"How have you been mum?" Mona eyed the guards waiting outside the door making sure their backs were turned.
The woman in the cell was a shell of her former self. The mane of hair that used to shine platinum was now matted and dirtied. Finely-manicured fingernails were mangled and caked with blood. In her madness, she had scratched the walls of her prison cell. She was unclean, a travesty to her original station: pristine and perfect.
"Desdemonaaaa," she groaned out, her arm reaching beyond the bars to touch her daughter. Then she snarled, lashing her arms back and forth in an effort to escape.
If Azkaban was bad for Bellatrix, it was far, far worse for Narcissa.