So, I first want to apologies for any grammar or spelling mistakes you will presumable find in this chapter; my native language is Dutch and I just turned fifteen. So my English is far, far, far from perfect. But I tried to find all mistakes and fix them.
Disclaimer: I don't own the world or characters of Harry Potter (if I did, I would not write fanfics about them..)
I think you could already guess it, but this story evolves mostly about Bellatrix. Possible Bellamort and maybe (but I don't think so) eventually Bellamoine.
Sometimes the stinging of pain in her dark mark was the only comfort she had. It would burn; it would be the only thing that kept her warm during the cold winter nights in Azkaban. The burning sensation in her arm was the reason she still had hope, because somewhere, far away, her master waited for her. Caring she let her lips rest on her left forearm, before she let her head drop against the icy wall of her cell - cage.
Sometimes she heard these sounds. Screaming, which barely rose above the deafening silence of the Dementors. She listened to it. It took hours for her to notice that her throat started to burn, and that the screaming began to silence. Only then she would stop talking - screaming and could only beg for her master in her own mind.
At first the Demontors would constantly hover by her cell. Sucking out every ounce happiness she possessed - not that it was much. The cold would start to bite and her feelings were frozen. They had sucked up - teared away every memory of her master. They had taken away the soul, now only the shell of her was left. Now it was much quieter in her cell. She knew the Dementors preferred to visit the new prisoners. Captives who still had their hopeful memories.
She did not eat anymore. The food that was rotting in a corner - what a joke, she didn't even have corners. It was all round - hadn't been touched in ages. Time became a meaningless word. She didn't feel time anymore. Didn't know if she was asleep or still on the edge of the waking world. She laid on the ground. Sometimes there were moments of consciousness, like these. Then her dark mark would start to burn and she would yearn for him. But she would always let herself slip back in the comforting arms of nothing.
Only vaguely had she noticed that her cousin escaped Azkaban. He had been put in the cell next to her, but he was less than nothing in her eyes. If the wards had suspected that they would have a little chit chat and some family-time, they were wrong. How bad the circumstances might be, how maddening the solitude made her, she would never talk to a traitor. Sometimes it gnawed on her: How could that bloody traitor escape? Then she would start to laugh and she knew her master would soon come for her.
She could not scream anymore. She slapped her hand against the walls of her cell. So often that her skin was smeared with blood. Her Master was back; she felt it. She had felt him calling her. One, two, five, twelve day-. Months ago. He hadn't come for her. She was starting to think he would let her stay in here forever. So she started to search in her mind, looking for things she could have done wrong. Looking for a reason, why she deserved this punishment. Which she certainly did; her Master always gave her what she deserved. If she had to stay here, rot, for the rest of her life, then it was her own fault. If this was what her Master thought was best for her, she would gladly accept his punishment. She slapped her hand a last few times against the wall, before she began to beg for forgiveness. Begging for deeds she hadn't committed. It didn't take long this time before she was quiet again.
The wards felt something bad was coming, the darkness that predominated Azkaban seemed to be stronger than before. The prisoners more restless. The screaming continued longer, until it died away to a weak tapping against the wall and eventually only soft whispering remained. Sometimes even the Dementors stayed away from the prisoners. For the first time the wards felt like prisoners in the prison they had to guard.
The ground was shaking and the cold seemed to be even more intense than normally. It wás colder. With a soft moan she opened her eyes, she saw the Dementors flee from her cell. Her dark mark was burning as it had never burnt in fifteen years, a pain that offered her more solace than ever. She let her lips rest on the mark before she stood on her legs for the first time in years.
By the new found power she fought against the wind, which tried to throw her with every step she took toward freedom back into the clutches of Azkaban. The wind played with her almost felted hairs. With every step she took, the pain in her body became more unbearable. Laughing, she let herself sink to the ground; her master returned for her. Her master had come to free her.
As soon as she felt the presence of the Dementors surrounding her, she knew she couldn't fight off the disgusting creatures. She didn't have her wand, her eyes opened, without a wand – and in this state – she was useless, and utterly helpless. The only time she ever felt such a heart breaking grief, was when she lost her master. Her wand was gone, a wand that had accompanied her since she was a little girl. It had been there when she first kissed, killed, tortured, lost and loved someone. Slowly she closed her eyes; the presence of the Dementors overpowered her. She felt herself slipping out of consciousness.
'Expecto patronum!' she heard a low voice shout behind her. The effects of the spell made her feel like she was floating, in all those years she hadn't felt so light. The depriving power of the Dementors lessened and she opened her eyes. Next to her stood a man, clothed in robes, with a mask on his face; so she couldn't identify him if she hadn't known him already. 'Snape,' she hissed, her voice almost inaudible. Even though her voice was weak, there was an unmistakably hint of loathing in it. From the corner of her eyes she looked at the patronum: A doe.
'Tr-trait-' With a soft touch of Snape's wand she felt how she started too slipped away. With all power in her emaciated body, she tried to fight against the unspoken spell. Traitor, she thought. Before she lost the fight and her eyes closed.
Her sleep was disturbed by dreams. It could've been worse, in the first years in Azkaban her dreams consisted out of nightmares, which seemed so real they were touchable, it had made her afraid to sleep. After the first five years she stopped having nightmares. The Dementors had fed her fear so many times, she wasn't afraid anymore. Sleep was something she didn't experience, it just took her over, it came out of nowhere and before she even noticed she drifted off. She did not dream anymore.
Now she had plenty of them, she couldn't rest.
Sometimes she felt something. Which was so powerful – real she knew that she didn't dream it. A cold touch, on her arm, or her forehead. Soft, comforting words, which reminded her of her childhood. But escaping from the dreams, that held her captive like a spider web, was impossible. It didn't matter how hard she fought to wake, she couldn't succeed.