A/N: For all of you who wrote me after my first fanfiction was sent in,   this is for you.  Thank you Shellebelle for catching all the mistakes I didn’t see, and pointing out holes that needed to be filled.  Without you, this still might be sitting on my cabinet, waiting to be thrown away…

Just Balanced

Another scratch on the wall, another day gone by.  All that is life in Azkaban is able to be represented by the mark of a hard metal scraping against the cold, oppressive stone that is the prison wall.  Dementor teatime visits bringing chills down the prisoner’s backs, slow loss of sanity—all forgotten in that small mark, yet never forgotten in the mind.  Only one, of hundreds of prisoners locked inside this wretched prison is, in relation to all others, happy.  This prisoner is happy to be able to serve a greater cause by subjecting herself to this torture; and thereby does it all the more willingly.

This convict’s name is Bellatrix.

Day in and day out I sit here, waiting for the day my master will come for me.  I alone did not fear admitting my allegiance in the trials.  I alone entered Azkaban with a full heart of excitement; I alone will leave unscathed.

Rambling to herself, she slumps to the floor as a Dementor glides by her cell; she is forced to relive her worst memories; her only fears.

Voldemort drew ever nearer, his wand pointing menacingly at her throat.  “Never fail me again, or I shall find others to take your place.  You are expendable, ‘Bella.  You always knew you were.  The pain will be worse next time.  Crucio!”

Bellatrix fell to the floor screaming, her eyes bulging.  After what seemed like forever to her, Voldemort released the curse only to torment her with yet another, and another hefty blow of pain.

Pounding on the floor furiously, Bellatrix awakens, her dark, heavy eyelids mirroring the contempt she feels at recalling such a memory.  Others—more shameful ones have been shown to her, and she detests the thought of them.  Ones of weakness, pain, shame.

A nervous teenager looked in the mirror uncertainly.  “Do I really want to be this?  A Slytherin?  A Black?”  Tugging at her sweater, she rearranged her rich hair foolishly.  Vainly, she peered into the mirror, examining every detail of her face.  “Am I a Black, or not?” Bellatrix asked herself, again and again.  “Or am I simply weak?”

Self conscious was something this prisoner had gotten over a long time ago—but her secret worry of whether she was really right in doing what her parents preached she has not.  Self doubt flies around Bella’s head—making it the perfect target for recollection.  All her happiness (or is it madness?) is evaporating—but she will not succumb to this little game. 

I know who I am.  I no longer childishly doubt the wisdom of my master and the path my family follows.  I am right hand to the Dark Lord, and he is the essence of my existence.

Shivering slightly, the convict digs into her pocket, and carefully pulls out a photograph featuring the Black family children—when they were younger.  Finding herself easily, her hungry eyes systematically devoured the picture.

Sisters, do you miss me?  Narcissa, married Lucius Malfoy, didn’t you?  Though he slipped out of punishment he does nothing to seek my master, or does he?  You did well, sister, marrying a man like that.  Andromeda!  My traitorous sister—or were you the virtuous one?  Left the fold for a Muggle—turned your back on the family.  Or, in reality, were you the only one who saw the truth?  What is the truth?  How come I can’t ever remember!

Is the truth, Voldemort because he wants to rid the wizarding world of impurities?  Or was Andromeda right for trying to save those of talent?  Who was right?

No!  That is the Dementor’s thought!  My master, the Dark Lord is the only lord!  He is right—the world must be cleansed, and I shall be there when it happens.  I shall watch, and smile—smile for the joy that I will feel as a new age will dawn over the world!  The age of Wizards!

Her hands shaking, and eyes burning from delirium, the prisoner slumped to the floor of her cell, entering a restless sleep.

The forgotten picture fluttered to the ground, falling on a small shard of metal where it lay—precariously balanced as if it was the fate of the world, and one misplaced, ill-conceived breath could shatter the perfection and throw the universe into eternal darkness.

A/N:  This is my take on what happened, so please keep that in mind as you review…