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…
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
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…