She looked into the mirror one day and suddenly realized that she was older.
No wonder, she thought, fifteen years in Azkaban- fifteen long, lonely, hopeless years, punishment for their dream- could do that to a person.
But still it surprises her when she glimpses herself in her mirror. Now that she is out of the cold, damp prison, the memories come rushing back. A ball, held in her honour, a dashing rogue asking her for a dance, her wedding day, when Rodolphus, flouting all tradition, came into her room before the ceremony and exclaimed that she looked like a queen.
Fifteen years.
A sudden cold rage grips her and she sees herself grow strange and frightening. Wild, unkempt hair, emaciated frame, dull teeth, grimy, filthy skin.
She is no longer a queen. She has become a demon, and the lives of those who imprisoned her will never be enough to return her youth.
She is, after all, older. And there is no one who can return that time.
But she can still take the time of others, and that is enough.