Disclaimer: Alas, I actually don't own even one person in this story. No OCs this time, is that a first for me? (All belongs to J.K. Rowling)
Authors Note: Yep, yep, am having WAY too much fun with this ship I think :D...
A dark figure with crimson eyes approached his destination escorted by a handful of white masked men. The lonely prison loomed forebodingly ahead, but still the group drew closer. Upon reaching the threshold, a black mass glided down from its lofty post, sending shivers through the escort of the Dark Lord. Only a whisper was exchanged, and the dementor slid back into the prison leading the group of wizards deep into the heart of Azkaban.
It was a miserable place. Everything seemed frozen to the air itself and even the strongest Death Eater among them was affected almost immediately; only the Dark Lord was unconcerned by the surroundings. Nervous eyes cast around to each other, looking for strength to draw upon. How would their fellows react to this? Would they have been able to maintain sanity after thirteen years? Would they be still able to aid the cause, or had they been lost to these monsters that now aided their master?
Screams penetrated the cold air. Tortured victims of the dementors shrieked in this place until their voices were no more. The screams penetrated the men even further than the atmosphere, but their Lord simply smiled and continued along his way.
Nerves high, hands white from clenching their wands ever tighter, the death eaters stopped with baited breath and pounding hearts as a loud click rang through the halls and the first cell door swung slowly open.
At first, nothing could be seen but the black of the cell. Slowly, as the light of the Dark Lord's wand penetrated into the room, a ragged mass was visible in a far corner. No one moved; all eyes watched the lump for any sign or shadow of life. Moments passed in silence during which only the gasping breaths and fluttering robes of the dementors broke the utter stillness.
The Dark Lord stepped foreword to within inches of the rag pile on the ground. Was there a mistake? Some of the men asked this of themselves. Is there actually a person under those rags? Are they even alive? The crimson eyes came to rest upon the mass on the ground before him. Pulling his wand from beneath his robes, Voldemort slowly crouched and inserted it lightly between the two top pieces of the dark mass. As he brought his wand up, the upper most section rotated upwards too, and it could be made out by its movement as long, black, damaged hair. The front of this portion was the top of a head that was now inching up to face the ceiling, revealing the skeletal visage of a seemingly broken woman. Black, sunken eyes stared out of a hallowed face and contrasted sharply with frightfully pale skin. Her appearance, to some of the escort, reflected their fears concerning this rescue - she was not fit for anything anymore - Azkaban had claimed her.
Or had it? As the prisoner's head moved and her numb eyes met those of the Dark Lord, the shadow of a woman let out the smallest sigh and whispered almost inaudibly "master" before attempting to readjust herself into a proper kowtow. This attempt failed miserably, ending with her emaciated body stretched on its side across the floor; pale hands with nails like the talons on the claw of an old bird of prey reached helplessly, unknowingly, now towards the group of men still huddled in her doorway.
But the attempt was enough. Voldemort smiled again - a satisfied smile, one actually proud of his apprentice - and lent himself to her to lean on, if even for the slightest moment. Slipping one of the woman's clawed hands around his neck, his own spider like claw under her other shoulder, Voldemort lifted Bellatrix Lestrange from the prison floor and stood there with her long enough for her to gain balance, before slipping her arm around another one of the white masked men so that he was free to follow the dementors into the next cell.
"Bella" came a whisper under the detached screams of the hall. Bellatrix tried to lift herself up on the wizard's shoulder enough to see who this was supporting her, but was only met with a false visage - a pale faceless mask to mirror her own sunken, blank features.
"Bella?" came the voice again from behind the mask. Less of a whisper and more of a question this time, the voice hung in her mind and begged her memory to find it. A moment passed wherein the two did not take more than two steps together, but for Bellatrix, it passed in slow motion. This voice; she knew it somehow, from some distant time and place. Deep and soft, now so full of worry and sorrow. It ran through her brain, through her soul, until it registered from a darkened corner like that she herself had hidden in. When realization dawned upon her, it came in the form of a single, sighed word. "Severus."
"I'm here, Bella." The man replied softly. "We all are, you're leaving this place, you and everyone else, and everything can be like it was before."
Bellatrix could not muster the energy to respond to this verbally right away, so she relaxed her body a little more, let herself cling to him a little more, and rested her head against his shoulder before murmuring two more words in a question. "Like before?"
"Like before," he confirmed. And for the first time in thirteen years, a small smile started to creep its way across her lips. No one saw it, it may not have even been large enough to truly surface, but it was there, and Severus Snape felt it with all of his being.