A Cell in Azkaban... Who: Rodolphus Lestrange. Where: Azkaban, cell 211 When: 28th February, between morning porridge and lunch porridge. Rating: PG.
A seagull passed by outside, letting out a mourning cry. It hung on the sky like a black cross, a dark contrast against the dirty-grey sky. A few raindrops hit the window. It was a sound that felt remarkably calming, as if the fact his cell had a thin piece of glass between the inside and the outside really meant something. Rodolphus wasn't certain there were any difference. Inside, outside... it didn't matter. Cold inside, cold outside. He shook his head to make the little grey thought-mice go away, grating on the inside of his mind. They kept crawling, and he willed the seagull to fly away, willed it not to remind him of Dark Creatures hanging like ragged pieces of cloth outside the window.
He was glad there was a window. He rose from the narrow bed to walk the few steps over the stone floor to put a hand on it. It was cold. Smooth. Outside, the wind was howling, chasing the birds. Rodolphus watched his hand on the glass. He spread his fingers, looking at them; long, thin. He had a broken nail. The rest were ragged and uneven. He liked the glass, even as it was. It kept the rain and the seagulls away. He breathed on it, making a damp spot. He drew a pattern in it before it disappeared. Maybe the pattern had meant something once. Now he didn't know. It was just lines on a window.
The rain fell harder now, making the window unclear. Rodolphus couldn't see the sea. He tried to imagine he was flying but the memory eluded him, partly because he seemed to be unafraid of it, and therefore it had to be dangerous, partly because the thin shadow of what once had happened was already ripped in pieces. There was just an odd fog left. The mice in his mind screeched, and he hurried back to his bed, pulling the blankets tightly around himself and curled up in a corner. Bella would have laughed at him if she had seen him like this. She was dead. Little mice ate her body, he was sure of it. Mice ate everything: his dreams in the night, the porridge he wasn't able to finish, new memories, and old.
Rodolphus was aware there were no mice there, in his mind. He could see one in a corner, a little soft creature wiggling its nose for food. Sometimes he envied them, they were small enough to slip through the slit under the door, to get out. He watched the mouse examine a crumb or a stone. He had killed them once, until he realised that they were the only living beings who made new memories for him, so he let them stay in his mind and his cell. They shared his confused, hungry days, coloured in the same way as everything else.
Time was grey in here, like the mice and the porridge and the pale face of the guards who brought him food and clean blankets. Every little deviation was important, every little change in what made the day slide into the next, so very alike as the one before that it was impossible to recognise one from the other.
The wind made another loud howl, and Rodolphus whimpered, waiting for them, waiting, so afraid he couldn't breathe. If he didn't breathe they wouldn't notice him. He sat frozen, unbreathing, for a little.
It took him some time to remember they were gone. He knew that. They were gone when they put him here the second time. He breathed out, relieved they weren't coming to feed on what was left in his mind. Maybe he had never really been happy, they never seemed to have much interest in him, as if his soul already was a part of the bleak emptiness they left when they were done. He was luckier than most, he knew that, only it didn't mean anything. The Dementors had been cruel enough as it was.
He would gladly had taken any pain he had inflicted on others in exchange for the fear. Anytime.
Slowly, he managed to crawl out of the small cave of blankets he had made for himself. He didn't want the prison to make him act like this, but somehow it felt hopeless. Lifetime.
But when there was no life left, what was the point? He had regretted already, but he would never be able to do anything about it. Not that he wanted to redeem himself as the traitor Snape, it had been war. But if he could live his life over again, he would. Maybe he could have love in another life, and mercy. He wasn't able in this purposeless life, and it was the only one he had.
Rodolphus stood, once more stepping over to the window. A heavy bird flew by in the rain, an Owl. No one ever wrote him letters, none of them got any. Being confined in the Death Eater wing was like being buried alive. He looked at the bird, shook his head and began walking along the sides of the small cell.