I sit, I wait

I still hear the screams of the boy as he pleaded for mercy, fallen to his knees with his dishevelled blonde
hair flopping in his eyes and mixing with the tears that streamed down his face. They showed no clemency
though he begged and grovelled.

I cannot sleep

These memories, these thoughts torment me. My husband is not here. They took him from me, but he is
strong. He went with them silently, no struggle but he will resist them, he is as strong as I. My own cheeks
are stained with tears and dirt, bitter, burning agony, stinging my eyes and scorching my parched skin as I
yearn for what I have lost.

I dream

Though I am awake … I think … I can no longer tell, their torture makes it impossible to know. It is too
cold where I sit, legs pulled in beneath me held tight by me own starved arms gently rocking back and forth
in the darkness. I cannot focus on details like the passage of time, it is too hard to stay aware, and they are
so nearby.

I pray

He has returned. He has come for me. Throwing open the doors his eyes blaze with a cold unquenchable
fire as he frees me from my bonds. I am filled with hope, a hope drained all too quickly from this shell …
and with horror, with disbelief I realize he has gone … that memory, that despair they cannot suck from
me. It is my refuge.

I sit, I wait.

I am Lestrange. The Dark Lord will rise again.