Bellatrix hadn't protested as the guards stripped her of her personal effects and tattooed her inmate number on her neck. She screamed and jeered at them as they took her photograph and shouted at them as they threw her in the cell that would become her home.
It was just a matter of time, she told herself, waiting out every day as the days turned to months and the months to years. She was determined not to let the place break her, like it had so many others. She screamed, she shouted, which only attracted the attention of the dementors. The news reached her after a year that Crouch had died. She wasn't surprised, given that the boy clearly couldn't handle the consequences of what they'd done, so it made sense that he succumbed to the horrors of Azkaban so soon.
She remembered reading that most prisoners go insane, and eventually stop eating. She was determined not to do that. So she ate the vile slop that the guards provided once a day, feeling her body waste away slowly and achingly, but she wouldn't give up.
She stopped keeping track of the years after a while, even if her nails were sharp enough now that she could tally them on the wall if she wanted. She wasn't even sure how many years had passed when she heard the guards talking about how her blood traitor cousin Sirius had managed to escape. She remembered hearing of his arrest, laughing at its falsehood. Sirius couldn't have been more of a muggle loving traitor if he tried, so the idea of people believing that he betrayed the Potter's was hysterical to her. Although she had to hand it to Pettigrew, his escape was clever. She always had Pettigrew pegged as a coward, but stitching up her cousin in the process was something she had to allow respect for.
They'd caught glimpses of each other, Bellatrix and her cousin, when they'd been brought in. She remembered how he'd laughed maniacally, shouting 'finally' at her until the dementors went to work on him. The news of his escape though, angered her to the core. She couldn't figure out how he'd done it, and although her cognitive function was waning, puzzling over that gave her something to concentrate on.
Eventually the dementors cold got to her. They crept into her dreams, refusing to let her sleep as they filled her head with her worst memories. She forgot what it felt like to be warm, many childhood memories. She could barely even remember the faces of the people she'd been brought in with.
The day that the Dark Mark on her skin burst back to life, was a day she would never forget. The burning snapped her out of the half conscious daze she was laying around her cell in, hollowness starting to settle in her insides. The sheer elation that flooded her weakened body as the coloration returned to the tattoo on her arm was like nothing she had ever experienced. She jumped up on barely functioning legs, shouting and cackling around her cell until the dementors came for her. It was worth it though, as she had been right all along, and the Dark Lord would soon be coming for them.
Rodolphus Lestrange hadn't responded at all as his neck was tattooed with his inmate number, his picture was taken and then his body was thrown in a cell. He'd accepted his fate, knowing that he was more than likely going to die in there.
He tried to keep himself alert at first, both physically and mentally, but that had just attracted the attention of the dementors. He allowed them to suck his memories from him, wondering if there were many positive ones left.
He spent a lot of time contemplating all the decisions that had led him to this point. The return of his brother, joining the Dark Lord, and the complete and utter destruction of his wife, which had ruined his life from that point onwards. He didn't care that he was in prison, and if he were being honest with himself, a part of him was relieved that he would spend the rest of his days in here, he and his family's actions finally catching up with them.
He managed to remain sane as the endless cold replaced everything and days turned into years. He wondered if it was his lack of caring about, well anything, that had managed to prevent him from losing his mind like so many others. He had accepted his fate, not fought against it, speculating that was probably the reason why Barty succumbed after a year. He tried not to think about Bellatrix and Rabastan, wondering how they were coping with it all, he knew that if he did that then the dementors couldn't detect happiness at the memories of their faces, and come to suck them away.
He watched the broad, toned body that he had spent years crafting fade away to skin and bones. He didn't let it bother him, no longer caring about vanity the way he did in his youth. He reminded himself how nothing mattered anymore, that there was probably no chance of them ever getting out.
The news of Sirius Black's escape didn't bother him. He tried not to give it too much thought. Wishing for escape was futile. It wasn't long after that when Rodolphus got the biggest surprise of his life. He was lounging around his cell when his left arm began to burn, the long faded skull and snake tattoo becoming prominent once more. He laughed as silently as possible, trying to prevent the dementors from coming and taking this moment from him.
Bellatrix had been right, the Dark Lord had returned, which meant that it would only be a matter of time before they were released. Rodolphus tried not to think of Bellatrix, but couldn't help it. As crazed and cruel and disgustingly loyal to the Dark Lord she had been, she was right. As soon as they were out, he swore he would tell her how fucking brilliant she was.
The days spent with their marks now active again were a waiting game. Bellatrix used whatever mental strength she had left to keep track of the days, knowing that soon, they would be free. Rodolphus tried not to hope, but he couldn't deny the power that he felt coursing through his arm ever since the mark was reawakened.
When it happened, it was the tingling that gave it away. They both felt it, using their marks to pass the message to each other, and to everyone else with one who was currently in there. And when the wall exploded, the bricks crumbling into the sea, they rose, and like an army of the near dead, marching towards the freedom that finally awaited them after fourteen long, cold, and hellish years.