Time in Hell || (?)
Years he had spent behind these bars yet it felt like only yesterday that he had been closed off to the rest of the world. Yet it felt like infinity, like this state of living had always been his truth. It had been, somewhat. Living at Grimmauld Place had just been another kind of torture, the war another one. The only breathing place he had had had been at Hogwarts.
Did he miss it. Sirius missed Hogwarts so much his heart ached. At Hogwarts everything had been beautiful and fun and thrilling and alive. James had been alive, Lily had been alive. Remus had been at their side, Pettigrew their friend. It had been lovely. So lovely. He thought he had appreciated his years spent at school but here, under the watchful eye of the Dementors he thought he hadnât appreciated it enough. Never enough. He should have listened to Prongâs snorings as had it been music. He should have put every sarcastic get gentle sentence Remus ever uttered on his mind. He should have printed Peterâs face in his mind; the young, happy, adoring Peter so he didnât have to suffer from the monster-rat he saw now in his mind. He shouldâve listened to Lily, really listen to her, because she had been a smart, lovely girl.
And now, she was dead. She and Prongs was dead thanks to him. James was dead⊠Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Remus all alone, no mates to spend his full-moons with. The wolf tearing him apart and Sirius had managed to get himself locked away.
He had failed. He hadnât protected his friends as much as he shouldâve. It shouldâve have been him that was dead and buried, not James. Not fucking James Potter.
The thoughts swirled in his mind. The same thoughts, all the time, for years. Blaming, guilt, anger, when he had the energy for it. It was hell, yet he thought he deserved it for what he had done to his best mate.
Sirius had it easier, though, if one could see it like that, two things that saved his mind to shatter the last few pieces to complete madness. He knew he was innocent; a sad knowledge that was happiness in this twisted darkness. He knew he hadnât betrayed James and Lily. He knew he knew he knew. Nobody else did, though, but that piece of knowledge made him able to concentrate. Revenge. He would bloody kill Wormtail one day. He would. He would tear the bloody ratâs body apart. And he would love it. Oh yes, indeed.
Sirius laughed. Raw and coarse, a voice rarely used any more. He was a Marauder, remember that, yes, rember that, brain! A Marauder, that made the Map, that had made many a splendid prank. He would get out of here. Right time⊠When the right tame came. And his way of getting out, yes, was the other key to save his sparse sanity.
Padfood. He was Padfoot. Illegal Animagus. He could turn into a dog, curl up and whine when the darkness consumed him too much. The Dementors didnât notice him then, couldnât really pick up the dogâs soul and thoughts. It gave him a chance to breath, to mourn, to plot revenge. He became more Padfoot than Sirius by each passing day that went by. Soon, he thought, he would never, or could ever, change back into a human dress.
He was a dog.
With the years Bellaâs laugh had changed as well. In the beginning it had been as he remembered them, young and beautiful, even girlish; a nice remembrance of her softness, of the girl she used to be. Now, they were more shrieks than giggles. She was loosing it, and Padfoot whined when those high freighting notes hit his ears. Mourned for days long gone.
He knew he should hate Bellatrix. She was one of the reasons he was in here. Her being the follower of the Lord. Her having twisted his mind, used him, made him who he was. Yet his mind tried to hold onto the memories of happiness, when they used to play, when she hugged and cared for him, when she kissed him tenderly. But they had faded, leaving him in doubt.
It has been truth. It had been his truth. Once.
Many a time he had wished that she would suffer as badly as he had during his years but now when she did suffer he couldnât take happiness in it. Of course he couldnât. Dementors swarmed the place after all. But, at the same time, he couldnât have done it should he be able to feel joy again. It sounded so twisted, so scary. And he could never, how much he wished he could, wish anybody to suffer as they did, as he had, as they do know. Not even Snape.
But she was quiet today. So so quiet. Had she died? Bella couldnât have died! She was the strong one. The one that always managed. Didnât she? She couldnâtâŠ
Padfoot pressed his nose through the bars, sniffing. It all smelled the same, really. Proper purebloods would faith and die with the sanitary they had to put up with.
He was so skinny now. Even skinnier than he used to be. Padfoot too, of course. So they could push through the bars, wriggling and moving to squeeze through. He needed to find out. Find out what had happened to their Bella. It wasnât good, not good at all that she was so quiet. She was one of those you always heard.
Canât be quiet. Canât be dead.
Padfood padded down the corridors, ears alert, tail wiggling. Happy, a tiny bit happy being able to stretch and strut, his cell so tiny, not allowing him to run as he wanted. No. No. So cramped. So boring. He just wanted to hide sometime. Run sometime.
There! Hey! There! He barked. Rather, Padfoot tried to bark out of relief that he had found her cell. But he just croaked. Hadnât barked in a really long time. But she was there. Just there! On the other side of her cell, pressed away from evil Dementors.
She looked⊠Sirius heart tugged when their eyes landed on her thin body. She looked weary. Broken. The place had gotten to her. She was human. Only human. That made Sirius hurt tug once more in feelings he couldnât place any longer. She used to be so beautiful, still was, certainly, under the wild hair, long nails, and thinness.
His Bella. Padfoot pressed himself through the bars to her cell. Mouth open, tongue hanging out. Panting. Heart racing. Bella. Bella. Bella. Bella. Human. Contact. Solidness. Not Dementors. Another person. And she was alive. Alive and quiet and broken.
Padfoot whimpered, bumped his wet nose against her shoulder, front paws stamping where he stood, like if he wanted to crawl out of his skin, didnât know what to do. Couldnât do anything but to stamp his paws and bump her shoulder, as if the dog finally had gone mad, too.
Bellatrix curled up as the dementors continued to glide past her cell, bringing back memories of pain, of the punishments her Lord put her through for daring to fail him. She wrapped her bony arms around her knees and tried to be as small as possible. Perhaps this way she could ward off the dementors. It was a futile hope - but that was what it was, hope. The only reason Bellatrix had not lost her mind as of yet in the god awful place was because she still desperately hoped her Lord would return. She knew he was not dead.
He was biding his time. The Dark Lord was lulling them into a false sense of security, she was sure of it. When they were most calm, he would return. She was his most loyal, his best death eater. He would return and reward her with her freedom. She would see the grounds of Lestrange manor once more, she would be able to set eyes upon her sister and her husband once more.Â
Hope.
It was an odd thing. Hope kept the insanity at bay - just a little bit. But as time grew on, it began to push through. There were days when all she did was shriek, all she did was laugh. There were days when she tore the skin off her arms with her fingernails, days when she carved things into the stone walls and floors with just her nails. But focusing on her dark mark blew the insanity away.
He would return.Â
She was suffering. More than anything, she craved information. How was Sirius, Rodolphus, Rabastan? How was Cissy? Oh she missed Narcissa. Lucius had evaded Azkaban. She knew that much - she had screamed over the injustice of it all. How dare he deny their lord in such a way? He would be punished. But at least Narcissa had somebody to look after her. There wasn't a day that went by that Bellatrix did not ponder about Narcissa and her well-being at least once. She hated the lack of information.
As she buried her face in her bony knees, seeking some kind of warmth from the harshness of Azkaban air, Bellatrix dwelled upon all of this. Her thoughts were her only comfort in the hell that was Azkaban - but they were also her worst enemy. What if Narcissa had died? What if Rodolphus was dead, what if...what if. There were so many what ifs, they were enough to drive Bellatrix insane - forget the dementors.
She detested the lack of control. She had controlled her life entirely - the only person that could tell her what to do was the Dark Lord and she never questioned his judgement, not once. Her silence seemed to work - no dementors passed in a short space of time, a space of time that soon became a longer space of time. Perhaps it was a few hours..or maybe it was just half an hour. She had no concept of time any more.
The calmness was welcomed, and it gave her chance to sort out her thoughts. To rid herself of undesirable thoughts while her mind was shockingly clear. Her head lifted slowly though as she heard a noise - a croak. It wasn't a noise she had heard in a long time.
Her mind only registered that it was a dog after it had pressed itself through her bars and had was bumping it's nose against her shoulder. Warmth. It was warmth against the harsh cold and all she could do was throw her arms around the skinny dog, burying her face in it's fur. Warmth. Warmth. She could have cried - but she didn't, of course. Bellatrix Lestrange did not cry. Even when feeling warmth for the first time in what seemed an eternity, even when seeing another living thing again. Bellatrix Lestrange did not cry.