Chapter 2:
In restless sleep, Bellatrix conjures memories that often remind her she has not yet gone mad. She turns on her back and stares at the cracks in the ceiling above her. She remembers her years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the meaningless classes she was required to take that could not compare to the skill she learned outside those walls of pathetic exams full of blatant and mediocre material.
She can picture her youngest sister, Andromeda, a splitting resemblance to her eldest sibling, one she took pride in displaying by her side, Andromeda, who she adored so dearly, before her decision to flee the wishes of her family, and marry an impure wizard instead of keeping the Black line of witches and wizards chaste and glorious in its namesake.
She is shocked when she finds herself reminiscing of fights she and her cousin Sirius had daily while attending school, how they each found the opportunity to upset the other at whatever price of detention or punishment they would later pay. A look of disgust forms on her face at the thought of the blood-traitor, and his choice to flee to the house of the Potters and side with a Gryffindor, James, rather than remain faithful to his family name; intuition told her he would receive what he deserved, and not from the guards that stand outside his own room, eighteen cells to the left of hers. No, she would be the one to teach him his proper lesson, to engage in another battle with her dear cousin, one that would end in death with no professor or headmaster to stop her.
As she tosses and turns, causing her pathetic excuse of a bed to squeak demands of oil and better treatment, she grows anxious as more screams from inside the fortress increase in volume. Yes, she is already accustomed to what jail brings, but somewhere inside her she feels more impatient than ever before. It takes her quite some time to realize the rumbling pit inside her wants food and that her edginess is the cause of this. She knows, however, that dinner is far off from now.
Hours later, Bellatrix awoke to the knock at the entrance to her prison cell; it was meal time once more. A flap opened at the bottom of the heavy door and ceremonially became the only indication that it was indeed time to eat. Should she refuse her so-called dinner, she would suffer till that of the next night's visit, or until her "protectors" came to remove the bowl from her sight. Feasting would ensue for a short length of time, where each cell bound criminal had to devour what was given as quickly as possible before it was taken, regardless of whether or not they were completely finished, or satisfied. At times when Bellatrix was hungry most, it seemed her serving would never come. Her stomach would growl into the later parts of night, until finally, she was relieved of her small agony.
To call it a daily banquet of gourmet three course meals, would be to call it a little escape from the pains of the day. Featured in their glorious dishes, clay bowls that were chipped and soiled, were many common delicacies known to prison mates: cockroaches, ants of all sorts, bones of animals from Merlin knows where, and on occasion, the delightful taste of human, all ground together with some wonderfully state bread, and cooked to a sappy perfection. It was almost impossible not to miss the stench of rat feces that rose from her plate while enjoying a meal, but Bellatrix could not deny that while the bugs squished and cracked to pieces in her mouth with every chew, her hunger was slightly satisfied. Of course, she had to resist the urge to heave outwards with each serving she brought to her lips (courtesy of her own germ-infested, unwashed hands), but it was better than not eating at all. Her teeth fought to chew each shell of roach, and every time she hit a bone, her jaw would sting of sensitivity and as quickly as she blinked her eyes back the agony, she would cup her mouth in her hand and resist the urge to scream. And with that, not only would she regret putting the filth to her mouth to begin with, she would end it all by tossing the rubbish to a corner, struggling to contain herself from lashing out on anything in her way, like a trapped dragon, without the power to escape from the oppression it faces. Soon after, Bellatrix turns her head in her lap, growing quickly of boredom.
She misses the warmth in a pot of tea, one she would occasionally share with her younger sister Narcissa, a blonde and sensual looking beauty, rare to the dark-haired family that was the Black's. Over toffees and small talk, the two sisters would renew the bond of sisterhood by sharing their experiences, until Bellatrix's arm would burn from the mark that makes her who she is and consequently, of her calling to her Lord. A tender kiss exchanged upon one's cheek, a solemn sweet goodbye, before the one called Death Eater would return to her life of crime.
She yearns for comfort that would come from the homey smells dancing about her mother's kitchen. She misses the things in her life she took so easily for granted, the sweet earthy smells of broccoli, the sun's heat of a hot day, the swishing of broomsticks as they took flight, the fights she instigated between her two younger sisters that would end with tears and hugs and eventually non-stop laughter.
She misses so many things of her young life that she failed to notice she held in her grasp. But above all things, she desires to see her Lord again, the man she came to call "Master", the lover she fought so hard to keep. Truth be told, as sadistic and insane she would have seemed to those under her wrath, Bellatrix Lestrange was not all evil. With a man she held dear to her, she was a tiger; a fierce, fiery being of instinctive nature, one that was not afraid to love and be loved. She understood the fantasies that each little girl had once dreamed up, for she too had once been a small but hopeful romantic. For a time, she believed that a knight in valiant armor would come to her rescue, take her up in arms, and carry her away so that no one may find her and taint her everlasting happiness. She knew that bliss came from love, from affection and attraction, devotion and the lesser, with one being, and one being only.
At a time before her sentence, she found her brave knight, as inhumane and dangerous he seemed to those who opposed him, in wizard known to all others as Lord Voldemort, and she did not fear what he offered.
To her, he was everything she could possibly imagine in a man; devilishly amusing eyes that pierced to her core, hair that was as black and sleek as his heart but as silky as the barrier that surrounded it; a face so pale and intimidating, and yet, so soft to the touch that even a mere brush of the hand would send her falling to her knees in genuine adoration. Long ago, before she was confined to a binding arranged marriage to a Rodolphus Lestrange, before the turmoil of the Wizarding world began under his hand, before the first night she slept so isolated from the outside world in the dirt and darkness that was Azkaban, Bellatrix was in love with Tom Riddle.
Oh how she longs for him now, at her lowest moments. The food in her stomach churns and bubbles inside her, reminding her of how truly deep her emotions go. Inside she is engorged in a sea of flames, a fire that burns brightly, despite the darkness surrounding it. She alone has proven such devotion to him, to the point where her feelings revealed themselves through glances and gestures to which he immediately took notice. She alone has touched him in which no other Death Eater has ever had the chance to dream of. And while his heart and mind remained a cold pit of despair, she alone broke the ice encasing his heart with the heat of her mesmerizing inferno, revealing a softening tender organ that slowly began to beat again. She would not know that it beat for her and her alone, for there last encounter, a great build leading to a glorious climax in their growing relationship between master and servant, was a failure.
Voldemort had not headed Bellatrix's warning; he was not aware of how promising a woman's intuition could be, and when it came time for his great travel to the Potter house, to remove the threat that was a mere child, a boy of no more than two, a life that would cost him victory and leave him without conquest, he merely shrugged it off, disrespecting her thoughts and wishes and regarding it as her fear that he may not be as powerful as she thinks he is. She felt betrayed as a result, waned down to mere servant status once more, instead of his growing equal. Needless to say, she was right. And now, after so long of searching for any sign of his survival, after endless murder after murder, interrogations, Unforgivables and the latter, she is the one that has taken his place. It was He, whom these chains belonged to. He, whose damp air surrounds her and all she thinks since her arrival to her own personal hell hole. This cell has his essence floating all around it. It smells of him (or what memory she can make of his musty, compelling scent)…….
She chuckles silently to herself. How ironic, such a powerful prodigy of a dark wizard could not make as great a judgment as the storm of supremacy he proved to be. How ironic it was, the opinion he ignored turned out to be far greater than his own.
The thoughts Bellatrix contemplates to pass the time are yet again interrupted by the horror from bellow. Bellowing in darkness comes yet another scream; perhaps it is that of a final breath. Her mouth curves up slightly at the thought. She sighs quietly, and turns to face towards the bars that stop her from jumping out into open air and into the sea that is below. In the view that is painted before her, is a moon of silver and crimson lining, one that in such little light, gives Bellatrix all the hope she can ask for. She stares at the picture before her, of the outside world. She can almost touch it as she reaches to grab onto one of the many crossed metal bars before her. There is a wind that blows softly around her. She is standing now, an almost vacant being, shedding bony, frail fingers to bathe in the moonlight. Within her reach, upon the floor that she turns her eyes to look at are small unguarded pebbles calling to her side. She takes one into her palm and moves to the wall that faces opposite the light of the moon. In a set pattern that she has already created, with whatever strength she has left, she makes a mark into the wall next to another, forever engraving a line that represents all that occurs in this cell while she occupies it. She steps back to marvel her work. It is simple, but haunting. She counts the lines that she has previously engraved. Today marks day 1,462 of prison confinement for Bellatrix Lestrange.