A Day In Azkaban Voting

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CLOSES 10th August

TEMPLATE BY WE WERE INFINITE ! OF CAUTION 2.0

ONE

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GO ON LIKE THAT UNTIL EVERYTHINGS SORE AND EACH DAY YOU'LL DIE JUST A LITTLE BIT MORE
a day in azkaban // words: 1503 // notes: hummm, interesting all right i'll bite. Calling a straight jacket for Mr. Lestrange, straight jacket call for Mr. Lestrange.

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[style=height: 400px; overflow: auto; font-family: verdana; line-height: 11px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #ffffff; -moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 0px;]Cell 0253. It belonged to Rodolphus Lestrange. Convicted of the crime of torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity, being a known supporter of the Dark Lord and countless crimes involving the use of dark magic. This cell would remain his for the rest of his life, and no doubt it would be a short one. Few made it even a month before Azkaban turned them in on themselves, before the dementors had taken anything that could bring any solace and turned them mad in their depression. Most sought for any form of escape, any form of release from another day in this hell. Many stopped eating and waited for death to come. Rodolphus Lestrange had stopped eating. He had made it for fourteen years, had clung on desperately through all levels of insanity. He knew he couldn't make it to fifteen. In every way the creature curled in the corner of his cell was not Rodolphus. This creature was hollow in every sense. His knees curled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself to ward out the unnatural cold. The cold of both the sea outside and the dementors chill, a chill that sunk right to the bone and froze solid. Warmth and the light of day was the first thing forgotten in this place. This creature no longer looked like the man who stepped into the cell, head held proud. Cropped auburn hair now a mass of matted dreadlocks that tangled with a course beard. Soulless tortured eyes screamed out from a horrifically sunken face, his cheekbones protruding so tightly from their surroundings it seemed impossible the skin hadn't split. His lips were long cracked, his throat painfully dry, he hadn't heard his own voice in years. A once maintained body now nothing more then skin and bone, ribs and hips sticking out like daggers from the emaciated form. The cell was far from silent. The screams and sobbing of thousands of inmates filling the air, that at the start would have been enough to drive any man insane, though now he couldn't remember what silence truly was. The small pitter of rats was prominent as he lay his ear to the concrete floor, watching as they scurried from their holes across the floor to the bowl of grey slop that went ignored by the cell's owner as it had mostly done for several weeks now. He liked the rats he'd decided some years before. More then the inmates anyway. They at least didn't complain. Occasionally he thought he heard his brother or his wife's cries, though how much of that was his own mind was difficult to say. At first he'd known he'd definitely heard little Barty who had only been a few cells away, he had once called out to him, told him to be strong, to remember who he was. He'd received only sobbing in return. All had gone deathly quiet in that cell many years previously and Rodolphus knew with all certainty that their comrade was dead. “Your losing it Roddy.” The man strolled out across his bunk, examining perfectly kept nails thoughtfully. Losing... hah. Lost. It had not taken the Dementors long to find his weaknesses and even less time for his own mind to latch onto them, to repeat them painfully over and over when the foul guards were further away from his cell, not that their hold ever truly weakened. Often they patrolled past his cell, paused and gazed in with empty sockets, with that rasping breath and watched him as a ball of ice filled his chest as his blood ran cold and the screaming filled his mind. His own screaming. He'd only been a boy, five maybe six. Out in the massive grounds of the Lestrange mansion. No-one had known where he was. No-one ever knew where he was and they certainly didn't care. He'd been swimming as he often had in the lake when his foot had got caught in a weed bed. It had felt like he was being dragged, down to the bottom, struggling to no avail. Chocking against the water as the light vanished overhead. He'd been certain at the bottom of that lake, thrashing and screaming to the water that he was dead. That he'd forever be lost at the bottom of the lake and no-one would come looking, no-one would care. Through sheer fluke his twisting had freed him and he'd emerged spluttering at the edge of the lake before collapsing. It had been midnight by the time he came to, frozen to the bone. His mother had not noticed her sons absense, only that he trudged past one of her dinner parties looking like a swamp creature soaked to the bone and caked in mud. How well she'd fawned over him infornt of her friends, so worried and caring. He'd actually believed it, until she took him to get him cleaned up and the crack of a slap had split his lip. She didn't care, no-one cared. He could have drowned that night and not a soul would have noticed. He could starve to death here in this god forsaken cell and no-one would give a damn. His wife certainly wouldn't care, and oh how the dementors loved that one, loved the image of her eyes filled with such longing, such adoration as she looked at another man, as her husband sat beside her completely ignored. Sometimes he thought he heard the creatures that guarded this hell laughing at him, thought he heard them whispering what his own mind repeated over and over again. Unloved Rodolphus. Unloved, uncared, not even feared. Not a soul would notice your death. “He's not coming you know.” The voice arouse from his bed again, his cell mate having turned on his side to face him. The shell of Rodolphus Lestrange clapped his hands over his ears tighter. He was. He was coming. He had to come. “He's dead.” He can't be dead. He can't die. He was coming, he would free them and their loyalty would be rewarded. They'd raise this place to the ground and he'd see the sun, he'd see his brother and have his revenge. How desperately he'd clung to that idea. Chanting it in his mind every waking moment to keep the dementors, to keep the insanity that threatened to engulf him at bay. But it was lies. He had been forgotten. His Lord had forgotten them or was truly dead. No-one was coming. He watched as the black hood of the dementor passed his cell, pausing as the hooded cowl turned to face him. It watched him. He could feel it in every fibre of his being, his breath frozen in his chest. It saw him. Not for the first time he stared back, willed it, begged it to take what it actually wanted. Just a little kiss. A little kiss and he wouldn't know he was here. He wouldn't have to move, he wouldn't have to think, he wouldn't feel. For a long time it watched him, before continuing it's rounds. Years ago he would have screamed for it to stop, would have sobbed into the stone slabs until he couldn't breath. He'd long fallen to silence. “You know they won't. You're to much fun to them alive.” Rodolphus rolled finally with what felt like the effort of a marathon to glare at the figure on his bed. The dementors hadn't been needed to turn his head against himself. He had never been made for solitude, had never been able to cope with long periods inside his own mind, there was to much analysis, to much thought, to much over thinking, he needed the distraction of others. But he desperately wished his new cellmate would put himself out of his misery. “That would be counter intuitive.” The painfully clean man spoke without needing to hear what was said as he always did. Sitting himself up on the bed, with swamp green eyes he stared down in disgust at the husk of a man on the floor. “Your going to die here, probably this winter.” The husk gave the smallest of nods in agreement. But so will you, he thought in a rare moment of some semblance of clarity. “Yep. Utter bitch of it, isn't it.” His cellmate who appeared and vanished with the wind, who could spend hours talking and weeks gone, who could be kind and so very cruel dependent on how much he had eaten that day and how often the dementors had visited, shot him that dazzling perfect white smile. For a moment Rodolphus felt a tug of recognition. He had known who this figure was when they first appeared one evening, glaring out of the bars like a caged animal. Rodolphus remembered he had both laughed and groaned loudly and informed his new cell mate he wasn't that far gone yet and to sod off. He supposed that must mean he was now that far gone. “And there's no coming back from that shit.”

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TWO

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,padding-left:16px; padding-top:0px; padding-right:0px; padding-bottom:0px; background-image:url(http://i51.tinypic.com/2nbr3oi.jpg) ] rabastan lestrange Judgment for the immoral sin. That has enveloped me completely. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Stormy blue eyes glanced this way and that in a nervous fashion as he gazed up and down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if the sound of his heart beat was filling the air or not, because it seemed extremely loud to him. And quite painful actually. He was surprised it hadn’t beat right out of his ribcage and onto the floor in front of him. He was sure the Dementors that were standing guard over him and the others were waiting for it though. There were six of them surrounding them. He felt a small twinge of pride at that before it vanished completely; just as every other happy thought or feeling did with those… things around him. He cast a quick glance at his older brother, who was sitting next to his wife on towards his right. He wished the Dementors had placed him either in between his brother and sister-in-law or at the very least on the other side of Bellatrix. He had young Barty Crouch Jr. on his left side, and the boys whimpering and nervous fidgeting wasn’t helping him at all. “Stop it.” He muttered to the younger boy. He was only a few years older than the boy; probably by a maximum of five or so years. So he completely understood why the boy was panicking. He didn’t want to be here either. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Rabastan so desperately wanted to be out there continuing the search for his Lord. He refused to believe that the Potter boy – a mere babe from a filthy Mudblood and a Blood traitor – had defeated the Dark Lord. No, it wasn’t possible. But there was no denying that his Lord’s sudden vanish had confounded most of them. Instantly, he watched as dozens of his fellow Death Eaters returned to the Filth loving fools, claiming to have been under the Imperius Curse. No, he didn’t need to lie. He wouldn’t dishonor his loyalty in such a manner. So when the time had come, he had done what had seemed the natural at the time, and still felt justified: he had gone looking for the Dark Lord with the other three sitting with him. Their searching had taken them to the Longbottom’s: A bunch of Blood traitors who liked to play Auror. Surely they would know where their Lord had vanished. After all, they had been good friends with the Potter’s. They had played with the husband first, forcing the wife to watch as they tortured him for hours on end. When he failed to give them any information, they had started on her. Their screams had been musical; tear inducing for many reasons. But as fun as they had been to play with, after hours and hours of torture with the Cruciatus curse, they had lost their humor. After all, there was no fun in an insane person. They had left them there, gibbering and muttering and doing Merlin knew what else for the Aurors to find. It had taken them Weeks to have been caught. Weeks, and still no sign of the Dark Lord. Rabbit began to fear the worse; but he quickly pushed that thought aside. No, his Lord wasn’t defeated. Merely gone for a spell. He would return… He had to return. The Dementors were hushing them into the court room. And Barty was still whimpering. If anything, the boy’s whining had grown worse. Not that he could blame him. His own father was about to sentence him to Azkaban for life – because their actions had been considered ‘inhumane’ for some odd reason, and it was either that or the Kiss. Of course, Rabastan’s father would probably ship him off to Azkaban as well… but not for being on the Dark Lord’s side. No, his father would have sent him to the dreaded prison for having got caught. It hadn’t taken long for Barty to start crying out for his father and to plead with the man that he was innocent. He shot him a disgusted look, his nervousness momentarily forgotten. He would happily go to Azkaban for his actions, because he was in the right. They had all been in the right. And just as the jury had made certain of their sentencing, Bellatrix had expressed to the room at large Rabbit’s very thoughts. “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us in Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!” His Sister-in-law’s words calmed his nerves slightly. Because they would be rewarded. They had remained faithful. And if given the chance, he would have tortured more into insanity, and left a sea of dead bodies – ranging from any age – behind him in an attempt to find his Lord and Master! But his nerves were only stilled by the weight of his brother’s hand on his shoulder as they left the court room and led to their cells in Azkaban. Pride blossomed in his chest. He had done good, he knew his brother was proud of him. But once he was in the clutches of the Dementors again, that pride quickly vanished, leaving him feeling ill and weak kneed. That had been the last time he had seen his brother. He had been placed in a cell a few blocks further than his brother. The first night in the Wizarding Prison was the hardest. He had sat in the furthest corner of his cell block – he had no cell mate yet, and it wouldn’t have mattered even if he had. The whimpers had first escaped him after only thirty minutes in his cell. By midnight that first night, he was screaming out for his brother – never his parents, it had only been his brother that could right his world – blue eyes wide as his hands clawed at the sides of his head. The echoing screams that answered him, that were constantly answering him, filled his cell; filled his mind. He was a little boy again, searching for praise of some kind from his parents; receiving instead only neglect and impatience and told to go play with his brother. He was a small boy of five, he had fallen from a banister a few floors up – only his magic saving him from anything more than a broken arm – being yelled at by his father for crying at the pain in his arms: Lestrange’s didn’t cry – he had been left for the nanny to mend his arm when she returned a few hours later from a shopping trip to Diagon Alley. He stood on the platform, gazing up in awe at the Hogwart’s Express for the first time in his short life. Rodolphus was already dressed in his new Hogwart’s robes, leaving him to wander the halls of the manor by himself as he started his magical education. He had hated his brother then, hated that he was going off to Hogwarts without him; hated that he was leaving him. Surely he would never get out of this place… Because the Dark Lord was gone: Defeated by a babe glad in diapers still. That had to be the truth, because the voices whispered it teasingly into his ears every waking and sleeping moment. A dry rattling sound passed his door, and Rabbit began to cry out again, not even ashamed of the tears falling as he called out for some type of help. He could barely remember Barty’s cries. But he had gone silent quickly. Whether because he had given up or if he had received the Kiss was beyond him. Your Lord is gone, you will rot here forever. He was only Twenty-four years old. A Life sentence in Azkaban. Would he make it to see that life sentence carried out? Surely he wouldn’t be released; his actions had been considered immoral. Twenty-four and stuck in a living hell. The crying started every time he dwelled upon it Worthless, unwanted, unloved, only second best. The first week, Rodolphus had called out to him a few times, and it had been enough to calm him. His brother was still there. But as the weeks slowly turned into months, and months years he had stopped hearing his brother. Had stopped recognizing anything but the despair that seemed to thicken the air until you couldn’t breathe. How long had he been there? He couldn’t remember. How old was he? His age really didn’t matter. What had his crime been? Surely it had been worth this. Who was he? He’d forgotten long ago. He sat in his corner, muttering slightly to himself in an attempt to fill the void. To somehow cut through the air that tasted like death. The other screams from the various people in his living hell – so crowded yet so empty – A scream would escape him; a hoarse sound that added more despair to the air around him. He couldn’t remember what he was yelling for, or who to that mattered. He could only remember that he had always called out – but he couldn’t remember who had answered or why they had stopped. TAGGING.--- WORDCOUNT. 1537. TEMPLATE BY OH SO COOPERNATURAL ! @ CAUTION.

[THE PHOENIX]

VOTING CLOSED.