As Black As Night

It was late one balmy night in June, and the moon was just beginning to rise over the Atlantic Ocean. Through the six by eight inch window in his cell in Azkaban, Ryan Lestrange could tell by looking at the gentle waves that there was a slight breeze.

He sometimes wondered why there were windows in Azkaban, and had finally decided that their sole purpose was to torture the people in prison, as if the Dementors were not enough. The window was magically reinforced, and the bars were charmed to be unbreakable. Lestrange had heard of people trying to receive owls, only to have a spark of electrical magic go through the bars and burn their hand off. Although the charm, one called Adustum, was not illegal, the ministry had to grant individuals special permission to perform it. They then kept careful tabs on people to make sure that they did not hurt anyone with it; needless to say, it was very dangerous.

Since entering Azkaban fourteen years ago, he had burned himself twice, but neither time horribly. Once on his first day in Azkaban; he tried to pull on the bars in desperation because he wanted out. Because of that careless incident Lestrange had only two fingers on his left hand. The second time he carelessly brushed his left forearm against the bars, and received a third degree burn. The skin had turned from white to red, and then assumed a leathery texture. Now, there was a large scar running from his wrist to his elbow, and he could feel no pain in his forearm, because the nerve endings had been burnt.

Because of his carelessness, Ryan Lestrange's left arm was almost useless.

That night, he slumped over his meal, one of irrecognizable brown mush, trying to force himself to eat it. Once in Azkaban, many people went crazy, and stopped eating. Lestrange knew not to do this, and to never give up, because he himself had helped his Master to prepare for eternal life. He knew that the Dark Lord would come back, and that he would be needed to help him conquer the Mudbloods and muggles. That wasn't a happy though, because he had long ago been unable to produce happy thoughts, but a reaffirming one, one which the Dementors could not take away.

Suddenly, Ryan Lestrange sat upright in his cell. He clumsy pulled up the right sleeve of his tattered black Death Eaters robe, what he had been wearing when he was taken into custody, up of his arm. He dared himself to believe the pain he felt on his right forearm was real. It was. There, burning as black as night, was the Dark Mark, the sign of Lord Voldemort.

He's back, he whispered, more to himself then anyone else. He's back! He has risen, surely stronger now then ever before. Then, realizing the magnitude of the simple mark on his arm, he started to yell.

"He's back! Death Eaters everywhere rejoice, for Our Lord is back!"

"Horticulture?" asked a muffled voice across the room, which he recognized as his wife. She had been taken to Azkaban with him, although they rarely talked because their cells were so far apart. Slowly, she had been driven to insanity by the Dementors. They all had.

"No, Desdemona! He's back! The Dark Lord has risen!"

Cries rang up from all around Lestrange; Death Eaters much like himself began to notice the mark on their arms, and were alerting everyone within shouting distance.

"Hallelujah, and praise Voldemort!" yelled Helena, a young girl who would have been appointed an "Official Death Eater" had Voldemort not fallen.

"He's back, and no one will be safe!" yelled someone else.

Desdemona Lestange, finally snapping out of her stupor, took stock of what was happening around her, and added her voice to the fray:

"All Mudblood and muggle filth will be gone; pure-bloods will rule all!"

Dementors started to crowd in front of the cells, trying to draw on everyone's exuberant emotions.

Lestrange hardly noticed, because after so fourteen years in Azkaban, his master was back, and he, Ryan Lestrange, was going to be rewarded in ways that he could only dream of.