban bed. Larger. Bellatrix shuts the door. Even if she must get used to the light, she will forever revel in the dark.
Or the half-light. Her heart spikes at the thought of eternal blackness again.
Because she's not going back to Azkaban again. It's her first firm, solid thought. No matter what it takes, she's never returning.
She steps into the bathtub, plays with the taps. Warm water burns her skin, although not as much as sunlight.
She likes the water. The only liquid she's felt anywhere near this much on her skin since Azkaban is blood.
And she's laughing. Maniac, insane laughter, echoing around the room. Joyous laughter, though no one else would know it. She submerges her head, still cackling, choking on water. Euphoria.
She grabs for the soap. Scented; she's not surprised. Somewhere deep down, she's already decided she's at the Malfoys'.
She scrubs herself down, scrubbing until her skin turns red. But she can't wash away the dementors, the stink of death. The neverending pain and suffering, screams still resounding in her head. All those moments of weakness, moments enough to equal a lifetime.
So she scrubs harder. And when the soap runs out, she uses a comb. And her fingernails. Let the blood wash away the pain. Just like in Azkaban.
At last she steps out of the bathtub, hardly noticing that the water is red. Only some small part in the back of her mind tells her there is something wrong about getting dressed whilst blood still spurts from your stomach.
She wrings out her hair as best she can. It's too long, even for her. She longs to chop it off, but there's no scissors. Maybe they took the blades to make sure she didn't hurt herself.
Hopefully they haven't grown that stupid.
The black robes hang loosely around her shrunken body. She hardly notices. Those rags in Azkaban grew too big, too, didn't they?
She needs to see the Dark Lord. It's been pulling at her forever, been increasing since yesterday. They told her she couldn't. That he wasn't there. That she wasn't yet fit to see him.
But they're all traitors. It became more and more evident over the years. She's the only one left with any loyalty.
Bellatrix is about to leave through the door when she realizes something.
She forgot her wand.
The shock of forgetting something like that crushes her like a blow. A blow from a Dementor's graying fingers. Has she truly grown so used to being wandless it took her this long to remember?
She searches the room, but her wand is nowhere to be found. Of course. They snapped it. They . . . the Ministry, this time, not the traitors who still had the audacity to bear the Mark.
Her own Mark burns. Not her, this time, but another. She still relishes the pain.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels it's wrong. Pain isn't . . . pain isn't the only thing she can feel anymore.
But it doesn't matter. None of it does. The Dark Lord calls.
She rushes towards the door. It's locked from the outside.
They dare?! The traitors dare to lock her inside her own room? Bellatrix quells the screams and laughter waiting to rise from the injustice, although she's not sure why. Instead, she slams herself against the doorframe. Just like Azkaban, but the wood won't leave bruises like metal bars.
No one comes. The door doesn't break, either.
Now the screams come.
They can't lock her in. She's been locked away far too long, now. She won't stand for it any longer.
She hurls herself against the door again and again, sometimes smashing an arm or a hip against the knob. Skin doesn't break - she's withheld far longer than this on metal - but she knows bruises will start to come.
She knows she needs to calm down. If anyone comes in, and if she plans to do any magic.
She knows she can't. She won't be caged any longer.
She stops when time starts to fade. Time faded countless times before when she threw herself against the bars. She won't let it happen again.
She closes her eyes against the light, breathes deeply, and opens them. Window. No one locked the window.
She runs head-on into that. The delicate windowpane shatters, leaving shards of glass in her hair, but she hardly notices. Gleefully she climbs onto the windowpane, pays no mind to the glass edges cutting into her bare feet and hands.
She doesn't notice the two-story drop, either, not until she's falling down it. She laughs in ecstasy, in excitement. Never in fear.
Bellatrix doesn't notice much pain anymore, but she feels the crunch and crack of bones snapping when she lands on an ankle. It overjoys her. She knows it shouldn't. She should relish the pain of others, not herself.
But she had to reach pain any way she could in Azkaban, and the endless screaming wouldn't always suffice.
Shaking slightly, she stands, still laughing. The lawn is groomed, tame, but it's outside. And she hasn't been outside, not even last night.
She races across the grass, laughing, falling on her bad ankle and righting herself again. She sends a flock of peacocks squawking and dashing in the other direction.
But the sunlight, full-on this time, oh, it burns. And she laughs. So burning and laughing, bleeding and screaming, falling from her precarious position, she runs.
Bellatrix runs until someone comes rushing towards her. She's not sure who it is. She's not sure why she's here, anymore.
"Bellatrix?" He's angry, whoever he is. She cackles. Tries to run, but falls. Face hits the ground, breathing in the smell of grass grown by potions and magic.
"Bellatrix, what are you doing out here?"
She rolls over, squints to look at him. White-blond hair shines in the sun. Lucius.
She reacts towards him much as she did the first time she saw him, when he pretended to release her from Azkaban.
"Traitor!" And before she knows it, she's on her feet, punching him in the jaw. He wasn't prepared, or she was too fast. She falls to her knees, hitting him again as he falls. Lucius always had bad balance.
She traces her hands almost lovingly over his face. She loves the feel of flesh.
She curves her fingernails, carves grooves in his face even more lovingly. She loves the feel of blood even more. And the taste.
Lucius screams, but it isn't a scream of joy. He's afraid, panicking, even though he really should have been prepared for this. If this is what comes of the Dark Lord's best lieutenant out of Azkaban, Bellatrix fears to see the worst. She doesn't even have a wand with her.
Lucius eventually thinks of his wand. It's out in an instant. She's not focusing on his arm, more on his squeals of pain and intensive wriggling, until the wand is an inch from her nose.
"Back away," Lucius breathes. She sees the fear in his eyes, badly concealed on his face. Even messed up as she is, he's afraid of her.
Good.
She doesn't back away. She brings one hand up to her mouth, licking away his blood, but the other is still embedded in his flesh.
"Crucio."
Lucius' eyes are angry, too. And desperate. Unused to pain.
But Bellatrix is. She cackles even as the spell throws her back, laughs as she twitches with pain.
Now Lucius is shocked. He wasn't expecting this.
But with the ecstasy comes rage. Lucius shouldn't be the first to curse her. Lucius has no right to curse her at all. That was the Dark Lord. And Lucius will regret it.
Maybe he takes the curse off as he rises, or maybe she does it on her own. All she knows is she's snarling, and she's charging at him, ready to cause real damage this time. And she hits a shield.
"Stupefy!"
The world goes black.
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