That was who Bellatrix had once been, the most promising witch of her own generation, before the Dark Lord stole her and broke her, shattered her and reshaped her, binding her to him on a deeper level and with darker arts than any Imperius.
Ten years Bellatrix had served the Dark Lord, killing who he bade her kill, torturing who he bade her torture.
And then the Dark Lord had finally been defeated.
And Bellatrix's nightmare had continued.
Somewhere inside Bellatrix there might be something that was still screaming, that had been screaming the whole time, something a psychiatric Healer could bring back; or there might not be, Professor Quirrell had no way of knowing. But either way, they could...
...they could at least get her out of Azkaban...
Bellatrix Black had been put into the lowest level of Azkaban.
Harry was having trouble not imagining what he would see when they got to her cell. Bellatrix must have had almost no fear of death, in the beginning, if she was still alive at all.
They descended another flight of stairs, coming that much closer to Death and Bellatrix, the clacking of their invisible shoes the only sound that Harry could hear. Dim orange light coming from the gas lights, the faint green spark drifting through the air, the shining figure following with its silver light fluctuating from time to time.
After descending many times, they came in time to a corridor that did not end in stairs, and a final metal door, and the green spark halted before it.
Harry's heart had calmed a little, as they descended far into the depths of Azkaban without anything happening. But now it was hammering his chest once more. They were at the bottom, and the shadows of Death were very close at hand.
A soft metal click came from the lock, as Professor Quirrell opened the way.
Harry took a deep breath and remembered everything that Professor Quirrell had told him. The hard part wouldn't just be getting the pretended personality right enough to fool Bellatrix Black herself, the hard part would be keeping his Patronus going at the same time...
The green spark winked out, and a moment later a meter-high snake shimmered into existence, no longer invisible.
The metal door moved with a slow creaking sound as Harry pushed on it with his invisible hand, opened it just a crack, and peered through.
He saw a straight corridor that terminated in solid stone. There was no light there but what crept in from Harry's Patronus. That was bright enough for him to see the outer bars of the eight cells set into the corridor, but he couldn't see the insides; more importantly, though, he didn't see anyone in the corridor itself.
"I ssee nothing," hissed Harry.
The snake darted on ahead, swiftly twisting across the floor.
A moment later -
"Sshe iss alone," hissed the snake.
Stay, Harry thought to his Patronus, which took up a position just to one side of the door, as though guarding it; and then Harry pushed the door open further, and followed within.
The first cell Harry looked at contained a dessicated corpse, skin gone grey and mottled, flesh worn through in places to expose the bone beneath, no eyes -
Harry shut his eyes. He could still do that, he was still invisible, he wasn't betraying anything by shutting his eyes.
He'd known it already, he'd read it on page six of his Transfiguration book, that you stayed in Azkaban until your prison term was done. If you died before it was up they kept you there until they released your corpse. If your term was for life, they just left the body in the cell until the cell was needed, at which point they threw your body into the Dementors' pit. But it was still a shock to see, that corpse had been a person who'd just been left there -
The light in the room wavered.
Steady, thought Harry in his core. It wouldn't be good for Professor Quirrell if that Patronus went out from his thinking sad thoughts. This near to the Dementors the Defense Professor might just fall dead where he stood. Steady, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, steady!
With that thought, Harry opened his eyes again, there wasn't time to waste.
The second cell he looked at contained only a skeleton.
And behind the bars of the third cell he saw Bellatrix Black.
Something precious and irreplaceable inside Harry withered like dry grass.
You could tell the woman wasn't a skeleton, that her head wasn't a skull, because the texture of skin was still different from the texture of bone, no matter how white and pale she'd become, waiting in the dark alone. Either they weren't feeding her much, or what she ate, the shadows of Death drained from her; for her eyes seemed shrunken below their lids, her lips looked too shriveled to close over her teeth. The color seemed leached out of the black clothing she had worn into prison, like the Dementors had drained that too. They'd been meant to be daring, those clothes, and now they lay loosely over a skeleton, exposing shriveled skin.
I'm here to save her, I'm here to save her, I'm here to save her, Harry thought to himself, desperately, over and over with an effort like Occlumency, willing his Patronus not to go out, to stay and protect Bellatrix from the Dementors -
In his heart, in his core, Harry held to all his pity and his compassion, his will to save her from the darkness; the silver radiance coming in through the open door brightened, even as he thought it.
And in another part of him, like he was just letting another part of his mind carry out a habit without paying much attention to it...
A cold expression came over Harry's face, invisibly beneath the hood.
"Hello, my dear Bella," said a chill whisper. "Did you miss me?"
Chapter 53: The Stanford Prison Experiment, Pt 3
The corpse of a woman opened her eyes, and the dull sunken orbs gazed out at nothing.
"Mad," Bellatrix muttered in a cracked voice, "It seems that little Bella is going mad..."
Professor Quirrell had instructed Harry, calmly and precisely, how he was to act in Bellatrix's presence; how to form the pretense he would maintain in his mind.
You found it expedient, or perhaps just amusing, to make Bellatrix fall in love with you, to bind her to your service.
That love would have persisted through Azkaban, Professor Quirrell had said, because to Bellatrix it would not be a happy thought.
She loves you utterly, completely, with her whole being. You do not return her love, but consider her useful. She knows this.
She was the deadliest weapon you possessed, and you called her your dear Bella.
Harry remembered it from the night the Dark Lord killed his parents: the cold amusement, the contemptuous laughter, that high-pitched voice of deathly hate. It didn't seem at all difficult to guess what the Dark Lord would say.
"I hope you are not mad, Bella dear," said the chill whisper. "Mad is not useful."
Bellatrix's eyes flickered, tried to focus on empty air.
"My... Lord... I waited for you but you did not come... I looked for you but I could not find you... you are alive..." All her words came out in a low mutter, if there was emotion in it, Harry could not tell.
"Sshow her your face," hissed the snake at Harry's feet.