Twenty-Four Hours

Twenty-Four Hours

Bellatrix Lestrange woke, as usual, to the sound of metal scraping in the rusted lock of her cell door. Pushing herself onto her side, she hastily scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand. Bright light flooded the area around her cot, causing Bellatrix to squint and the cockroaches to scuttle for the safety of darkness.

Bellatrix bowed her head, hoping that the Dark Lord might have chosen this day to release her from her prison.

After the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, the Dark Lord had transported Bellatrix's battered and weakened body to his manor Without a word to her, Lord Voldemort placed her inside the dank, cramped cell she now inhabited in his dungeons. She was unsure how long she had been imprisoned here, but the collected dirt and grime on her skin told her that it must have been quite a while.

Honestly, it had simply not occurred to her the prophecy would be destroyed. She had heard Lucius's warning in the distance, but it did not register past the blood and adrenaline pumping in her veins. Face to face with the boy who had taken so much from her all those years ago, she could concentrate only on vengeance. She wanted to hurt Harry Potter. She wanted his screams to echo throughout the entire Ministry of Magic. The excitement of the moment, the possibility that it would be she to deliver the prophecy to her Lord, had simply been too much for Bellatrix to withstand. Her only regret was that she had acted in such haste.

Bellatrix had not set eyes upon her Lord since that day. A small part of her wondered if he might not have decided to leave her here for good.

Her Lord was merciful, however, in that he did not starve her. His house-elves brought her food, as he had no doubt commanded them, but they did not speak to her. The vile creatures would not even meet her stare. Oh, how far she had fallen to look to vermin for companionship!

Once she realized that the Dark Lord was not present, Bellatrix lay back down, her thick hair falling over her face. She waited, attempting to suppress her tears of disappointment, while the house-elf placed her food tray onto the floor. Instead of scampering away as the elves usually did, however, this elf paused in front of her. He pulled out a piece of parchment, gingerly holding it within her reach.

Bellatrix reached out and yanked the parchment away from him. Even in the darkness of her cell, she could make out the handwriting.

Bella,

It has taken many weeks for my anger towards you to lessen. I may soon be ready to forgive you.

Rest well. You will need your strength tonight.

Lord Voldemort

With trembling hands, Bellatrix read the note again several times over.

Weeks, she thought. But soon it will be over.

Excitement churned within her frail body at the thought of kneeling before her Lord again. The pleasurable feelings brought to mind many memories; in particular, one from her youth.

It had been the evening after her first kill. Her chosen victim was a witless schoolmate who had unfortunately caught Bellatrix on one of her worse days. Immediately, she fled Hogwarts and confessed her deed to her master. He listened intently to her tale, stopping her only to question her about a detail here or there. Instead of scolding her for the difficulties her spontaneous act would no doubt cause, he actually embraced her, quietly whispering assurances in her ear. He taught her that night the most important lesson she would ever learn: the reason for her existence.

"You are special, Bella," he explained, "because you belong to me."

She could not doubt her place again.

Bellatrix's education flourished after that night. With each wound Lord Voldemort inflicted over the years by means magical and Muggle, he taught her the price of imperfection. The first time it was through the use of the Cruciatus curse. Each time her Lord uttered the words "Finite Incantatum" she crawled, relieved and grateful, to the Dark Lord's feet. But not a full minute would pass before he subjected her to the curse again. Over and over, she cried for an end to the consuming pain. She was young then, and did not realize that it was folly to beg Lord Voldemort for mercy when he deemed a servant worthy of punishment. But she would learn, and soon.

Over time, Lord Voldemort's punishments became more varied, more ingenious. He skillfully coaxed out each secret of her mind and used those secrets to train her. Rather than paralyzing her with fear, however, each of their sessions increased her stamina and endurance. Lord Voldemort carefully molded her into that which he desired most. He created his Bella out of the wreckage that had been born Bellatrix Black.

Yes, he had saved her for a reason! Pinned under that damned statue, she screamed for him. Begged him not to forget her lest she be sent back to Azkaban. And in his mercy, he did not leave his most faithful behind for Dumbledore to imprison. Because they both knew she could not have borne it. Azkaban had already altered her mind and body so irreversibly that another month or year there might have wiped her from the earth altogether.

Service to the Dark Lord was reward unto itself. Still, Bellatrix silently thanked him for his mercy.

*****************

That evening, when the cell door opened and Bellatrix saw her Lord, she was no longer afraid. He would punish her, yes, but she was still free. Free to serve him. Free to be near him.

But he was not alone. The Dark Lord had brought companions with him. Bellatrix knew them well.

The Dementors entered the cell behind the Lord Voldemort, and Bellatrix felt true terror rise within her for the first time since that night at the Department of Mysteries. She shrieked and wailed, praying with all she had for him to save her once more. To not allow them hurt her again. To not allow them to taste her again. But in her heart, she knew that he would not stop them. She had earned this.

In her hysteria, she clung to his legs, sobbing into his robes and promising all manner of things. Lord Voldemort looked upon her without pity. Kicking her away from him, he finally spoke.

"You suffered willingly for me before, Bella. Will you not suffer for me now?"

Watching what little color she had left drain from her ashen face, Lord Voldemort barked out with laughter.

"Not to worry, Bella," he assured her, amusement clear in his tone. "I will come back for you. I always come back for you, do I not?"

Bella nodded silently. She struggled to rise to her knees, but succeeded only in falling back onto the floor. The ache in her bones and muscles was nothing compared to the ache she felt in her chest.

Turning from the miserable sight before him, Lord Voldemort addressed his newest servants.

"You have twenty-four hours. Take all you wish from her, but do not take her soul. That shall always belong to me."

With that, the Dementors gathered around her prone body. When the Dark Lord closed the cell door behind him, it began.