In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime
Chapter 1:
The difference between a scream and a howl is the howl is to signify a calling. When one screams, the remnants of their voices fading as they lose breath, they do not call out to fellow members of their pack. When one screams, it is because they cannot withstand their current states of being. But the effort is proven useless when there is no one to scream to, or more specifically, scream to for aid. There were indeed things to reach out towards with one's own screech but they were to no avail. They rang out in silence. The silence grew and slowly a repetition of rhythmic shrieks, cries and even howls were heard echoing one another in a solemn song. A song that was an endless psalm of torture to those imprisoned in the terrorizing walls of Azkaban.
Every minute seemed more endless than the next. As if Merlin himself were driving an incredible spear into the gears of time that turned slowly to avail new hours, new minutes and new seconds, it was becoming more and more difficult to find that a day had truly passed, when such destruction inflicted upon the machinery gave the impression that mere moments had only gone by. Such was contradictory for those still strong enough to acknowledge that with each rise and fall of a faint moon in the distant sky, meant a new passing day. Such was a symbol of hope for some whose condemnations were not as long as those under more predominant terms. Each rise meant that their terms would soon come to a close and their lives would become anew once more. Such was also a rare case; very few prisoners had the glory of escaping a life sentence, and while each day passed, and one more was let free, one less could be heard crying of hope and a tomorrow that would only bring an even greater impression on the hollows of their cheeks and the aching of their fading bones.
Azkaban proved a futile home to the many worthy of its tumultuous state. It was no wonder, that a prison full of villains of all sorts would become a mockery on the face of the Wizarding World. Azkaban was a home to creatures chosen to rise from the brimstone of hell, to serve their time and do justice for those below. They would fade away once more into the blackness they unearth from and return heroes, praised by flames and the heat that would forever surround their dismal beings. But for now, they would rot, fulfilling their roles as criminals, murderers, and masterminds of the Dark Arts, till it was their time to leave.
As timeless and as horrific as it seemed, those who managed to escape the wrath of imprisonment (a perhaps once in a lifetime situation), were often homeless, confused, and no longer worldly beings. They were hollow examples of memories, tortured souls, and rightly so. If resistance was any use, it was often better to just willow away, rather than risk the consequences of Dementors and the terror within one single kiss, as if it was even a considerable gesture of affection. A Dementor's kiss left its prey in a complete and utter state of blankness, as its predator roamed overhead in a deadly dance to relieve its victim of what life was left within it. A kiss meant that its receiver would soon be begging for even the direst of punishments, pleading for mercy, rather than slowly witnessing one's soul torn from their body. Fighting the torment was ineffective and it was a nightmare each prisoner had at one time, faced.
Another shout into the dark, signaled the beginning of another haunting song of nighttime. It's energy traveled on breathy, musty air, passing floor after floor of doorways, leading to more floors and later, cells occupied by their owners. It reverberated for many a time, fading into the ancient concrete walls and stone ceilings after reaching far up into the night, eventually towering over the rooms of the most dangerous of criminals, the high security prisoners. In shackles, chains holding burdens of great crimes, they too echoed the calls, joining in odd sing-song.
Passing cell after cell, the noises finally reached the ears of a faint, small creature, one most foul among fellow roommates. An uncanny acknowledgement of the howls was the only indication that life still resided in this one particular cell, the room that harbored as feared a criminal as the one they have come to call "You-Know-Who". Such a sad, and pitiful sight this creature had become compared to the life that was once fueled by fire and possibly the devil himself. She was once idolized amongst many of the Dark Lord's followers, those known as Death Eaters. She became a powerful reminder of the potential of a pure-blood witch, and the terror such a twisted soul could bring. She was once revered as possibly the grandest exemplar of beauty that would ever live in the Twentieth century, grazing those around her with her presence. Now she was a void shell of existence, waiting for an end she knew would not come soon enough.
Another round of screams marked another hour passed. The vanishing splendor that was once Bellatrix Black, is sitting coiled against her dingy cot, her face against the damp mattress. She has lied in this same position many times before, and now her body is slowly taking the form of the bed, as if she is becoming the rough material beneath her weight. She is now used to the ringing in her ears, and the songs that play so perfectly in time with each crack of a whip on the backs of persecuted witches and wizards, each beating of another soul. In silence, she curses them, curses them all to join her in her hell; if only her guards truly new the extent of their punishing ways. In a slow, ragged inhalation, one that escapes so suddenly and without much control, Bellatrix sighs heavily into the dark bearing witness to the frost on her breath and its soon departure on the damp winds around her.
This nightly ritual of boredom grows ever intoxicating to Bellatrix. She has known torture before, known the capabilities of the spells emitted to perform as such, but she has become so numb to her imprisonment, that pain inflicted on her has become a daily visit to a mere annoyed state of mind. The only twinge worth her attention has been the constant rub of raw skin and cold metal between her wrists and ankles, and the iron cuffs that held her in an even more restrained state than others. She is fully aware that she can occasionally let her mind wander from her cell and into a pit of nothingness where she can feel no pain, cannot feel her skin scrape against the metal bolts where new blood creates yet another layer over her dark, crusted skin, and where she cannot see the horror she has become.
With this in mind, it is easy for Bellatrix to escape to her own world, conjuring images of joy, of love, of anything that can withstand the burden that has become experiencing life in Azkaban. For a time, she can resist its wrath, but none, not even she could ever put a stop to the symphony of cries that forever haunt the walls of Azkaban prison. She knows it's useless to drown out the noise; she did not think she would come to enjoy listening to the shrieks, but she undoubtedly has. And with that, she lays her eyes to rest, closing them ever so slightly until she joins the screams with her own petrifying and vicious chuckle, adding even more austerity to the ever-rising shadows of nighttime.