Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

**In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime**

**Chapter 1:**

The difference between a scream and a howl is the howl is to signify a calling. When one screams, the remnants of their voices fading as they lose breath, they do not call out to fellow members of their pack. When one screams, it is because they cannot withstand their current states of being. But the effort is proven useless when there is no one to scream to, or more specifically, scream to for aid. There were indeed things to reach out towards with one's own screech but they were to no avail. They rang out in silence. The silence grew and slowly a repetition of rhythmic shrieks, cries and even howls were heard echoing one another in a solemn song. A song that was an endless psalm of torture to those imprisoned in the terrorizing walls of Azkaban.

Every minute seemed more endless than the next. As if Merlin himself were driving an incredible spear into the gears of time that turned slowly to avail new hours, new minutes and new seconds, it was becoming more and more difficult to find that a day had truly passed, when such destruction inflicted upon the machinery gave the impression that mere moments had only gone by. Such was contradictory for those still strong enough to acknowledge that with each rise and fall of a faint moon in the distant sky, meant a new passing day. Such was a symbol of hope for some whose condemnations were not as long as those under more predominant terms. Each rise meant that their terms would soon come to a close and their lives would become anew once more. Such was also a rare case; very few prisoners had the glory of escaping a life sentence, and while each day passed, and one more was let free, one less could be heard crying of hope and a tomorrow that would only bring an even greater impression on the hollows of their cheeks and the aching of their fading bones.

Azkaban proved a futile home to the many worthy of its tumultuous state. It was no wonder, that a prison full of villains of all sorts would become a mockery on the face of the Wizarding World. Azkaban was a home to creatures chosen to rise from the brimstone of hell, to serve their time and do justice for those below. They would fade away once more into the blackness they unearth from and return heroes, praised by flames and the heat that would forever surround their dismal beings. But for now, they would rot, fulfilling their roles as criminals, murderers, and masterminds of the Dark Arts, till it was their time to leave.

As timeless and as horrific as it seemed, those who managed to escape the wrath of imprisonment (a perhaps once in a lifetime situation), were often homeless, confused, and no longer worldly beings. They were hollow examples of memories, tortured souls, and rightly so. If resistance was any use, it was often better to just willow away, rather than risk the consequences of Dementors and the terror within one single kiss, as if it was even a considerable gesture of affection. A Dementor's kiss left its prey in a complete and utter state of blankness, as its predator roamed overhead in a deadly dance to relieve its victim of what life was left within it. A kiss meant that its receiver would soon be begging for even the direst of punishments, pleading for mercy, rather than slowly witnessing one's soul torn from their body. Fighting the torment was ineffective and it was a nightmare each prisoner had at one time, faced.

Another shout into the dark, signaled the beginning of another haunting song of nighttime. It's energy traveled on breathy, musty air, passing floor after floor of doorways, leading to more floors and later, cells occupied by their owners. It reverberated for many a time, fading into the ancient concrete walls and stone ceilings after reaching far up into the night, eventually towering over the rooms of the most dangerous of criminals, the high security prisoners. In shackles, chains holding burdens of great crimes, they too echoed the calls, joining in odd sing-song.

Passing cell after cell, the noises finally reached the ears of a faint, small creature, one most foul among fellow roommates. An uncanny acknowledgement of the howls was the only indication that life still resided in this one particular cell, the room that harbored as feared a criminal as the one they have come to call "You-Know-Who". Such a sad, and pitiful sight this creature had become compared to the life that was once fueled by fire and possibly the devil himself. She was once idolized amongst many of the Dark Lord's followers, those known as Death Eaters. She became a powerful reminder of the potential of a pure-blood witch, and the terror such a twisted soul could bring. She was once revered as possibly the grandest exemplar of beauty that would ever live in the Twentieth century, grazing those around her with her presence. Now she was a void shell of existence, waiting for an end she knew would not come soon enough.

Another round of screams marked another hour passed. The vanishing splendor that was once Bellatrix Black, is sitting coiled against her dingy cot, her face against the damp mattress. She has lied in this same position many times before, and now her body is slowly taking the form of the bed, as if she is becoming the rough material beneath her weight. She is now used to the ringing in her ears, and the songs that play so perfectly in time with each crack of a whip on the backs of persecuted witches and wizards, each beating of another soul. In silence, she curses them, curses them all to join her in her hell; if only her guards truly new the extent of their punishing ways. In a slow, ragged inhalation, one that escapes so suddenly and without much control, Bellatrix sighs heavily into the dark bearing witness to the frost on her breath and its soon departure on the damp winds around her.

This nightly ritual of boredom grows ever intoxicating to Bellatrix. She has known torture before, known the capabilities of the spells emitted to perform as such, but she has become so numb to her imprisonment, that pain inflicted on her has become a daily visit to a mere annoyed state of mind. The only twinge worth her attention has been the constant rub of raw skin and cold metal between her wrists and ankles, and the iron cuffs that held her in an even more restrained state than others. She is fully aware that she can occasionally let her mind wander from her cell and into a pit of nothingness where she can feel no pain, cannot feel her skin scrape against the metal bolts where new blood creates yet another layer over her dark, crusted skin, and where she cannot see the horror she has become.

With this in mind, it is easy for Bellatrix to escape to her own world, conjuring images of joy, of love, of anything that can withstand the burden that has become experiencing life in Azkaban. For a time, she can resist its wrath, but none, not even she could ever put a stop to the symphony of cries that forever haunt the walls of Azkaban prison. She knows it's useless to drown out the noise; she did not think she would come to enjoy listening to the shrieks, but she undoubtedly has. And with that, she lays her eyes to rest, closing them ever so slightly until she joins the screams with her own petrifying and vicious chuckle, adding even more austerity to the ever-rising shadows of nighttime.


	2. Chapter 2

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.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: First off, I want to start by saying thank you for the reviews, guys. They motivate me to continue writing (despite the fact I have so much to do everyday) and leave me smiling daily. So yeah, reviews = LOVEEE and cookies (if I had a car and bag off cookies to drive to your place of housing. XD)

And thanks SOOO much to Wicked Bellatrix, the AMAZING (actually, there are no way in which to describe how truly great this author is) writer, who gave me permission to use some of her ideas from her previous Harry Potter fics in my story. Without her, I would have never found my inspiration and I probably would not have known such wonderful imagery in the way she presents her stories….seriously guys, go read her stuff! It's awesome!

Disclamer: If I owned Harry Potter, Bellatrix and Voldemort would be happily shagging daily with beautiful gorgeous Bellamorts running all around the house, Harry Potter would be non-existent, and I would be as bloody rich as J.K. Rowling….but unfortunately, none of this is true, so the only real things I DO own are a few DVDs, a poster, some promotional t-shirts, a nice scarf, and this laptop….TO WHICH I POUR OUT MY SOUL, TO YOU! =D

NOTE: So now we are approaching the more gruesome experiences of a life in Azkaban. I shall forewarn you now….it is not pretty, and this is where reality kicks in for our dear, Bellatrix. Beware…I've been told this chapter is nothing short of horrifying.

Remember Reviews = Love. And thanks again!

Felicia.

And now on to the story! (Jeebus, that intro took long enough, I promise to make them shorter from now on =])

* * *

**In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime**

**Chapter 3:**

The lock on the door of cell 01397 sounded as metal crunched together. Someone appeared to be entering the room. This sudden realization hit Bellatrix quite easily, for it was not difficult to come to the conclusion that when iron shrieks upwards between lock and wall, it means someone, or rather something, feels a need to fulfill a purpose, one that involved entering cell 01397. Normally, the only real noises that came from outside of Bellatrix Lestrange's prison hold, were that of high security Azkaban guards, forever pacing between cell 01397, cell 01398 and so forth, as they made their rounds in a dreadful march, distributing meals to prisoners, and returning to their place of watch from whence they stood for endless hours.

But on this night, an odd stench dispersed from the doorway. It smelled of liquor and must, of sweat and man. It was unlike that Bellatrix was accustomed to, the dirt and damp air that she regularly breathed. On this night as she tried so restlessly to ignore the soreness she found in her sides, and the throbbing she felt creeping up her wrists and ankles from her shackles, like tiny ants biting at her nerves, Bellatrix turned to face her strangers whose two faces could not be made out in the darkness. She was not pleased with their presence; they had disturbed the solemn peace she found as she sat against one of the lesser occupied corners of her cell, where the dirt was drier, and the stones not as harsh against the small of her back. She looked up into the places where their eyes should have been; they were hollow, void of any emotion or indication as to what their intentions, for upsetting the peace she had so rarely discovered, were. And for that, she grew livid.

Bellatrix shook her chains to show her guests she was aware of their presence. But, that did not inconvenience them, or slow down their pursuit from the doorway to the center of the room. Anger turned into fear rather quickly. Never once, had a guard entered the cell of a prisoner that held such a fearsome reputation in the Wizarding world, in fear that in one large pounce, they may spontaneously attack or break out of their chains, despite the large metal holding them back. This new awareness, slowly crept into the back of Bellatrix's mind, and as she adjusted to face whoever it was that entered her cell. She was frightened, and unprepared for whatever objective they had.

As the heavy door swung shut abruptly, Bellatrix could hear their ragged breathing. One of the more stocky fellows took a step forward into the moonlight, where she could make out some of his more profound features. He must have been no more than forty, as there were less creases in his forehead then his fellow friend, whom would later show himself to the light of the outside world when he too advanced further. He was larger in size then the other, and not as fit. His hair fell around his forehead in small, uneven locks. This man might have seemed intimidating to those without the security of a decent wand, and as Bellatrix sat contemplating his motives, she felt remorse for the loss of her tool and what she could have done to silence him with it.

The other visitor was of smaller form, but could put up a fight if necessary. Immediately, Bellatrix could tell he was a fighter because of the way he held his shoulders high above his chest. His arms were masters of many battles won, bar brawls and the likes of defeating struggling prisoners, she supposed. And although her title of "Death Eater" still existed, neither one was coerced by her company.

Perhaps they had intended to adjust the burden of her chains, to possibly tighten them, or ensure she was properly secured. Whatever the original aim was, they had not had the chance to do so. As the taller man reached out with his hand to firmly grasp at the cuffs holding Bellatrix's right arm under watch, she pulled back immediately, coiling into the depth of the corner and reflexively kicking at his shin with her chained leg. He was shocked at her sudden rebellion, stunned by the fire in which she struck his leg, and was immediately taken aback. She was aware that she had upset him, and did not feel any regret or pity for the pain he now felt in his left shin. As he bent over, cursing and limping about the area to calm him of the ache, the second, more undersized figure towered overhead and immediately began to take hold of her body. She struggled against him, using her links to shove into his sides, hopefully creating bruises that would make him relieve her of his grasp on her arms as the other so easily did, but he did not. Bellatrix screamed into his eyes, a terrifying, incredulous shriek, that could have broken glass if her cell had closed windows. It rang out, farther than any she ever received from other cellmates. It was astonishing, the power so unexpectedly surfacing from within her lungs. For a mere moment, both men fell in silence to absorb the sounds now echoing from off the walls, like empty ghosts, swarming the cell. For a moment, it seemed they had forgotten of their frustrations with this particular criminal, however, as the quiet commenced, Bellatrix took it upon herself, to attack further. In a swift motion, she spat whatever it was that was in her mouth, into his face. The fury rose inside of the one now holding her, for it showed in the wrinkles now newly formed on his brow. In anger, he slapped her across her face, using whatever rage that had boiled underneath her spit, to shove her to the ground.

"Bitch," he spat back with force. It dawned on him, that this woman would not go down without a fight. Perhaps, if he found a way to break her, she would crumble beneath him. It was then, that he seized the opportunity to yank at Bellatrix's hair, as she tried to recover from the blow she received. He pulled her up to his face, to where she could almost taste his watering mouth on her cheek. "So you like to play rough don't you?" She squirmed beneath his grasp, but said nothing to add to his gratification.

And again he jerked at her scalp, as the other man understood what was occurring. In a louder voice he repeated his question, "Well?"

Bellatrix chuckled, mocking his bravery. Who was he to challenge a witch trained by the hand of the Dark Lord himself? Who dare defy her, in all the countless victories she so easily accomplished? Out of all the people to disregard the supremacy that has become the Dark Lord, stood a worthless object, between her freedom, and her survival as a follower of evil. And here was this little, pitiful example of a man, whose only pride rested in the amount of testosterone coursing through his veins, a thing so ridiculously testing the will of a Death Eater. She would enjoy spitting as she did moments before, fighting an urge to so quickly yell the Cruciatus Curse and bend their souls to her will, but she is without her want to exemplify why she has become so feared, and powerless.

To prove the rank he so effortlessly ridiculed, she bit at the tough skin of his cheek, ignoring the taste of raw flesh and focusing on inflicting as much damage as she could till she would receive her corporal punishment. He cried out in pain, moving backwards in short, dense strides, putting both his hands to the area that was now open, bleeding down his neck and all over his fingers. The larger man eyed her movements, and strode to her form to kick not at her abdomen or her chest, but into her face, sending her once again reeling to the floor, where her lips flavored the muck beneath her. She cringed. There would be bruises the days coming after this, if there were any indication that she would indeed live further then this day's experiences.

The man approached her further, kicking her whenever the chance showed itself. With each drive, he muttered curses at her retreating figure. Finally, as Bellatrix tried to push herself to her feet, the larger guard began to unbutton at his pants, removing his belt and dropping them to the floor, as if it was not the first time he had done so in Azkaban. In the same motion, he removed his drawers, sliding them too, to the floor where they sat around his ankles. He moved towards the now silent prisoner on the floor, and seized her into his arms. She kicked rapidly, scratching at his hands with her nails, biting into the air at whatever she could in order to avoid whatever he was about to perform upon her. But she could not resist his hold, for his size was worthy of her fighting.

"A dirty bitch deserves dirty punishment." He enjoyed every word that left his mouth, sulking in the pride he suddenly felt.

She was helpless now, and couldn't evade his engorgement that within one hasty motion passes her lips. She refused him at first, biting down onto his tender bulge, and he revolted as quickly as she did. He smacked her once more, forcing her eyes shut. With one hand held tightly in her hair, he took the other and reached towards the ground, searching for the pocket of his pants that held his wand. He finds it, and in a raspy, rage-infested motion, he growls, "_Imperio_."

Bellatrix cannot move. She cannot act. She cannot speak. But she can hear. She can see. She can feel, feel herself losing this battle.

He smirks at her. "Get up," He spits. Bellatrix gets up.

"Now, on your knees." Bellatrix obeys. She tries to fight the curse, but she cannot, and inside she yells for mercy.

"Put your mouth around it, now." She is shouting from within, begging for a second chance. "And now your hands," is his only reply to her actions. She can almost hear him laughing at her agony. _The bastard_, she thinks.

As she continues her dirty deeds, the shameful work she is forced to push forward with, Bellatrix can feel her mouth tingling. The taste of a rapist is fowl indeed. What is worse is his growing pleasure in the matter, that he finds gratification in the mouth of a criminal, and most likely the only place in which he receives such treatment. He begins to moan quietly but Bellatrix hears him and can only curse in her mind. She cannot avoid his hands on her ample breast, playing with the thin fabric around her nipples, which prevents him from further touching her sensual body. She knows he is perfectly satisfied with each hand he moves through her hair, almost sardonic in his acknowledgement of her wasted beauty. _You will pay for this eventually you soiled perverse excuse of a man!_ She screams further, but it is not heard. It isn't heard, until her mouth is full of semen, until the curse is lifted, and she rests shaking in darkness, in pain, and in shock.

They leave her alone, in agony, in suffering. Finally after what seemed hours of torture, she is free of their presence, but their actions will remain, she fears, a constant reminder of her stay in such a hell hole. Bellatrix licks at her chapped lips, dreading the lasting taste of the seed he shot into her mouth. She was forced to swallow at his command, and whatever remains of her stomach she immediately heaved after their departure. It is now when she begins to feel remorse, a twinge of guilt and sadness. And as she lies once more against her cot, she is reminded of yet another horrifying memory in which her husband-to-be had done the same.

Rodolphus had taken advantage of a young Bella in her growing youth, drugging her while she complained to him of family troubles one night at a less popular pub in Knockturn Alley. She found some comfort in this dark man, and his understanding smile, his nods of agreement, and the unexpected touch of an unknown potion he easily added to her late night drink, while she reached down into her carry-on for her wallet.

Late that night, while she remained unconscious, he took her small, beautiful form into his arms and into a room she can't recall of, in a place she has no knowledge of, to do things she had never done before out of force, and loss of will. She awoke the next morning, sore, disoriented, and in need of assistance, but she had none. Once again, she was helpless. It was then she took it upon herself, to vow never to bend to the will of another ever again. However, her wall of promise collapsed to the ground at the sight of the man who would become her master. No matter what this man asked of her, she would do it, despite the consequences. And for that, she had no regrets for breaking a vow she made to herself.

Another outrageous scream.

She grows intolerant of her torment. How much longer can she wait for her Lord? Is it her loyalty he is testing with her torture? Is that what he is waiting for, to see her finally fail to prove her faithfulness? _Never._ She would not allow that to happen. Oh, but how she longs for him now. Even as the hours pass, she feels tainted by a man she doesn't know, a man she allowed to corrupt her further, to ruin her precious hour of relief in a place that does not easily welcome peace. She shivers violently, trying to hold on to her sanity, but she cannot help the soundless tears that escape her eyes at the thought that she may not live to see the light of evil again. Her tears are new to the floor beneath her; never once has she wept in her imprisonment before. Never once has she allowed herself the opportunity to show weakness. Yet, she cannot help the growing sense of hopelessness within her, and so, it is hard not to slowly heave sobs, and to begin to wail into the night. And for once in prison that is Azkaban, the screams of cell 01397 are the only ones heard.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading guys! I warned you, this chapter wasn't pretty! But I have everything planned out from start to finish, and am looking forward to writing out the next chapters. Hope you enjoyed this darker side of Azkaban. And remember Reviews = LOVE.

Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Chapter Four! WOOOT! Sorry it took a little longer than usual; I have tests and projects to keep up with and that can become quite a drag especially when I'd rather like to write this fic instead of working. I'm finishing chapters 5 and 6 as we speak and I might upload soon, so throw me some nice reviews and you might get a double wammy ;) who knows!

Anyway onto Chapter Four! Enjoy!

And remember, each time you review, another Bellatrix escapes from Azkaban, so keep em' coming! :D

Felicia

**In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime**

**Chapter 4:**

Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight marks.

Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight marks crowd the cement wall in Bellatrix's cell.

Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight times she has moved from her place to the wall to ceremonially begin her ritual.

Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight times has she slashed pebbles upon pebbles against the cement.

Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight; it is a very large number, a large number indeed.

Yet these four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight days undoubtedly mark Bellatrix's ever-growing days of imprisonment.

It is an automatic habit, a constant reminder, and a developing, restless motive.

4,358 days she has endured, 4,358 sunsets. 4,358 rises and falls of the moon. It has become inevitable.

She is on her way to approaching the twelfth anniversary, the day in which enough lines signify twelve long years in Azkaban. Twelve years ago she was free; twelve years have passed and she is no longer a servant to her own will.

Many times in the past decade, she has found herself in despair, in anguish, but above all, in longing, longing for the outside world.

Azkaban has been harsh on her, it has toyed with her mind, ruined her beauty, and it has instilled a poignant sense of dejection inside her. She grows weak as days pass. Her body is without a doubt, becoming a void shell of existence (surely twelve years of hell would do such a thing to a person). She is fully aware of the effects her sentence has had on her being. Inside, she is fighting to remain sane, while she lingers about her cell, occupying herself with mundane activities; everything from lying impatiently against her cot, to ritually marking the wall, to eating the filth thrown at her changes her in ways she had not known she could be effected by.

Inside, she struggles to stay strong.

Outside, her body is screaming of ache or cruel handling; never once has she witnessed what she has become, however, she knows that it is nothing short of a nightmare.

Twelve years ago, she was an envious beauty of raven hair and slim figure. Now she is a concave, pitiful sight. She is a disturbance upon the seeing senses; even her guards fear her presence (and not for usual circumstance).

Once infamous, Bellatrix Black is now unidentifiable. Her face is hollowed out so much, the sockets that hold her eyes are almost black. Shadows now surround what were formerly mesmerizing eyes. The bone beneath her forehead can be easily identified; creases are exaggerated along her eyebrows and around her once keen jaw. She raises her hand to touch her solemn cheek, and can feel the ridges of her excess skin, drooping, almost rubber like since there is no meat to fill them. Her hands, calloused and beaten, and swollen in areas where there are no clear bruises, try to attain a proper perception of her face, and the cheek that she attempts to stroke ever so slightly, but they sting with whatever she tries to do. It takes all of her effort to raise her hand, and it falls as quickly and as effortlessly as she tried so hard to move it, to begin with.

She is sore from her abuse and from the many lashes upon her back. A person could without difficulty, compose a map of roads or pathways from the many scars and wounds from her whippings. It was not possible to stretch, to open her arms and change positions, at the risk of reopening wounds in her skin. Most of the time, she sat, sat in growing boredom. Her muscles ache from harsh contact and she remembers her punishment that brought them about, but she has rightly deserved it on several occasions.

Many a time, she would gladly enjoy taunting and banter her guards, angering them. She mocked their work and the misfortune of their jobs (how they were assigned to watch her, they'll never understand), and she would laugh. Her whole body would shake of hilarity; the only ironic ecstasy ever heard radiating from inside a place where darkness was unavoidable. And she would savor every moment of her sneer remarks, her ability to spontaneously answer them so quickly, one could question if she really lost any part of her personality at all. Her greatest triumphs, when they could not retort her sly declarations with anything short of stupidity, further proved to Bellatrix the extent of their intelligence and their dimwittedness. In silent aftermath of the affairs, she would snigger, filling her every being with satisfaction and justice fulfilled.

As much as she enjoyed her small luxury, she was fully aware of the retribution she would receive once her sentries were angered to such an extent. Over time, they would become immune to her comments, her snickering. Sooner or later, she would be beaten, removed of her sniping laughter the instant a club or whip struck her feeble back. Through her thin ragged clothing, she could feel the impact immensely. With each strike, her head with fall beneath her hair, pulled close to her heaving chest. She would bite back her tears; refuse to give in to the urge to scream out. Try as she might, it only provoked their behavior further; the smacks would be harder, the slashes more intense. They would not be satisfied with their actions until Bellatrix was unmoving, bloody and near unconsciousness.

Yes, she was a warrior, unwilling to completely bend to their wills, but each encounter left her weaker than the first. Her remarks grew smaller and less frequent, the inferno surrounding her voice weakening. She was beginning to become tamer, her fire slowly dwindling down to mere sparks of heat. She was burning out, and she was helping them with the task.

The thought that there was hope, that some higher being would take her from this place and end her suffering, was not an option she wanted to proceed with. But when she found herself failing, damning her abusers to a hell they shall eventually fall to, regretting the pain she received, her dignity shattering to pieces in the process, it was a notion that clouded her mind daily. Exhaustion repeatedly overtakes her small frame. At times, she sees no use in rebelling, for it brings her no greater suffering than that she has already received. The only fault is hers. She cannot expect to escape punishment if she is the cause of it to begin with.

Sometimes, she believes it is worthless to fight them. Who shall bring her refuge, when her only safe house is that of a dark corner of her cell, where all it provides her with is a sheer sense of hope, that they may miss her presence and possibly flee their wraths? Sometimes, she regrets aggravating the lookouts, but underneath it, despite her torture, she is smiling to herself, pleased with her hushed victory. They may win the battles, but each time she stands tall, each time her lips spread up from ear to ear in fathomable glee, she knows she has won the war.

She does not fear their calloused hands or the whips that encase their grips like coiling snakes. No, never should she admit her affliction; they are useless and wasted examples of life she only encounters occasionally. She does fear, on the other hand, that perhaps her Lord has truly forgotten her existence that she will ceaselessly rot inside those walls.

He must be out there, somewhere hiding beneath the cover of night, away from the Ministry. He must know that she is no longer by his side, but in a place she'd rather not speak of. Despite popular belief, he _must_ feel some sense of absence, for she is not there to listen to his every word, or to praise his every move. Bellatrix knows this to be true, so then why does she feel unwanted? Does her Master not require her further, she who had proved allegiance far greater than others under his command? No, he should never deny her, her one wish to serve him, for that was her greatest purpose. Then why the neglect? Bellatrix grows weary of waiting. And though she does not want to admit it, her confidence in the Dark Lord's survival is failing.

It seems completely idiotic for her to believe that such a small child as the Potter boy could withstand the power of such a higher being, but it does not mean she is not convinced. Why else would he not venture out to ensure her escape? Worry replaces the triumph upon her deteriorating face. Maybe, her theories are true. Maybe He_ is_ defeated. Maybe, after twelve long years and no sign of His return, He is no more.

Returning to reality becomes a more difficult task for Bellatrix as each day rises and falls. Most often she is swimming in thought, completely ignorant to her surroundings. Her chains are forever growing heavier. It becomes quite hard for her to move them around at all, to adjust them so for some time, they might be less of a burden on her hands and feet.

Years ago, jewels of unaccountable worth surrounded her fragile wrists and ankles; a princess was only fit for the best, of course. She harbored rubies of all shapes and sizes, gold of highest karat, diamonds, forever signifying the magnificence and the wealth of the Black family, and silver, how she enjoyed the silver around her neck and upon her ears. Although she was always gracious to receive yellow and white gold, her greatest love was of the silver, the platinum shine that glistened in the sunlight. It mesmerized her and complimented her features oh so nicely. She was always fond of her rings, of the serpentine coils holding her fingers that spoke of royalty. She adored the necklace she received for her thirteenth birthday from her parents; it was pure silver, heavy than most she owned but worth it all the same. A large coiled snake rested just above her growing bosom, intertwined with a peridot jewel, which she always wore proudly.

She loved all her jewelry, and yet the one thing she always had with her, was that of a gift of a man she held most dear to her heart. A bracelet crafted with such finery, such intricate detail, Bellatrix would have believed it to be created by a God himself. The bracelet was a twisting figure of a snake, which seemed to endlessly travel from one side of her arm to the other. Within its eyes, were emblem gemstones, deep seas of green shining back at Bellatrix. Each scale was carved. Each feature was perfectly symmetrical to the slithering being. It fit flawlessly around her wrist, flattering her soft skin without overpowering her gracious hands with its beauty. It was made nothing short of extraordinary for such an extraordinary witch, and for that she was indisputably beholden.

Her fondness of snakes reflected both her obsession over her most prized possession and her infatuation with her Giver. She could not thank Lord Voldemort enough for such a gracious gift on her seventeenth birthday, and yet, although this man that so recently came into her life was new to her, she was unquestionably drawn to everything about him. She can recall the inscription, engraved on the belly of the snake that spoke more to her that night than she would ever dream of.

"_Forever"_.

Forever what? At the time, she was far too naïve to understand its meaning. What had he implied? She shall serve him forever? Or she shall honor him by wearing the bangle eternally? Either way, she followed his silent wish, forever wearing it with pride. She took it with her through countless missions however small when she first earned the title of Death Eater. She wore it on the day of her arranged wedding to Rodolphus Lestrange, despite her efforts to convince her father Cygnus of the events of their dark meeting and her rebellion against marrying a man she did not wish to serve happily "till death do them part". She revolted against her husband over wearing the bracelet when he tried to remove it from his sight, because it was from another man and this he would not allow in their marriage (though he would not know that this _man_ would later become his leader). She wore it to the home of the Longbottoms, fury in her eyes, desperate for any information on the disappearance of her Lord. She kept it till they removed her of her possessions before her imprisonment. She wore it to her trial at Wizengamot, to her final day of freedom, echoes of haunting quality ringing about the halls;

"_Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait!"_

Her shackles are currently in the place of her glorious wristlet. Dry, brown blood encrusts the shapes of her arms and ankles. Many times, she absent mindedly reaches to stroke where the bracelet would have normally been, but she is sadly reminded that it is nothing but harsh metal that she touches with the care that she would her endowment. _Forever I am his_, perhaps, was his meaning. Bellatrix scoffs at herself. She was never his completely, merely something to lust after (and with great intensity), nothing more than a servant, but a faithful one at that. How ironic it must seem now, when he is no longer.

As if a sudden force strikes her memory, Bellatrix, in shock and antipathy, immediately regrets her thoughts, biting her tongue with such vigor, the inside of her mouth fills with iron-tasting liquid. She had almost bit her tongue off, disgusted at herself for even considering such thoughts. How could she, his most loyal, most trusted servant, ever believe for a second, that her Lord is not alive? The nerve! The sheer repulsion within her forms rapidly, reaching levels of practically combustion from within. How could she betray him so? Did she ever doubt his power before? Why should she begin to contemplate it now? _Never_.

Bellatrix Lestrange is and will remain true to her word. She is a warrior and a survivor. If seeing her Lord once more meant enduring a life of Azkaban, for him, she would do it, even if it meant losing all that she has become to her captivity. For Him, she would face the devil with delight. For him she would willingly and blissfully die without question. No, the Dark Lord shall return to her, and when he does, she will praise and honor him with open arms, forever thankful for his actions.

For now, she remains unspoken and engulfed in expectant thoughts and wishes of blissful days. _He will return, yes he will. He shall return to free me from my torment. He will return for me, for I am his forever. Forever I shall serve my master._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Hey all! Hope you like how the story's going so far…. I know it seems slightly long, but it's crucial to developing Bellatrix' character to her fullest extent. I promise that the next few chapters will be some things to look forward to!_

_Well here's a quickie for ya. It's a little longer than some of my chapters but it's more amusing (or at least I think so XD). Anyways, it was fun to write so enjoy! I'll try to update again as soon as I can! SAT's coming up! Wish me luck!_

_And remember….reviews = LOVE!!! So send some my way! Thankies!!_

_Felicia_

_

* * *

  
_

**In the Shadows of Endless**** Nighttime**

**Chapter 5**

On several occasions, Bellatrix Lestrange finds that the contents of her stomach no longer remain in tact. Much of it lies in a corner in the more dismal area of her cell. The smells projecting from the waste are rancid. Her 'bathroom', more specifically, the rusting bucket of metal, full of both expired urine and feces, rests adjacent to the bars that obscure her views to the outside world, not far, from the more appalling part of her room, where a most foul scent presents itself. It is sufferable, no longer, for she cannot withstand occupying an area whose qualities turn her stomach sour and cause her head to throb with much reason.

She hates it, hates it all. She hates the gloom feelings that toy with the hairs of her neck, sending shivers up and down her spine. She hates all the misery of the place. She hates the screams. She hates the days, the nights. She hates the damp air. She hates what she has become; the brittleness of her hair, the stingy grime beneath her fingernails. She hates the prison security, their lack of intelligence. She hates her cell, her food.

Oh, how she _despises_ the food. Had she not been so spoiled by spendthrift dinners and banquets of gourmet buffets in her youth, Bellatrix might actually try to appreciate what she receives.

But she was. She was spoiled beyond belief.

She could have been a princess (if her parents told her she was), a princess of pureblood status, from a family who occupied themselves with the job of making sure their line was cleansed; a prime example of untouched blood, a child whose morals were twisted and influenced by the perverted ideas that muggles were beneath her, and all who enjoyed the company of such a wasted race, were traitors. She was "royalty" and such a fine exemplar in a new generation of Blacks _must_ be tamed to keep the family reputation safe.

How many of those lavish meals she would avoid because of the arguments that would commence over her marriage arrangements and her plans of her future. Bellatrix was a free spirit, a wild Mustang, reluctant to bow to those who tempted her capture. She was not enthusiastic about marriage to begin with, and when she heard that she was to be tied to a man whose past was too sinister, too smutty for her liking (one she experienced first hand), she completely disregarded any small level of respect she had for her parents' wishes.

She wanted nothing more than to kill the scum they so frequently called "a proper match for [their] eldest daughter". She scowled into the night. The only man ever worth any of her attention or honor was that which she already has given and proven to Lord Voldemort. Yes she had to oblige with matrimonial services to Rodolphus (once her fight was lost), on nights where he required her feminine form for his own means of pleasure, but they were nothing worthy of any importance in her mind….

Hours pass slowly. There is an unfamiliar calm that overcomes cell 01397. Dinner time approaches and yet, Bellatrix' appetite seems to fade for she finds herself looking not for food, but entertainment. She sighs, a weak appeal towards the air that asks to ease her of her boredom.

She turns to the bowl that gathers dust from the floor. It is still full of that rubbish the guards call her "food", begging to be consumed, to be gargled and gagged as so many times before. She stops moving. Her eyes widen with amusement. Slowly, as if approaching a large intimidating object, Bellatrix moves toward the item and takes the bowl in her lap. She begins to trace her fingers around the edges in a circular motion. Her forefinger moves in between the cracks and dents in the stone, repeatedly following the curves of the clay material. She begins laughing aloud, enjoying herself and the small delight she so recently discovered. Her laughter grows, escaping her lips like small groups of overzealous dancers, soaring off the walls and through the cracks of the heavy iron door. She begins to clap her hands in excitement, a sinister-looking smile playing upon her lips. For some time, she is not troubled by the ambiance as she would normally be in her cell. For now, she is happy. She continues with her activities, till a persistent knock disrupts her play, bringing her to her senses.

"What's going on in there?" A husky voice pesters the middle-aged woman from outside her metal doorway, from the hallway he guards.

She doesn't respond. Instead, she continues her fun, ignoring the man, while lowering her laughter to more somber chuckles.

"I said, what's going on in there?" He sounded dangerous and almost intimidating, but not as large a threat that would waver Bellatrix. She raised her head to face the door.

The bolts alongside screech open and a bulky man stands in the center of the doorway, small candlelight shining on the floor from outside her room, some of it reflecting off his full form. She saw something along the lines of a club, hoisted to a belt around his pants, hanging to the ground. On the other side of his waist was a wand, Bellatrix knew for sure by the shape of its leather casing. Whiskers and a full beard surrounding a large, crooked nose were the first things she could make out of his features. As her eyes adjusted to the level of light, she could see his: black with question and anger, anger which she sensed quickly, enough to freeze her where she stood. She moved the bowl from her lap and back to the floor. Her eyes are downcast and her brow furrows; she is disappointed. Finally her attention is wholly on him, watching his moves.

"What? Not eating now are we?" The guard puts his hands on his sides, stressing the sarcasm already evident in his tone.

Bellatrix continues in silence, bringing her chains towards her hips so as to relieve some pressure from the pull they give on her wrists. Her eyes do not meet his for some time.

"_Well_?" He grows frustrated with her reluctance to respond to his question. The man takes two large strides forward as if in slow motion, hesitant to approach the criminal. She catches his uncertainty without delay and smirks in the dark of her room.

_It's time to play with my little friend!_ Bellatrix contemplates this idea quietly and uses his apprehension to her advantage; surely he must be armed with a wand, but she shall take the risk.

She crawls dreadfully slow towards him, her shackles scraping the floor. There is a disturbing look in her eyes, leading him to believe she is not afraid. She chuckles aloud and he falters slightly, reaching down towards the pocket of his attire that holds his weapon. In a high pitched voice she finally says, "Bella does not want the stupid man's food!" She has stopped to kneel on her knees, her hands folded upon her thighs.

"You'll eat what's given or you won't eat anything else!" His voice wavers, trembling as if he believes she is not chained at all.

"Oh?!" She snaps in a child-like manor. Again she continues, bringing her eyes up to find his in the cover of night, "What if dear ol' Bella doesn't want to? Will she be punished again? Should she punish _you_?" She taps her finger against her lip and then brings it closer to her chest so she can swiftly push it back out to point at her guest. Her voice lingers on thin air, silencing any other noises that may challenge the strength of hers. When the echoes have subsided, she doesn't continue. Instead, she slides back into the depths of her cell, back to where her food was situated, back to the comfort of her cot against her back, and towards the waste bucket she can once again smell.

"ME?!" He retorts, fury written upon his face. "You dare to warn me with your sniveling comments? Who is the one chained to the walls? Hmm? And you dare threaten I?" His breathing turns shallow, his face flustered.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, _no_," she says. "I would _never_ do such things!" She is smiling now, almost happy that she is risking being beaten again. "But you, my dear, are another story! Do you know who you are talking to?" Her voice is back to its shrill-like state.

"You're a criminal, and you will soon be an injured one if you don't shut that hole in your face!" The guard removes his wand from its holster, prepared for anything that Bellatrix will try to do. His face is hard; there are no traces of panic whatsoever. Though sweat covers his forehead, he doesn't move from where he stands a stolid being, full of rage.

"You should watch what you say, my dear! The things I could teach you, you would beg for my mercy!" She is shouting at him now.

He barks back, "Do not test me, woman. You are filth and nothing more!"

Bellatrix is shocked at his statement, more than she should be, considering the position she holds. But she is not frightened, not faltered by his size or demeanor. In one swift motion, she throws her bowl, food and all, in the direction of the prison guard. It misses him by mere inches, smashing against the open door above his head, the muck raining down on his body. The man yells aloud, something Bellatrix can't quite understand, but she knows she has upset him.

She cackles at his disgust, "The scum suits you well!"

The wizard has had enough; his temper is at its limit and with no hesitation, he silences her enjoyment with a single cast of "_Silencio_". Bellatrix' eyes grow large. She can't speak, can't torture him with her words of foul play.

The guard, now pleased with himself, slowly approaches her, circling her like a hawk does its prey before attacking. He smirks, the smug look remaining on his face. "You've been quite some trouble, haven't you, _my dear?_" He mocked her previous statement; she was at his mercy, his brutal, ghastly clemency.

Bellatrix struggled to produce any amount of noise, but it was useless; and she was vulnerable. It was his turn to laugh at her. He snorted, more confident than before.

Beginning his triumphant speech again, he encircles her, his pauses almost in time with the thud of his shoes on the rock floor, "You're quite the little fire, aren't you?" His breathe is on her ear. She can almost taste his sweat. "Thirteen years and still you persist; still you try to aggravate us. Face the cold hard truth, darlin'…..your little master ain't comin' to your rescue. I'll bet your life on that. You'll rot in here, just like the rest of 'em; just another corpse to clean after, once you've wasted away." His words burned her ears like flames would her bare skin.

Bellatrix couldn't scream at him like she wanted, but she could think, and her thoughts were earsplitting. _You're lying! He will come! He'll come for me and he will kill you in the process! _

He heard nothing. He waited, waited to see if she dare tempt him again with her sadism. Perhaps she'd fling her chains his way instead of her bowl. Perhaps she'd spit in his face. No, she was far too intelligent to stoop to his level. Whatever dignity she had left, Bellatrix would not let him win. She straightened her back and sat up, refusing to look in his direction at all.

"What's this?!" He noticed her movements and her sudden care to sit poised and lady-like in a place that did not even require clothing. He removed his club from the clip on his belt and swung, all of his anger released on the side of her face. The impact was harsh, nearly knocking her to the ground. Her head fell to her knees as she used her hands to steady herself, trying to regain some sort of balance. When she finally looked at him, he saw that her eye had been scratched by blow of the club. The whole left side of her face was swelling. Her eyes watered; there would definitely be severe bruising after he was finished with her.

"You really are a tough one aren't you?!" He swung again, this time with more force and she consequently bit down on her tongue. Bellatrix fell hard to the dirt, her whole body aching with pain, though the only area of evident contact was where she was hit on her face. The weight of her chains, toppled with the shock and agony she received from the club finally won the battle she tried to win to stay standing.

Blood crept up the sides of her lips as more began to drip down her face from the edges of her eyes. She tasted the soil beneath her, and the iron flavoring of her own mouth. Sooner, she could taste the foul leather of his boots which he used to carefully lift her face off the ground to help her look up into his eyes one final time, before he would make his departure.

"The next time you try anything like that again, I will _personally_ beat you till your face is no where near your body. Do you understand?!" He shook her head slightly with his boot to make sure she was paying attention; Bellatrix was listening intently (for she could do nothing else). He spat at her face and missed by centimeters landing on the floor just above her nose, and walked away, closing the heavy iron door behind him.

* * *

For weeks, nothing can be heard from out of cell 01397. Days after her defeat, Bellatrix does not move from the spot on the ground to which she was first confined when she lost to the prison guard. Instead she rocks to and fro, holding her knees to her chest, holding back waves of tears, of misery. Whether or not the spell on her voice has been removed, Bellatrix chooses not to speak.

She has tried sleeping to help eliminate her hunger, but it proves to no avail. Nothing, not even the growling in the pit of her stomach, can stop the constant excruciating throbbing of her head. She has tried soothing her temples with her fingertips, but there was no use; she could do nothing to stop it.

There are screams rising from beneath her. They do not assist her either. At times they would provide comfort, security, reassurance that she was not the only one suffering the unimaginable. She wishes now more than ever for some quiet, for some escape from this horrible place.

All she can do is lie there against the cold floor. She can stare off into the wall, observe all the little holes and dents on the stones but they do nothing for her.

A small moan and the slow downward movements of her eyelids indicate a time of sleep once more. With a last sigh, Bellatrix begins to fall asleep, thumb in mouth. She prays she dreams not of clubs or pain tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I know, I know, long update I'm sorry! But I hope this is a great treat for you guys since the movie is coming out in two DAYS!!! AHHHHHH! :D_

_For now, I hope you'll just enjoy this chapter and what it offers. A little shorter than the first, but everything else after this will be moving at a more dramatic pace._

_Thanks!_

_Felicia_

_PS. Did I mention REVIEWS=MY LIFE????!!!!! Seriously, when you guys leave me feedback and comments it really makes my day, like you have NO idea. So please, keep them coming! I love to here from you! =]]]] The more reviews, the more likely you'll get a fast update ;)_

_

* * *

  
_

**In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime**

**Chapter 6**

The room spins rapidly without warning. Her head aches to the point of exhaustion. Her eyes close and still she can see things moving at quick speeds, teasing her, causing her mind to churn; she can never determine which way is up. All she _can_ do to help ease some part, if any, of her nauseating state, is to rest on her bed, her thin, worn, uncomfortable bed. Though she grows ever tiresome and frustrated with her state, she always makes a point to rise at the last show of any moon to put yet another mark on the cement walls, the barriers that prevent her from leaving forever.

It seems the only slightly rational thing about her now, is that she knows precisely when each day does indeed end, so that she can once again press stones against the wall. It calls to her. Like a haunting song, it sings to her in whispers, enlightening her with commands so that she may deface it again, so that she may leave her marks eternally on her prison cell.

Evermore, her lines shall stay, so that when she leaves, others occupying her room will understand the consequences such a place as this has on its inhabitants. They'll see the blood spattered on the ground and the walls, and faces will turn pale. They'll feel her pain when their arms and legs, chained as they already are, are bruised and tattered into the ground, as she has experienced so many times over, and they'll ask death to shed its kindness on their pummeled souls. She laughs to herself; at whose mercy does she lie at but her own? No one's, not even those who continue to eat away at her decrepit remains.

She feels as if her only purpose is but to continue with marking the wall, as if her master told her that it would help in her escape and more so, his conquest.

Four thousand and nine hundred days are currently recorded. That's almost five thousand times she has relieved her muscles of their aching on her cot to crawl over to the area she has claimed her own with the stones and pebbles she's collected. So many days, so many weeks, so many months of so many years, yet no sign of her freedom appears.

Almost fourteen years, and _still_ not one indication of her Lord's rightful return.

-----

A far distance away, the cries of a man whose voice she could have sworn to be that of her husband's, catches her attention. She listens for the sound again. She calls to Rodolphus within the sanctum of her mind. Nothing.

The cries are growing louder. There are more than two people screaming now. Bellatrix does not feel tempted to contribute to them today. She plays with the straw she used to call her hair. Her fingers coil around her locks, trying to think of something other than gloomy air; she ponders freedom, of fresher air.

Her thoughts are interrupted by ever-growing sounds of shouting. She's immediately thrown back to reality. _Shall they ever stop?_ She thinks.

She grows frustrated; she is slowly noticing the intensity of each voice is increasing more and more by the moment. There is uproar, some kind of riot, possibly. She is led to believe these now thousands of tortured souls are calling for mercy. It seems however, they are rejoicing. She thinks this quite strange.

A flash of immense light from outside the bars of Bellatrix' window and she is blinded. The earth beneath her shakes, sending her crashing, unbalanced, into her cot. A strange wind blows around her, sending shivers up her bare legs and under her boney arms. Without her sight, she's left confused. They have not adjusted fully to their surroundings yet. She squints, suddenly aware of what is happening around her.

Dementors and their counterparts run amuck as a cold unfamiliar breeze swarms around her. The hairs on her arms and neck stand up on edge, as fearful as those in other cells. She steps forward, though only timidly, for she cannot see. Her foot retorts and she cringes from the pain of stepping on many new pebbles on the ground.

Sudden realization hits her hard. There is no longer a wall around her, no longer the place where she stood recording her stay. The wall is gone, the floor full of ashes and cement pieces. In a single breath, one held back for what seemed ages, a lone screech escapes her dry lips.

Bellatrix Lestrange is free.

* * *

_Wasn't that exciting?! Our litter prisoner is free. And she wants her revenge! Stay tuned for more soon!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Hey guy, Felicia here! Hope you're enjoying the story so far, because it's been an absolute pleasure to write._

_So when I wrote this chapter, I had a feeling it would be more dialogue than description and I had intended on balancing the chapter out so it wouldn't seem as if either was receiving unequal treatment. Hopefully, I've succeeding in doing as such._

_I also started chapter 7 long before I began 5, or 6. I dunno why, I guess I was just really excited to write this particular chapter._

_Funny story actually: I always bring my writing with me to school so I can work on it during free periods, but a few weeks ago, I cut class and hung out around the house and I couldn't find my printout of my work, well I did, but I had everything accept the page that I outlined about chapters 4-7 and I didn't want to work on them without being fully aware of my plans for each chapter. The page I did have began with chapter 7 so I just started writing that. And once I finished I started 9 and didn't really focus on the chapters still needing attention. So I went back and wrote the other stuff and made sure everything was in correct order. _

_Anyway, enough of my dribble-drabble, enjoy reading! _

_And remember: Bellatrix LURVSSS reviews so please her appetite and she won't curse you! (you'll know you'll like it anyway if she does, but do it! XD) :D _

_Felicia_

_

* * *

  
_

**In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime**

**Chapter 7**

"Lucius, careful! She's not well enough for you to handle her in such a way." An uneasy command came from miles outside the prison walls, where a wary Narcissa Malfoy began to help her sister to safety. The couple had been risking their lives in their attempts to get the renegade to Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible, however, it was rather difficult for Lucius not to just drop Bellatrix and leave her for his wife to tend to by herself. As much as he previously detested Narcissa's eldest, he couldn't act out if it meant not pleasing her wishes.

"Don't be absurd. I'm carrying her, the best I can. If she can endure fourteen years in that horrid place, she can surely last a few strides in my arms." Lucius smirked silently. He peered over at his wife and his face suddenly became contorted with persuasion, his eyes revealed an artificial sense of security, enough to ensure Narcissa of a false sense of Bella's safety. When he saw that she nodded ever so slightly, indicating her understanding of her husband's words, he continued onward and that become the last discussion on her sister's well being.

While the Dark Lord took it upon himself to free his remaining followers and make sure each of them received safe passage from Azkaban, Narcissa begged the Lord to allow her the privilege of taking Bella, caring for her sister herself, to make sure she could recover properly and quietly, away from any Aurors or threats to her survival. Now, after many miles without much use of Apparition, she begins to regret ever asking Him to heed her suggestion.

What had her sister ever done for Narcissa? Even as a child, she can remember that Bella's treatment (however merciful it might have seemed compared to her taunting and teasing of Andromeda) was not as "sisterly" as she would have preferred. And as she walks beside her husband, occasionally glancing at the pile of skin and bone in Lucius' arms, she scoffs slightly at her form.

"Something the matter, dear?" He must have heard her express her disgust.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Narcissa answered far too quickly, for Lucius understood exactly what she was implying.

"I'd prefer it myself, if we just Apparated to our home, rather than having to _agonize_ over carrying her." His stressing of the word caught her immediate attention.

"Oh, as if she weighs anything at all!" She snapped back, suddenly regretting her previous actions. When it came time for Lucius to respond, he was anything but pleased with her tone,

Mocking her, he replied, "I don't see any reason as to why we couldn't take turns, darling." He smirked in her direction.

She began to shrug off his proposal with a wave of her hand, "If I had the strength to do that –"

"Then do not complain." He retorted.

They fell silent, awkwardly returning to a state of quiet, resisting the other's glare. After several more minutes, Lucius turned once more and began again, "Don't you think it wise, that we Apparate to the house rather than risk our own imprisonment for harboring such a fugitive?"

Narcissa married a coward; this was not the first time of the evening he asked her to do so. When he presented the question earlier, she could sense his fear, fear of capture, fear of displeasing Voldemort, and not making sure Bella returned to safety as he had ordered them to do when she so sympathetically suggested. The first two times she answered his question, had obviously not penetrated his stubborn skull.

Once more, she replied, annoyed at his persistence, "You think it wise to do so, because _you_ are not the one in such a weak state. Bella is not ready to experience such great levels of magic just yet. If we attempt to Apparate, she may be affected by the sudden force and would become worse than she already is."

"You suggest we continue onward, when our whereabouts can be easily detected? Honestly Narcissa, it is for the benefit of us all if we take the chance. Even if it does shake her, it is not something a Healer cannot deal with properly."

Narcissa suddenly felt torn, torn between listening to her husband's talk of getting to shelter as soon as the opportunity arose, and her sister, or what little life remained a part of her. They had stopped now as she began to contemplate his advice. She looked over to Lucius and then to the blanket, the blanket that held Bella wrapped in the security that was her husband's arms, not that it mattered to our dear Bellatrix, for she was unconscious. Narcissa didn't blame her; it was too much shock for one's body to all of a sudden taste daylight again, after so many days in darkness. At first, they both thought she had fainted of exhaustion when they found her amongst the other high-security escapees; now it seemed Bella was in a deep, senseless sleep.

As Narcissa observed her sister, she could see every indent of her body that spoke of what Azkaban was like. Her mangled, unwashed hair covered most of her face, and for that she was grateful. She was already too horrified by her scars and unhealed wounds, to see what was underneath her stiff, straw-like strands.

She pitied her, her life of crime, the life that led her to such a state. It was not a sight any one person should have to witness, and as she brought her right hand to her cheek, remorse filling her heart, tears began clouding her eyes. She turned away, batting them back into her head with her lashes, resisting the urge to cry in front of her husband.

Yes, she despised her sister, her rank of power, her endless glee and pride. Yes, she despised her laughter, her cackles of insanity. She despised her lovers, countless compared to those of Narcissa's younger years. She despised the way she manipulated her parents to take her side against her in arguments. She despised her sister, yet underneath the hatred and resentment, she also loved her. Her blood was Bella's. They were all that was left of their immediate family, and though she detested what her sister had become, she idolized it all the same. Narcissa, though more compassionate than Bellatrix, understood her torment and because she still acknowledged her as family, she took it upon herself to care for her, despite their differences.

With a sigh she replied, "We can try, but it may not be the best choice."

"She will heal more quickly if she is attended to sooner, Narcissa. I think she would appreciate that more." Lucius had convinced her. He was right after all, regardless of his underlying purpose to flee as fast as he could.

And with a loud crack into the fresh evening air, the three were out of sight, and out of harm's way.

* * *

_Well what do ya know?! TWO chapter updates! I told you I felt bad. I hope this makes up for it :) _

_Stay tuned for more soon! (But not AS soon as the last ;) ) _


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hello everyone! I hope the next few updates will be as quick as these. I have in mind to try to update at least once every week now that my days are less preoccupied so hopefully it works out. I feel quite horrible in having all of you readers wait so long and I'm terribly sorry I do. Hopefully I can make up with it with these next few chapters! :D_

_Well, here's chapter 8. (and take note, the plot's moving, so the chapters are longer :D ) Please read and review, it means so much to me when you do – you have no idea. Take care!_

_

* * *

_

**In the Shadows of Endless Night Time**

**Chapter 8**

"_My Lord, please. Reconsider what I ask of you. Do not leave tonight to find that boy. I urge you to head my proposal." A young and elegant woman makes her way outside of the home of her parents to follow wearily behind the one she calls her Lord._

"_No, and I have spoken to you of this before. I shall not rest till that child is dead. The opportunity is available to me now. I will not have you test my judgment when the chance so easily reveals itself." He hisses in reply._

"_But, Master. Don't you see something wrong with this? Why is it a mere boy, and not an Auror, many of whom have been trying to track you down from the moment you declared yourself the Dark Lord? Please, I beg of you." Her voice strains desperately, "I do not feel security in knowing you will go to that house tonight. Let me join you, in the least." She stops, hoping that he will realize she has and will turn to face her._

"_No." Is his only cold response._

_He turns around and strides forward towards her, his frustration evident. _

_She replies, "What?"_

_On any other night, Lord Voldemort would have enjoyed their arguments, as dynamic as their relationship has been. But tonight was His night, one he would later pride himself in as he would return to his followers with news of victory. He did not want to fight with her, and leave her on a negative note. Slowly, he made his way towards her and sighed before beginning again in a less harsh tone, "My Bella, my young, beautiful Bella. Do not anger me tonight – I know what I'm doing. As I have told you previously, your mission after my return from the Potter's, is to find and kill the Longbottom's child. Your task is as simple as mine and would not ever present itself with any danger. It is only a child after all and I have foreseen all the possible outcomes: there are no real threats."_

_She struggles for words, for she knows she might not be able to convince him of staying. But she answers, "Please…… Tom." Her face is contorting, fighting to hold back tears._

_Never before has she addressed him by his birth name, one she fully understands he hates. Never before has she been as bold to continue persisting. But as Voldemort stood there watching her in all her pure-blood stature, he couldn't help but think to himself of how much he adored her fire. She was all that he could ever ask of a follower, and more. He knew that tonight was the only night in which he could succeed, regardless of what Bellatrix said, but he did not want to disappoint her again. _

_He took her hands in his and brought both of them up to his face, eyes remaining connected with hers all the while. He brushed his lips ever so slightly against the back of her hands. Had she been alone, she would have fallen, right then and there._

_In one final whisper, Voldemort said her name, before Apparating away from her._

"_Bella," he breathed, and then he was gone. _

_Bellatrix remained there, under the loneliness of the moon, quivering so slightly, until she heard someone scream. She froze, and it began again. The screaming continued, growing louder and louder, until another scream followed. It continued and grew and others began screaming as well. She ran towards the edge of the forest, trying to escape their cries, running as fast as her feet could take her, but they followed her, chasing her through the thicket of trees and bushes in darkness._

"_Bella…." She heard. "Bella...." they cried again…._

Bella!" She yelled aloud.

Panting, she looked around the room to contemplate where she was. It was dark where the sun didn't pierce through the black curtains, but other than that, she could see she was safe from whatever was chasing her in her mind.

It had been not two days since Bellatrix escaped from Azkaban and already Narcissa and Lucius made it a point to give her the liberty of her own bedroom. The room she harbored, bore colors of her old home, emerald green silks and ebonies of the finest foreign material, all woven together by imprints of the Malfoy crest. The bed she slept on matched all the same, except for the sheets; they were a pale grey, quite suitable to the scenery. The walls were lined with pictures of relatives she forgot of, some of which were still asleep in their frames. A lone, wooden dresser sat opposite the bed, south of the large bay window, and its mirror stared back at Bellatrix in the darkness. Her eyes grew accustomed to the atmosphere, and as she stared around her, she looked everywhere but the mirror. Although her previous clothes were disposed of, and a new nightgown given in their place, Bellatrix couldn't handle her own presence just yet. Instead, she sat up in bed, from her slumber, her forehead glistening with sweat, completely avoiding her reflection. After sitting there for several minutes, Bellatrix removed the heavy comforter from her sleep, and stood up, stretching her limbs before walking on. Though the wood was polished like new, the floor still creaked beneath her heavy footsteps and she feared stirring the others still asleep in the house, at such an early hour. She made her way slowly to the door residing in the far left corner of the room and turned its silver handle.

The hallway was dark but she could easily spot the staircase not far from her, spiraling to the ground and ending in front of the large entryway. There were iron rails lining the edge of the hall and continuing down the stairs. Bella took hold of them for balance and descended. She forgot that her legs still ached in pain, so her movements made it more difficult to withstand her travel downward. She would ask Narcissa for assistance with charm spells later, to tend to her wounds. As she made her way she could see through the windows in the halls; she could see the sun peeking from behind the hills and onward, its rays slowly washing over the walls.

As Bellatrix made her way to the end of the manor she could hear the sounds of a hissing tea kettle. She followed the noise passed a large study, an exquisite dinning room and past a closed door, till she reached a doorframe, leading to what looked like a very large kitchen. Apparently, she was not the only one awake.

"Good morning, Bellatrix." A snide greeting came from the blonde-hair creature that was enjoying his peace at a nearby table, the latest edition of the Daily Prophet in his hands.

"Lucius," her reply was crisp, and uninterested in anything else he had to say. As much as she loved her sister, she had always detested the man she married. Regardless, she took the empty chair next to him, resisting his pestering gaze.

"I presume you slept well? You surely had no trouble sleeping for nearly two days. Narcissa was ready to call for a Healer had you gone another hour." His eyes never left the columns of the morning paper. Surely he hadn't intended to move himself from the table and tend to the kettle without the need to smirk in her direction, but Lucius was not one for hard labor, so he remained seated.

"I guess you had no intent on calling for one yourself, hmm Malfoy?" Her face was hard.

"No, never in the slightest. You'd probably still be in Azkaban hadn't the mass break-out occurred."

"Oh you would enjoy knowing that wouldn't you?" His eyes rose once to observe her as she continued, "I'm sure you weren't happy to give Narcissa the good news that her sister is finally free after fourteen long years."

He turned a page before responding, "Well, if you must know, it was not I who told Narcissa of the break out. I was second to learn of that particularly small detail, before having to attend to your rescue."

Bella's brow furrowed, "Then who was it that –"

"The Dark Lord." He cut her off before she could finish her question.

Bella's heart began to race at the mention of his name. For a moment, she found it hard to breathe, hard to respond to Lucius' blunt remark. She calmed herself before beginning again, "Of all the things Narcissa would be asked of, why would the Dark Lord give my sister the news before you?" He smirked before she began again, "Forgive me, Lucius, but I'm sure as a Death Eater you would have come first in this situation?" Lucius was surprised by her sarcastic compliment, if it_ was _a compliment. In any other instance, Bellatrix would try to insult him, but he noticed that it was hard for her to retort with her usual malicious comments.

Narcissa made her way into the kitchen now, and so he brushed it off; he did not want a problem so early in the day.

"By Merlin, don't you hear this bloody kettle going off Lucius?" Her pace was quick, and urgent. As she passed her husband sitting in his night robes at the table, she didn't even notice her sister, who was on the verge of laughing at her frustrated tone. It was only a mere kettle, after all.

"Sorry, dear. I was too occupied with such an –" he struggled to find the right word before smirking at Bella and replying, "– _enticing_ conversation with your wonderful sister of yours." He motioned to Bella sitting beside him.

Narcissa froze, before putting the kettle down on a mat on the counter. She turned and her eyes grew wide. She hadn't seen Bellatrix conscious for over a decade. Now she was sitting in her house, at her kitchen table, seemingly healthy aside from her horrid looks. "Bella," she began, "How are you feeling?" She moved to stand closer to her sister.

"Much better than I would have been in that hole another few days. Your husband is already making me feel quite at home. I've never missed his _lively_ conversation more." She stood up from her chair, not bothering to see Lucius' reaction.

"Wonderful." She said. "Would you care for something to eat? Toast?" She took out a ceramic cup from the cupboard, "Tea?"

"Tea would be just fine, thank you."

The three of them moved to what appeared to be a sitting room, with black velvet couches and silver night tables all around. Bellatrix and Lucius were already seated on opposite ends of the room, as Narcissa settled down beside him, the tray of tea, dishes, and cups floating to her side. Bella took a cup from the tray as it floated from person to person, and had it filled to the brim with boiling-hot ginger tea. The aroma overwhelmed her senses. Narcissa and Lucius did the same soon after and for several moments they sat in uncomfortable silence. It wasn't till Bella took the initiative to end it, that the tension in the room began to fade.

"He has returned, hasn't he then?" She spoke softly.

Lucius replied, "Yes, and he is more determined than ever to succeed." He took a sip of his drink. "I understand you know every thing that has occurred, up until your trial, yes?"

Bella nodded silently.

Lucius continued, "Then you are aware that our Lord's greatest problem is that of a boy of fifteen years?"

"Is this the same child that destroyed him that terrible night?!" Bellatrix grew angry, recalling memories of how he chose not to listen to her warning, how if he hadn't gone and let his followers go in his path, he might have never left her, and she would have never gone to Azkaban.

"Yes. His name is Harry Potter, and he and his little friends have caused surprisingly more trouble than any Auror has ever given us. But his only security is that of Albus Dumbledore and whatever pathetic power he has left at Hogwarts these days. Alone, he is just a boy, nothing more."

"So, let me make this clear, Lucius," She cleared her throat.

Narcissa watched in silence, occasionally sipping the hot tea.

"For the last fourteen years, while I suffered for our Lord, hoping that one day I may be free to return to serve him and fulfill what he asked of me, no one, not you or Pettigrew or even _Snape_…._no_ one, not one of his remaining followers, have ever attempted to kill this _boy_?!"

"There have been –complications. You see –"

"What complications?" She snapped. "A boy lies in the way of our conquest and our failure. A boy…who should have been gone before I ever entered those walls." She was standing now, "and yet you sit here every day in this house, in silence. What are you…afraid?"

"Surely you must understand, Bellatrix. After His…_untimely_ fall, we assumed that it really was all over. There was no point in chasing after this child and risking his murder if we risked our own lives without any real hope in a strong outcome. We did not want to jeopardize ourselves and be captured with all the Auror activity that was occurring. If anything, we did _try_ in the least, but we failed several times and chose to stay hidden. If there were signs, we would have immediately acted upon them."

Her chest rose and fell dramatically. Her stare bore into his soul, yet his gaze did not waver. She resisted screaming in his direction, however pointless it may have seemed, and instead she stopped and calmly asked, "So how is it then, that you two are here sharing a cup of tea with a fugitive, instead of attending one of His meetings?"

"Funny thing isn't it? Would you care to have me explain it to you rationally, or should I get up and dance like a buffoon, hoping you'd understand?"

"_Lucius,_" said Narcissa, urging her husband to keep his mocking tone to a minimum. He turned to acknowledge her before continuing once more.

"The Dark Lord has asked that we tend to you personally, till you are fully recovered. We don't know of the other's just yet, but we know Rodolphus has made contact with the Lord and is residing in one of his camps." Bella cringed at the mention of her husband's name. "He has made sure that _you_ are kept out of harm's way till you heal. He did not explain much further, other than he expects the both of us to be ready for a most imperative mission on our return."

"He knows I am here?" Her voice was slightly more forceful.

"Yes." Lucius replied.

Bellatrix took this new information in, before asking, "And when will we be invited to join him?"

Lucius sighed in frustration, tired at all her questioning. He snapped, "The sooner those bags under your eyes disappear, the sooner we'll be ready to leave."

"_Lucius!_" Narcissa yelled. "That is _not_ how you talk to family! You should know that by now." Narcissa got up, almost spilling her tea on her satin blouse before turning to face her sister, "Bella, I'm sorry. If you need anything, just call for me, otherwise, Lucius, I want a word, now."

"Thank you, Cissy." She said, and returned the cup to the tray, not bothering to acknowledge her sister's snappy husband, and made her way around the house.

xxxxx

By nightfall, Bellatrix managed to occupy herself with roaming every area of Malfoy Manor. She particularly enjoyed working her way through the study, packed with hundreds of ancient books on magic and family history. Her fingers graced the spines of many of the novels atop the shelves, skimming over many particularly interesting titles: _The Wand without the Wizard, 301 Ways to Transform An Owl, The Adventures of Abarnax: A Quest Along the Shores of Scotland_. She continued further till her eyes caught something more intriguing than any other titles she had come across.

"_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named: A Look at the World's Darkest Magic_, by Ferona Furnagle." She said aloud, removing the book off the shelf. She ran her hands over the rough material of the cover, studying its texture, before opening to read inside the cover:

_**He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named:**_

_**A Look at the World's Darkest Magic**_

_Ferona Furnagle_

_Contents:_

_Introduction_

_Before His Time_

_Suspected Origins_

_His Influence at Hogwarts_

_Life after School_

_Reign of Terror_

_Those Who Chose to Follow_

_Threatening Destruction_

_The Downfall_

_Post-War Peace_

_Acknowledgements and Credits_

Bellatrix turned to the chapter that talked of his various followers, before finding her way to a nearby couch and taking a seat to begin reading. She came across articles about each significant Death Eater –Barty Crouch Jr., Antonin Dolohov, Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Rodolphus Lestrange –and then to an article on her. There was nothing written she didn't already know; merely basic information, and facts as all the other articles written. But there was one particular paragraph that caught her attention most.

She read aloud, "Though the Dark Lord was known for recruiting only male followers into his elite circle, his only female Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, was as capable, if not more, of fighting as sufficiently as the others. There has been debate however, over whether or not this particular initiated member joined for solely loyal reasons or for reasons beyond our presumptions. Experts at the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Relations have often speculated that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was romantically involved with, or having an affair with Lestrange before his initial choice to begin world domination. Though she is bound by marriage to her husband and fellow Death Eater, Rodolphus Lestrange, it's not impossible to assume that Bellatrix was the _only_ female servant because she alone could fulfill the more lustful commands of her master…" She chuckled. _So they knew, didn't they?_ She thought.

The more and more she read on about his conquest and the things he did, the more she yearned to see him again. She did not want to rely on mere words to fulfill her need. She wanted to see him now. She decided it would be best to ask Narcissa about it and so after supper that night, while Lucius and Draco were out of the house, Bella approached her sister who was sitting in the study occupying herself with a newspaper.

"Cissy?" She asked.

"Yes, Bella?" She replied, looking up from the Daily Prophet.

"I wish to ask you something, although as much as this question is fit for Lucius to respond to, I'd rather not go seeking your husband for answers." She walked towards the center of the room now, and looked down at her sister whose expression became slightly puzzled.

"What is it you ask?"

She did not want to sound desperate, nor did she want Narcissa to suspect anything further than mere interest in her voice, so she softly said, "I was wondering, if the Dark Lord had said anything about when he would be returning to your home, to…ensure his commands are carried out?"

Narcissa eyebrows went up in interest. Surely Bella didn't believe her to be completely naïve of what she implied. "You mean: when is it Voldemort will return to see if you are alright?" Bella's eyes grew wide before she attempted to hide her reaction. But Narcissa noticed and knew her assumptions were correct, "Oh come on, Bella. You and I both know you've been lusting after that man since we were teenagers. And I'm sure you had no trouble occupying yourself with memories of your time with him while in prison." Narcissa folded her hands over her lap.

Bella's face fell before she began again, "I can't even recall what his voice sounds like, Cissy. As much as I pride myself in knowing I never lost hope, I can't help but wonder if it was worth losing what I had so long ago. How do you handle returning when there is nothing worthy to return to?" Narcissa's heart felt a twinge of pity for her eldest sister. This woman risked her being for one man her entire life, and even now after spending half of it in prison for him, she is still lost in her own feelings.

Narcissa knew only one way to answer her, and it was stating the completely apparent truth. She sighed, "Because despite your torment, you're still in love with him, though you're fully aware he cannot reciprocate your feelings."

Bellatrix was silent for a moment.

She replied, "It's pitiful, isn't it?"

Narcissa shook her head, "No, just sadly unlucky. How horrible it must be for the only female Death Eater to be in love with the one she calls her Master, and not have him feel the same…what _will_ her husband think?"

Bella's head shot up, "That man means nothing to me and you know that. Hadn't it have been mother and father's request, I would have never agreed to bind myself to him." Narcissa laughed. "Don't test me Cissy, I'm in no mood."

"You forgot your sense of humor, dear. I didn't mean to upset you. But you do _know_ once the both of you return to his side, you'll eventually have to face him?" She asked.

"I know. I'm dreading the day."

"Dreading?" Narcissa began, "I would be terribly frightened of seeing that man after he's been in prison for so long, let alone be his wife. Knowing how you've looked since your escape, I can only imagine what he'll act like." Bellatrix glared at her younger sister.

"Please, don't be so _kind_, Cissy." She retorted.

"Nevertheless, I'm sure that He'll return to us soon to ask of your recovery. But I don't know when. Lucius hasn't spoken much of Him since the escape, so I can't necessarily help you there."

Bella did not speak –she found it more interesting to pace slowly in front of her sister in silence. Narcissa didn't know what to say. She glanced at the clock above the shelf that read 10:36. It was getting late, and Bella was likely to keep her here for a few more hours if she didn't ask anything of her soon.

"Bella, look…why don't you get your rest now. Go up to your room, get settled in bed, and try to find some sleep. The less you worry, the more likely it'll come before you least expect it. Tomorrow I'll help you with the remaining bruises and then we'll locate your wand so you can take care of the rest yourself." Narcissa was anxious for Bella's agreement.

Bellatrix stopped to contemplate her sister's wishes. She nodded once and wished her a good night before climbing the stairs to her bedroom.

xxxxxxx

It was dark when she entered the room and made her way over to the bed. The only visible light was that of the moon. Bella did not care to sleep tonight, as much as she wanted to. She eventually climbed into bed, fresh nightgown and all, but she could not help to toss and turn. Too often did she feel she would awaken back in Azkaban, and all of this would have been a dream invoked by her insanity. She did not want to shut her eyes knowing she might risk returning to that world. Yet, exhaustion was overtaking her, try as she may fight it. As she lay there with her eyes giving into sleep, she tried to picture the Tom she knew so long ago: his pitch black hair, his pale smooth skin, those devilish eyes and that wonderful nose, and those lips…oh those soft lips she so dearly missed against her own….

"_Bella…"_ she hears. A voice like dark silk sweeps over her ears, snapping her eyes open.

"_Bella…"_ it repeats again. Bellatrix sits up, looking around the room. For a moment, she could have sworn it to be Him beckoning to her. But as she glanced again, nothing but the wind made its presence known. The window has been left open.

She sighed; her mind was playing tricks on her again. That comes to no surprise; she'll eventually be overrun by hallucinations and the latter anyway. No reason not to start now.

As her eyes close finally, the wind caresses her hollow cheeks and Bellatrix finds peace in her slumber.

* * *

_A/N: Like it? Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send me a review please! :D Thanks!_

_Hope you enjoyed this!_


End file.
