Bellatrix sat comfortably on the icy tiles, absently picking her cracked nails, at home in the squalor of her cell.
The filth in her hair pulled her dark tresses razor straight with pointy dagger edges, framing her sunken face.
Even the rats instinctively knew to avoid her.
The spiders knew better than to build their webs near her cell.
She was utterly alone, locked in her head with her twisted dreams, filled with destruction and fire.
Her husband Rodolphus sat with her, her only companion, though she no longer recognized him; he had been doomed to her madness long ago.