The dark fell upon them like a cloak, with no gentle decline and no flash of colours.
Bellatrix's cell had one window which was small and obscured with netting. Where she lay on the ground the day could not touch her. It went, dull and grey and cold, a vicious cold that seeped into her bones. Then the night came and nightmares along with it.
Stars and colour were dead but she recalled his face, fought for it. He'd been pale as the moon with eyes of fire.
And days went by, one piece of her life dying at a time.