Chapter 7- Why Did I Drown?
Elladora Lestrange had few beautiful things left in her memory.
When the Dementors came they would take-away what precious little she had, and she had seen so few things in her short life beyond the walls of her prison. Her papa had told her that Rabastan used to be handsome, and her mother beautiful beyond words, and that even he had fair looks away from his haggard, starved appearance; the Dementors had taken away all that too. Her papa told her otherwise, but she knew what beauty could have bloomed as a rose across her features had been snatched from her, just like all the beautiful things.
Her earliest memory of beauty was when she had snuck away from the orphanage she had been left at so carelessly, like an unwanted belonging. They had been on a trip in London, so very close to the concert hall in which all proms worth noting happened. She had possessed a memory once, of the soft strokes of a violin, though she had long forgotten their sounds, and wondered if it were possible she should hear them again. No-one paid attention to the pale shadow that slipped inside, and up to one of the balconies- tucked away in the corner. She had heard the whole concert- the slips of bows against strings, the melodic tapping of the piano keys, the gentle thrums against the percussions and the violent blows of the trumpets and the trombones. She had heard it all, and it became her first memory of beauty.
The next was when the orphanage had insisted upon all the girls 2 years and up entering the ballet class held in the dance school in the next town over. The matron had forgotten her, and left her behind in the corridors. So as she made her way through the gleaming walls and marble flooring, the ballerinas danced and danced; she watched with such large green eyes- the memory forever imprinted into her brain as the reason she wanted to learn such graceful steps. And now, the reason she knew not all beauty was lost in the horrors of what was left.
There was only one final memory of beauty, and it had lived with her for so long before leaving. Those emerald eyes, the color of death- a beauty she could not quite conceive, so she feared it. But in his eyes, in Harry's eyes, it was so soft and beckoning that she would've gladly welcome it, if only to see those eyes one last time. Her brother's eyes were jewels in the darkness of Azkaban, and the sight that awoke her in nightmare, or spoke what Harry could not. It was beauty that had sworn to envision itself to her again, and yet still she waited in the seeping cold of the damp and the desperate.
Her papa and uncle lay huddled in the next cell over, and her mother crossed in the corner of the cell opposite, humming promises in song. She was alone, like her mother, in her own cell. She had been alone for so long, she had nearly forgotten what it was like to share it. She had shared with Harry for a time, and her papa only one year. Her mother had been kept forcibly separate- a punishment to both. To never hold each other, for however long they sat and rot, wasting away as skeletons in the closet of the Light.
.
He was reminded of his promise by the dirty-blonde hair of Emilia Moon. He was reminded of his promise by the silver in the eyes of his classmate, Draco Malfoy. He was reminded of his promise by the damp chill that lingered in the dungeons. He was reminded of his promise by the nightmares that came each night, without fail. He was reminded of his promise by the dying pleads of outstretched hands in his mind. He was reminded of his promise by the petite, elegant hands of Diana Carefield. He was reminded of his promise by the sneers and wary glances. He was reminded of his promise by the scar etched into his ex-brother's forehead.
He could never forget his promise to her. To them.
That he would go back. That he would get them out. And he would do so, with the Dark Lord at his side.
He remembered when Elladora Lestrange had been dragged in, kicking and cursing, by the only human visitors- if they could even be deemed human enough to acquire the status. She had been thrown into his cell- her high cheekbones scraping against the harsh grey slabs. And she had looked at him with those eyes that were a perfect blend of her parents', in a silent defiance, yet plea, of her begging for someone to hear her screams.
His forehead pressed against the cold pains, as his memories slipped to the surface.
It was another storm.
The bleak grey waves crashed to an unknown symphony against the bleak grey shore of the bleak grey prison. They slammed against the walls occasionally, in time to the thunderous rain and the clapping of lightning that could not even light the sky properly; the bleak grey even destroying that little change. The only colour to break it up, was the colour of the inmates themselves- though they were all fading; their colours slowly dimming, until they too would join the bleak grey that all consumed.
He was alone in his cell. Beside him was Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. Across from him was Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. To the other side of him was Fenrir Greyback, who sat alone in his silver cage. They were tucked away in one of the darkest corners of the prison- to be forgotten as the darkest of the criminals there. The most dangerous. They often talked away their days; the parts of their days that was not spent in cries as the Dementors passed over them, or the part spent in exhaustion- eyes closed and breaths uneven.
Shouts and pleas broke out further down the corridor- past what they could see. They were a girl's- not a woman's- but a girl's and he couldn't help but wonder if another child had been condemned for their silence. For their innocence.
The prison's only visitors came in their blood red robes; the two each grasping a different part of the girl, as she wriggled and writhed and kicked and scratched. She was young. Tiny. Smaller than him, and younger than him. Yet her eyes were age old in their dead, silvery depths. Dirty-blonde hair was uncombed and caught in the breeze and actions of her desperate attempts to escape. None of them cared to assess the other visitors. They were just blurs in the memories they would be left with.
The grated door unlocked with a clink, and swung open with an angry swoosh. The girl was thrown in violently, scraping against the harsh stone with a sharp sob. She didn't have time to try and escape, before the door was locked, and the visitors were leaving.
For a while they merely looked at each other; one dully curious, and the other wide-eyed and resigned in suspicion.
"Harry Potter," he offered. His voice was rasp- they never were given enough water.
"Elladora Lestrange."
Her voice was quiet, but told the stories of a thousand rivers lost in melody to the shrieks of songbirds as they met their bitter ends, and fell in swirling red to the waters below.
There was no silence that followed her name; Rodolphus and Bellatrix were immediately pressed against their bars- straining to gain a closer look. Rabastan had snapped to attention, out of the depression that had overwhelmed him for three days already, and curled closer. Both Barty and Fenrir merely looked up and eyed her- waiting for the revelation of a closing curtain.
Eyelids closed over burning eyes, as a deep breath sought to calm him.
No. He would not forget his promise. And no. He would not fail in it. He would get them out. Even if it was the last thing he would ever do.
.
Fenrir had never, could never, condone the abuse of a child; the imprisonment of a child; the torture of a child. A child was to be cherished; to be loved.
Many would scoff at the thought, pointing out all of his past failings, but he had never willingly bit a child that hadn't needed a family. And that was what being a werewolf brought; a family. A pack to return home to. There was only one, whom he had bitten for another reason. But it had been to protect the others, but all the same he regretted it. If only because he not foreseen what the boy's father would cause him to believe.
Remus Lupin had been a misgiving on his part, and he would admit that.
As much of a monster as they claimed him to be, he could not see how they were so different. The had tossed two children into the depths of Azkaban, to forever remain amongst the worse of criminals. He had become fiercely protective of little Harry when he arrived, and equally so of Elladora when she had been tossed aside, to the harsh reality of consequence. Not that there was much he could do- bound by a silver cage, and with no means of escape but the vain hope that the Dark Lord would return.
His amber eyes slid over to the cell next to him, where Elladora lay curled into the tightest ball she could become. Those dark silver depths were wide and unblinking as they stared at nothing; the body trembling and the mind in the same turmoil and creative torture that they were all in, for various lengths, after each visit. He wanted to hold her; to protect her; to comfort her. But he could do none of those things; only watch. As her parents were forced to watch. As Rabastan was forced to watch. And as Barty was forced to watch.
That was all they could do. Watch. Listen. And hope for a moment of sparse conversation between each episode.
He often believed none of them would even hold any resemblance of sanity if they were alone. Their conversations, Elladora's lessons, were all they had to live for. All they had to keep them going.
He sighed, the light of a nearly full moon tingling his senses.
Even his blessing could not give him reprieve anymore.
.
It would be bearable, she had often decided, it would be bearable if it weren't for the Dementors.
They had asked her what she heard- what she saw- when they passed over her, and she had never answered those questions. They could've guessed, but she spoke little of what she had been put through at the hands of muggles, and at the hands of the 'virtuous', and what she had told them was only to answer the question of why she was there in the first place.
She hadn't meant to kill those people, but some part of her laughed with vindictive glee as the corpses were called to mind. They had caused her so much pain and suffering; she hadn't done anything. Her magic hadn't done anything. But she had been condemned twice over regardless.
So what she saw, what she felt, what she heard with the haunting draw of a Dementor's breath was her damnation; her condemning.
It was clinical and cold, though the stone walls dripped red with still echoing screams of those before her. She had been drugged after she had made it evident she would not go without a fight; her body was heavy and she could not move her limbs. The same preacher that haunted her Sundays stood with the same pitying look he always had, as though he personally knew she would drown in the fires of hell. Beside him was another, who was a man of concrete and salted gravel. There were others, in the shadows- each holding something she could not distinguish- their faces were blank and unsympathetic. She would receive no mercy here.
Ankles and wrists were chained in each corner of the altar, giving her a darkened view of what was to be her first torture.
The water.
It rained down upon her in icy droplets, choking her as it 'cleansed' her of the evil. Not that she knew it; she only knew the burn as she couldn't breathe; she only knew her screams; she only knew the harsh echoing voice of the men that stood at her head; clasping hold of their belief that within her the devil resided.
She was disorientated when the rain stopped.
It was chanting.
It was burning.
There were prayers spoken.
They got louder.
And she became more fearful.
She didn't want this.
Who would?
She wanted her parents back. She wanted the soft lullabies and kind smiles that were but dreams to ease herself to sleep with.
Her magic wanted the same.
But it took a more violent approach.
The screams reverberated against the stone walls of the room; bouncing back at her and fuelling the protective fire that burned around her.
Blades tore at limbs.
Blood stained the floor and the walls and her skin.
She could taste it.
And she was stuck among it.
Breathing in the scent of seven dead, and two fatally injured. Breathing in the scent of her first murder as it climbed down her throat and choked her in her own terror and tears.
There would be no going back from this.
And there would be no forgetting it either.
Every moment was memorised and seared into her brain.
She had only been a child. She still was a child.
Fresh sobs racketeered throughout the dark corner of her prison; tearing at the heartstrings of her little make-do family. But eyes hardened rather than shattered.
Revenge could not be taken away like beauty. The Dementors didn't care for it; so it would drive them through the insanity, the depression, and it would give them something to live for.
It all relied on Harry now.
Harry, and his mission to find the Dark Lord, and free them all.
Even if he died trying.
Even if…