A/N: First off, I want to start by saying thank you for the reviews, guys. They motivate me to continue writing (despite the fact I have so much to do everyday) and leave me smiling daily. So yeah, reviews = LOVEEE and cookies (if I had a car and bag off cookies to drive to your place of housing. XD)
And thanks SOOO much to Wicked Bellatrix, the AMAZING (actually, there are no way in which to describe how truly great this author is) writer, who gave me permission to use some of her ideas from her previous Harry Potter fics in my story. Without her, I would have never found my inspiration and I probably would not have known such wonderful imagery in the way she presents her stories….seriously guys, go read her stuff! It's awesome!
Disclamer: If I owned Harry Potter, Bellatrix and Voldemort would be happily shagging daily with beautiful gorgeous Bellamorts running all around the house, Harry Potter would be non-existent, and I would be as bloody rich as J.K. Rowling….but unfortunately, none of this is true, so the only real things I DO own are a few DVDs, a poster, some promotional t-shirts, a nice scarf, and this laptop….TO WHICH I POUR OUT MY SOUL, TO YOU! =D
NOTE: So now we are approaching the more gruesome experiences of a life in Azkaban. I shall forewarn you now….it is not pretty, and this is where reality kicks in for our dear, Bellatrix. Beware…I've been told this chapter is nothing short of horrifying.
Remember Reviews = Love. And thanks again!
Felicia.
And now on to the story! (Jeebus, that intro took long enough, I promise to make them shorter from now on =])
In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime
Chapter 3:
The lock on the door of cell 01397 sounded as metal crunched together. Someone appeared to be entering the room. This sudden realization hit Bellatrix quite easily, for it was not difficult to come to the conclusion that when iron shrieks upwards between lock and wall, it means someone, or rather something, feels a need to fulfill a purpose, one that involved entering cell 01397. Normally, the only real noises that came from outside of Bellatrix Lestrange's prison hold, were that of high security Azkaban guards, forever pacing between cell 01397, cell 01398 and so forth, as they made their rounds in a dreadful march, distributing meals to prisoners, and returning to their place of watch from whence they stood for endless hours.
But on this night, an odd stench dispersed from the doorway. It smelled of liquor and must, of sweat and man. It was unlike that Bellatrix was accustomed to, the dirt and damp air that she regularly breathed. On this night as she tried so restlessly to ignore the soreness she found in her sides, and the throbbing she felt creeping up her wrists and ankles from her shackles, like tiny ants biting at her nerves, Bellatrix turned to face her strangers whose two faces could not be made out in the darkness. She was not pleased with their presence; they had disturbed the solemn peace she found as she sat against one of the lesser occupied corners of her cell, where the dirt was drier, and the stones not as harsh against the small of her back. She looked up into the places where their eyes should have been; they were hollow, void of any emotion or indication as to what their intentions, for upsetting the peace she had so rarely discovered, were. And for that, she grew livid.
Bellatrix shook her chains to show her guests she was aware of their presence. But, that did not inconvenience them, or slow down their pursuit from the doorway to the center of the room. Anger turned into fear rather quickly. Never once, had a guard entered the cell of a prisoner that held such a fearsome reputation in the Wizarding world, in fear that in one large pounce, they may spontaneously attack or break out of their chains, despite the large metal holding them back. This new awareness, slowly crept into the back of Bellatrix's mind, and as she adjusted to face whoever it was that entered her cell. She was frightened, and unprepared for whatever objective they had.
As the heavy door swung shut abruptly, Bellatrix could hear their ragged breathing. One of the more stocky fellows took a step forward into the moonlight, where she could make out some of his more profound features. He must have been no more than forty, as there were less creases in his forehead then his fellow friend, whom would later show himself to the light of the outside world when he too advanced further. He was larger in size then the other, and not as fit. His hair fell around his forehead in small, uneven locks. This man might have seemed intimidating to those without the security of a decent wand, and as Bellatrix sat contemplating his motives, she felt remorse for the loss of her tool and what she could have done to silence him with it.
The other visitor was of smaller form, but could put up a fight if necessary. Immediately, Bellatrix could tell he was a fighter because of the way he held his shoulders high above his chest. His arms were masters of many battles won, bar brawls and the likes of defeating struggling prisoners, she supposed. And although her title of "Death Eater" still existed, neither one was coerced by her company.
Perhaps they had intended to adjust the burden of her chains, to possibly tighten them, or ensure she was properly secured. Whatever the original aim was, they had not had the chance to do so. As the taller man reached out with his hand to firmly grasp at the cuffs holding Bellatrix's right arm under watch, she pulled back immediately, coiling into the depth of the corner and reflexively kicking at his shin with her chained leg. He was shocked at her sudden rebellion, stunned by the fire in which she struck his leg, and was immediately taken aback. She was aware that she had upset him, and did not feel any regret or pity for the pain he now felt in his left shin. As he bent over, cursing and limping about the area to calm him of the ache, the second, more undersized figure towered overhead and immediately began to take hold of her body. She struggled against him, using her links to shove into his sides, hopefully creating bruises that would make him relieve her of his grasp on her arms as the other so easily did, but he did not. Bellatrix screamed into his eyes, a terrifying, incredulous shriek, that could have broken glass if her cell had closed windows. It rang out, farther than any she ever received from other cellmates. It was astonishing, the power so unexpectedly surfacing from within her lungs. For a mere moment, both men fell in silence to absorb the sounds now echoing from off the walls, like empty ghosts, swarming the cell. For a moment, it seemed they had forgotten of their frustrations with this particular criminal, however, as the quiet commenced, Bellatrix took it upon herself, to attack further. In a swift motion, she spat whatever it was that was in her mouth, into his face. The fury rose inside of the one now holding her, for it showed in the wrinkles now newly formed on his brow. In anger, he slapped her across her face, using whatever rage that had boiled underneath her spit, to shove her to the ground.
"Bitch," he spat back with force. It dawned on him, that this woman would not go down without a fight. Perhaps, if he found a way to break her, she would crumble beneath him. It was then, that he seized the opportunity to yank at Bellatrix's hair, as she tried to recover from the blow she received. He pulled her up to his face, to where she could almost taste his watering mouth on her cheek. "So you like to play rough don't you?" She squirmed beneath his grasp, but said nothing to add to his gratification.
And again he jerked at her scalp, as the other man understood what was occurring. In a louder voice he repeated his question, "Well?"
Bellatrix chuckled, mocking his bravery. Who was he to challenge a witch trained by the hand of the Dark Lord himself? Who dare defy her, in all the countless victories she so easily accomplished? Out of all the people to disregard the supremacy that has become the Dark Lord, stood a worthless object, between her freedom, and her survival as a follower of evil. And here was this little, pitiful example of a man, whose only pride rested in the amount of testosterone coursing through his veins, a thing so ridiculously testing the will of a Death Eater. She would enjoy spitting as she did moments before, fighting an urge to so quickly yell the Cruciatus Curse and bend their souls to her will, but she is without her want to exemplify why she has become so feared, and powerless.
To prove the rank he so effortlessly ridiculed, she bit at the tough skin of his cheek, ignoring the taste of raw flesh and focusing on inflicting as much damage as she could till she would receive her corporal punishment. He cried out in pain, moving backwards in short, dense strides, putting both his hands to the area that was now open, bleeding down his neck and all over his fingers. The larger man eyed her movements, and strode to her form to kick not at her abdomen or her chest, but into her face, sending her once again reeling to the floor, where her lips flavored the muck beneath her. She cringed. There would be bruises the days coming after this, if there were any indication that she would indeed live further then this day's experiences.
The man approached her further, kicking her whenever the chance showed itself. With each drive, he muttered curses at her retreating figure. Finally, as Bellatrix tried to push herself to her feet, the larger guard began to unbutton at his pants, removing his belt and dropping them to the floor, as if it was not the first time he had done so in Azkaban. In the same motion, he removed his drawers, sliding them too, to the floor where they sat around his ankles. He moved towards the now silent prisoner on the floor, and seized her into his arms. She kicked rapidly, scratching at his hands with her nails, biting into the air at whatever she could in order to avoid whatever he was about to perform upon her. But she could not resist his hold, for his size was worthy of her fighting.
"A dirty bitch deserves dirty punishment." He enjoyed every word that left his mouth, sulking in the pride he suddenly felt.
She was helpless now, and couldn't evade his engorgement that within one hasty motion passes her lips. She refused him at first, biting down onto his tender bulge, and he revolted as quickly as she did. He smacked her once more, forcing her eyes shut. With one hand held tightly in her hair, he took the other and reached towards the ground, searching for the pocket of his pants that held his wand. He finds it, and in a raspy, rage-infested motion, he growls, "Imperio."
Bellatrix cannot move. She cannot act. She cannot speak. But she can hear. She can see. She can feel, feel herself losing this battle.
He smirks at her. "Get up," He spits. Bellatrix gets up.
"Now, on your knees." Bellatrix obeys. She tries to fight the curse, but she cannot, and inside she yells for mercy.
"Put your mouth around it, now." She is shouting from within, begging for a second chance. "And now your hands," is his only reply to her actions. She can almost hear him laughing at her agony. The bastard, she thinks.
As she continues her dirty deeds, the shameful work she is forced to push forward with, Bellatrix can feel her mouth tingling. The taste of a rapist is fowl indeed. What is worse is his growing pleasure in the matter, that he finds gratification in the mouth of a criminal, and most likely the only place in which he receives such treatment. He begins to moan quietly but Bellatrix hears him and can only curse in her mind. She cannot avoid his hands on her ample breast, playing with the thin fabric around her nipples, which prevents him from further touching her sensual body. She knows he is perfectly satisfied with each hand he moves through her hair, almost sardonic in his acknowledgement of her wasted beauty. You will pay for this eventually you soiled perverse excuse of a man! She screams further, but it is not heard. It isn't heard, until her mouth is full of semen, until the curse is lifted, and she rests shaking in darkness, in pain, and in shock.
They leave her alone, in agony, in suffering. Finally after what seemed hours of torture, she is free of their presence, but their actions will remain, she fears, a constant reminder of her stay in such a hell hole. Bellatrix licks at her chapped lips, dreading the lasting taste of the seed he shot into her mouth. She was forced to swallow at his command, and whatever remains of her stomach she immediately heaved after their departure. It is now when she begins to feel remorse, a twinge of guilt and sadness. And as she lies once more against her cot, she is reminded of yet another horrifying memory in which her husband-to-be had done the same.
Rodolphus had taken advantage of a young Bella in her growing youth, drugging her while she complained to him of family troubles one night at a less popular pub in Knockturn Alley. She found some comfort in this dark man, and his understanding smile, his nods of agreement, and the unexpected touch of an unknown potion he easily added to her late night drink, while she reached down into her carry-on for her wallet.
Late that night, while she remained unconscious, he took her small, beautiful form into his arms and into a room she can't recall of, in a place she has no knowledge of, to do things she had never done before out of force, and loss of will. She awoke the next morning, sore, disoriented, and in need of assistance, but she had none. Once again, she was helpless. It was then she took it upon herself, to vow never to bend to the will of another ever again. However, her wall of promise collapsed to the ground at the sight of the man who would become her master. No matter what this man asked of her, she would do it, despite the consequences. And for that, she had no regrets for breaking a vow she made to herself.
Another outrageous scream.
She grows intolerant of her torment. How much longer can she wait for her Lord? Is it her loyalty he is testing with her torture? Is that what he is waiting for, to see her finally fail to prove her faithfulness? Never. She would not allow that to happen. Oh, but how she longs for him now. Even as the hours pass, she feels tainted by a man she doesn't know, a man she allowed to corrupt her further, to ruin her precious hour of relief in a place that does not easily welcome peace. She shivers violently, trying to hold on to her sanity, but she cannot help the soundless tears that escape her eyes at the thought that she may not live to see the light of evil again. Her tears are new to the floor beneath her; never once has she wept in her imprisonment before. Never once has she allowed herself the opportunity to show weakness. Yet, she cannot help the growing sense of hopelessness within her, and so, it is hard not to slowly heave sobs, and to begin to wail into the night. And for once in prison that is Azkaban, the screams of cell 01397 are the only ones heard.
A/N: Thanks for reading guys! I warned you, this chapter wasn't pretty! But I have everything planned out from start to finish, and am looking forward to writing out the next chapters. Hope you enjoyed this darker side of Azkaban. And remember Reviews = LOVE.
Thanks!