White Sand

White Sand

I push my hands deep down into the refreshingly salty white sand. The ice-cold water of the North Sea causes no gasp of surprise, no shivering quivers, as it ripples its way up the beach to where my hands are immersed. I suppose I am used to the cold by now. A larger ripple of a wave soaks the bottom of grey, dilapidated robes which hang off my now bony shoulders as I sit there.

The seagulls caw and scream hungrily in the distance. A few occasionally land on the sinister black rocks surrounding the island. Rocks that mock and anger all who approach the island in chains, purely so that others can get one more measly night of sleep, whilst we go without.

I say I'm probably used to the cold by now and that's true. Years and years of mind numbing chills makes one build up a resistance; the North-East seas off the coast of Scotland are plagued constantly by biting wind, as if those detestable creatures weren't quite enough. The land is flat, too, and the doors and windows in Azkaban are left open all year long. What does the beloved Ministry care about us human beings? We who starve one day and die of loneliness the next, deserve no shelter from what Mother Earth decides to throw at us, be it hurricanes or wet ripping thunderstorms.

I stare out and away in front of me at the wide open blue. A man I no longer know kneels beside me. A man I haven't seen for years, only heard his screams coming from a cell down the corridor. So agonizingly close, yet so out of reach. Now he is next to me, yet I don't know what to do. Without meeting his determined gaze I turn my eyes back up the beach, towards the fortress.

Its tall weathered, stone walls reach high. Barred windows are dotted here and there, occasionally housing a pale face, staring blankly out of it. They long to be down on this beach.

I sigh and recline my dark hair so that it contrasts with the milky wet sand as they tangle and mix together. The man I once loved still sits beside me. His eyes are so empty. I don't remember them that way. I wonder if mine are the same. Nothing is how I imagined or expected it to be. When I had stared longingly down at the white sand from my own window, I had imagined it all so much grander. My Master had arisen. He was angry. He'd show all those cocky, stuck up Aurors. He'd blow Azkaban into a billion blood-stained pieces and pull us all away. In one sweep, everything would be how it used to be.

The man I no longer love still stares at my face with those empty eyes. He leans forward. He kisses my half exposed chest. He pushes his battered, rough hands firmly underneath and across my back and shoulders.

It doesn't mean anything to me anymore and I don't care. I briefly wonder where it's all gone before getting up and leaving my husband sitting in confusion on the sand, his hand still stroking the air while he frowns, looking up at me. I stare with malice at the fortress and then at the small blithering little man my Master has sent to break us out of Azkaban.

Was this it? Was this the climax of all those long years? Surely if it were this simple, someone would have done it long before now.

The others sit in a huddled group on the dry, sharp rocks like seals, trying to warm themselves. The cold clam of the dementors still lingers, still managing to infest their minds.

A seagull lands in front of me and pecks at a mollusc, previously lying untouched on a stray rock in the sand. I watch it for a moment.

"Bella?" I distantly hear a broken, pleading voice from behind.

The seagull still pecks at the mollusc by my feet. I quickly crouch down and seize the gull by its neck before it can get away. It lets out one more pathetic screech as I twist and pull its neck before dropping it limply back onto the sand. It lies there dead whilst others like it still sweep the sky happily above it, peering down with mild curiosity. I seize the mollusc from the rock and fling it with one sweep of an arm, so that it soars. Two or three seagulls attempt a half hearted swoop in pursuit of it as it flies before landing with an inane plop in the water, a couple of meters away.

The little man, Wormtail, as he has informed us, laughs nervously. I turn to face him, staring right at him, through his pupils, straight onto the surface of the inside of the back of his skull. He turns quiet again and I see him glance at my husband, who I now see has a resigned look, creasing his forehead and eyebrows.

"So be it," I think to myself.

It doesn't seem to matter much to me anymore.

* * * * *

I stand there, my robes still propelling forwards, wrapping around me from the force with which I lurched forward with one last crunching, satisfying spell.

A warm feeling rises in my stomach as I see that I have won. His back curves in the air as he is flung back. That mocking, pitying smile still lies there for a couple of seconds before it fades; utter panic and failure is what he feels now. Perhaps it should make me a little sad, not for him, but for the person he should have been. The person his mother wanted, the person we all saw in him before he turned eleven.

My cousin always was a disappointment.

As the tip of his right foot disappears, all I can feel is happiness. Triumph that I haven't felt for so long. I grin widely. I throw my arms up and scream triumphantly as I spin in a circle.

"This is what it's like," I remember. "This is what I do. This is who I am. This is my purpose."

I hear a cry as the Potter boy is held back from the veil. I almost feel concerned. "Don't take away my game," I think.

Then I see Dumbledore.

Looking around I see the situation. It's not good. The Dark Lord won't mind me leaving if all that is left is to assist. I spin around and flee up the stairs, deflecting a curse as I go.