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"We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict." ~ Jim Morrison
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The Years of Toil

"Three years until further notice." Drawls the owl eyed judge glaring over his tall desk at me. He seals the sentence with a decisive hit of his hammer. "Next!" he screeches with a self sufficient expression.

I'm so surprised that I'm about to loose my wits and remind him of my life sentence. Whatever they give us before the trials must have fried my brain by now. How else can I explain this uncontrollable inclination towards self sabotage?

I'm supposed to be glad, happy, skipping, God damn it! I don't feel a thing. No uncommon optimism or at least the smallest trace of hope. I have to admit that I have never went out of my way with enthusiasm, much to everyone's dismay, but still, this would be a good time to be at least a little "cheerful".

Cheerful…if that is not a concept that clashes with my persona, I don't know what does…

"Hogberry" smiles at me from across the room. I force my expression into my rather worn but well known, "friendly sneer", how Draco used to scornfully call it. The boy was actually jealous of my vast assortment of facial expressions seemingly because his were reduced to mope, sulk and gloat. I never had the heart to tell him that mine weren't a reason to be proud of; rather they were proof of years and years of calculation and observation. Stupid, boring little things that I had to carefully work on in order to climb the damned social ladder.

Like I wouldn't have liked living high of the hog like my son did. To wantonly get everything I want from my foolish parents only with a lift of my finger…

I'm dragged, pushed and yelled at by one of the guards. I walk to the door out of the court room while still trying to understand the machinations of this new government. Last time St. Potter himself gloatingly announced me that my bones will rot in Azkaban and now they give me three years…
Hollingberry came back again a couple of months ago, paced and drone on for thirty minutes about the New Glorious Era that is now rising and shedding it's enlightening, revolutionary ideas upon the darkest, most medieval corners of the wizarding world.

I did not know that revolution, in their minds, equals chaos and indecision. There is something terribly odd here and I just can't put my finger on it. It has given me sleepless nights; it will drive me mad soon. It's such a tangled web that at this point it gives me the feeling that I'll never get to the bottom of it. One thing I know for sure, that "until further notice" leaves the door opened to numerous possibilities. So, I can brood in peace, knowing that the three years sentence – until further notice – is an admittedly empirical way for them to steer clear from any kind of explanation next time the government spouts out another revolutionary idea.

The guard jabs me in the ribs with his wand and I climb the small wooden stairs into the dingy Thestral carriage. My hands tied together at the back I need to literally flounce myself inside and onto the long bench like I'm some sort of walking, talking potato sack. The dizziness doesn't help either - it's obvious by the lopsided smirk the guard throws at me that I must have looked positively pathetic during my little performance.

The metal doors moan and shriek as they are pushed and fitted back into place. My mind dutifully returns to dissecting, analyzing and cutting fine every possible or rather improbable interest or goal the new leaders might be led by.

Even here, so high up in the air, where I surprisingly have an illusion of freedom my mind works furiously. I am being taken back to the Limbo where I will be spending God knows how long and I feel strangely free. It is only physical, my mind is not free and perhaps it will never truly be but yet my body, in its instinctual naïveté, enjoys the exhilarating sways of the carriage and the small string of current pouring in through a crack in the shabby door. This is perhaps the last thing I will enjoy for a long while, flying in this rusty, metal box.

The moon is almost full, I can see it white and gleaming, her surprised expression almost entirely revealed. It has a face, I have seen it since I was a small child, it is so feminine in its expression that it almost makes me feel ashamed when looking at it. A round pale face with two wide, startled eyes and a small mouth shaped in a perfect "o" looms over the world and its people with blatant shock, like a prudish old lady who just heard her grandsons swear for the first time in her life.

My parents were very fond of astrology and astronomy so when I was born they calculated all the possible details. Astrologically I am ruled by this bashful old spinster, the moon and I never thought I had anything in common with her, despite the fact that my parents, when they named me, created the most nauseatingly romantic story – a name that would represent this livid luminary that gapes her mouth at me now – they chose the Latin word for "light" and so I'm supposed to be some "light" in the darkness, like the moon. My parents had a sense of humour, I must give them that.

We are flying over the North Sea already. Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?
I can see waves glistening over the pitch black water; they look cold and rather tall. I'm wondering if pushing myself into the shaky door until it gives in and then jumping out the carriage will kill me.

Of course it will. If only I had been an animagus, a bird or a fish, to fly or swim to freedom rather than sink to the bottom of the sea like a rock, hogtied as I am. Actually, judging by the height we are flying at I wouldn't even drown properly, the water would act like a stone surface and crush me into an unrecognizable mass. My mind has the bad habit of thinking gruesome thoughts every time I let it be idle. I must return to some safer ground - analyzing.

I suspect it is past three o'clock in the morning. They brought me to London by night and they took care to return me to Azkaban before sunrise. They'd rather spend their night in the courtroom than allow us to get a glimpse of the sunlight, to be touched by a bit of warmth.

What no one knows is that in Azkaban the first thing they do is put you in the dark and literally suffocate you by letting very little air enter the cell. I have a small window in my cell but it is covered with a magical shield that prevents the smallest ray of light to come through and also acts as anti ventilation spell, letting in only enough air to keep us alive. The air here is rich, moist and smells of sea, I can breathe properly at last.

If only we could linger up here for a while more until the sun rises. I haven't seen the sunlight in almost two years.

*

Stone, cold rugged stone under his palms. He clenches his fingers slightly and digs his nails into the brittle pavement to fight the urge, the overwhelming urge to look up.

It is not the first time he finds himself in this precarious situation, it is not the first time his ego is dragged through muck, and it is not the first time he is reduced to nothing. It is said that being humbled is good for one's morals. Is this good for his morals? Is this good for anything? Does he have any morals?

Only in His presence he presents himself this way, only He manages to strip him of his own self.

Would he grovel on all fours so pathetically in front of anyone else? He cringes at the thought! Is he doing this out of some divine revelation? Is his soul conviction that this thing holds the keys to absolute truth? What a joke. He almost laughs at his own thoughts but it probably comes out more as a quiet, pitiful sob because his master, the thing, chuckles, stops his pacing and comes to him.

All the black amusement is suddenly replaced by dread and his heart starts to race, chocking him. He is not young anymore, his heart is old and worn out, he feels it fluttering strangely in his chest like it's about to loose its natural rhythm and stop. He opens his mouth to try and take a deep breath but he can't. He starts to panic even more and all his upper body shakes.

Crevasses, small cracks and tiny pebbles in the pavement under his hands, he tries to count them, analyze them, distracting himself from the now.

Those enormous shoes come into view. They are black and strangely shaped to hide their owner's abnormal feet. He knows he is close to insanity as he wildly thinks of taking out his small pocket knife and bury it to the hilt in that shoe. He fears those thoughts now because with age they turned from fleeting, censored ideas to actual desires. They are like weeds that grew thick roots in his mind and he fears that one day they will strangle his conscience and self control and turn him in the beast he hides.

"So pathetic you have become my friend...I thought that one day those yearnings of yours will be directed to more productive endeavours than planting a kitchen knife in my toe…How pitiful, how wretched! Are you not ashamed of your clumsiness my dear scheming friend?" The voice whispers from above him. This is his master, this is the man that knew all along his inner thoughts, knew him capable of having such strange wants and was all the more pleased to have him as minion.
"Self control is best achieved by people like you. A wild, tempestuous tendency in a vain nature is what makes the perfect lieutenant. A wild, tempestuous tendency in a selfless, loyal but rather unstable nature is what makes the perfect follower…soldier. You, Lucius, are not a perfect follower. You may take it as a compliment of course, though I know you are not that stupid…" he can actually hear him smile above him. A moment of silence when he dreads whatever his master is considering, and then a harsh sigh fills the silent room - "Who do you serve Lucius?" he asks in a strangely amused voice.

"You, my Lord!" he hears himself croaking.

"Who, Lucius?" the voice is harsher now, more demanding.

"The Great Lord of Truth and Immortality!" he utters with more certainty knowing that certainty is what he wants from him. He hears him chuckling and watches the large feet move away slightly.

"Say the oath, Lucius." the Lord speaks in a fascinatingly deep and melodic voice. "On your knees, look at me when you say it. I want to see your eyes." He commands.

He drags his hands on the dusty floor and stands up on his knees slowly. He can't get over and can't get used to his ghastly appearance. It defies logic the way he looks and not because of how hideous he is but because everything about him is wrong – against nature. Yet - despite the utter surrealistic air surrounding his return from the dead - the Dark Lord had never seemed as real as he did now, never as determined to reach his goals and never as present in their lives.

He empties his mind of memories, mundane worries and himself as he looks into the gaping scarlet holes that glow like two rubies incrusted in marble. The Lord's face is white and translucent, like brittle eggshell and his mouth partially toothless. He actually smiles and it is the most sinister sight. He waits for him to tie another chain around his soul. He waits for him to say the oath for the second time, to bring himself closer to damnation.

"May my soul be shattered and my flesh burn
My bones crushed and my spirit torn,
May I cry in agony and drown in sorrow
If perfidy I have in sight on the morrow.
I shall serve the Great Dark Lord
His will is my sword
His interest is mine,
His wish is my own
Now as before,
Forever until I am no more.
So mote it be."

He bows his head, showing respect to the words he just spoke. The Death Eater's poem, how he likes to call it, the Dark Lord always had a penchant for playing with words and he always liked using this talent to attract people. At the beginning he believed those charming words and they triggered very deep feelings of loyalty, now he is bored and fed up. He hides behind his boredom, fools himself that it is the only reason for his reluctance to be a part of this insanity when, in secret, he knows that the threat of the oath looms over him like a sinister bird of pray - his hesitation is pure, primal fear. One day soon the Dark Lord will be upset and will make him say the oath again, one last time and he will be "no more".

Potter and his friends escaped him, twice, and the last time from his own home, literally from within his grasp. If the war goes on longer - considering that he doesn't even have a wand anymore - it's quite probable that it will happen one more time - one last time.

A shiver runs through him but he hides it well, he never shows weakness to anyone, especially to the Dark Lord. He keeps gazing into the scarlet holes and it makes him lightheaded.

"Good, Lucius, another stone around your neck." He moves his red gaze away and starts pacing around him with ostentatious delight. "I am sure you know that there won't be a next time. Lord Voldermort gives everyone equal chances – I gave each of you three equal chances to redeem yourselves in the unfortunate case you fail me. Considering your shameful past, Lucius, this should have been your third oath taking. I forgave you for not returning to me after my rebirth because I am a merciful Lord." He stands in front of him again and pins him with a hard stare. "Am I not merciful?" His voice is a mere whisper, hissed quietly through clenched teeth, but yet clear, frightening and unsurprisingly effective.

"Yes, my Lord, you are."

"Of course I am…" his inimitable throaty chuckle fills the room. "Your thoughts are disloyal Lucius." The melodic, hypnotising tone is back.

"My Lord…I would never…"

"DON'T! Don't excuse yourself again, it's getting quite tiring."

He bows his head and refrains from making any comment, the command to be silent clear as day. The Dark Lord breaths harshly, controlling his anger and then finally speaks.

"It doesn't matter anyway. Your treacherous thoughts are meaningless," he trails off, seemingly pondering on something. "unless you have decided to take the easy, cowardly way out. Are you feeling suicidal, Lucius?" The Dark Lord sounds amused again and it makes him feel nauseous.

"Of course not, my Lord, you know me better than anyone. It's not in my character to turn to such foolish act."

"Foolish indeed, such act is beneath you…" he mocks him. "If you can't be truthful to yourself than to whom would you be? The reality is that you are a practical and realistic man before anything else…You know you cannot ever escape me. I will always own you Lucius, you always knew that. All of you know. As it is you need to pay for acting against my will…" A twisted grin stretches his face, he steps a few paces back and points his crooked wand at him. It is a mere whisper in the deep, echoing silence of the hall, but uttered with such malignancy that it shakes the building with its power.

"Crucio!" The light hits him straight in the chest and the familiar pain somehow seems to shatter the image in front of his eyes. The scream is strange, alien to him, it's not his voice, it's like he is a mere spectator to the torture. The overwhelming power of the spell travels in his head and he panics thinking that his skull might explode in a thousand pieces. It's short, merely a few seconds but it feels like he has been under the Cruciatus his whole life.

He finally feels the scraping of stone, a sure sign that he is conscious enough to know that he has fallen on his side and his cheek collided with the pavement.

"I have much more important things to do than waste my time here with you; though I dare say that you have learned your lesson." The words echo through his head like spoken from the bottom of a well. He feels cold fingers lifting his left arm slowly. He opens his eyes to see the Dark Lord pull up his robe sleeve and reveal the Mark imprinted on the pale skin of his left wrist. He doesn't even try to hide his shivering anymore; the Crucio depleted him of any energy and will to react in his usual way.

A sharp sting runs through his wrist as the Dark Lord touches the Dark Mark with his wand. Terror wakes him from his pain induced inertia and his muscles tense instinctually in expectancy of what he know is about to come. The Dark Lord discovered a new way of using the Cruciatus, casting it directly on their Dark Marks, obviously by doing that and even more so when he is in one of his foul moods, the agony is doubled – utterly unbearable.

"Crucio!" The soft, almost tender whisper burns like liquid fire through his veins and spreads through the body.

Screams, yells, shouts, this time loud and clear - and apparently mine - rake through my brain and I sit up breathing large mouthfuls of moist air and clutching my wrist. My eyes are wide and I look around through the darkness like a terrified rodent.

"What the hell Lucius?" my cellmate grumbles groggily. "Screaming like a bloody girl…you woke me up, damn it!"

"Shut up Lestrange!" My voice is hoarse and my throat sore. I look through the darkness at Rodolphus. Yes, I share my cell with Bella's dear husband - the joy.

Seeing his bearded face and wild hair makes me feel oddly safe, I know now that it was just a dream, nothing real. I'm myself now at last, my dream was impersonal, yet I was a spectator that actively participated at the show. Like diving into a Pensieve, watching the memories of a torture victim and sharing their pain.

I rub at my left wrist – the pain was so real. There are things that I will never forget; of course this place doesn't help either.

The room is dark and I'm greeted by the smell of stale air and faeces. Rodolphus keeps looking at me; I can see his face turned to me from the corner of my eye.

"What?" I hiss at him without taking my eyes away from the spot on the wall I've been watching since I woke up.

"Ah, nothing…Just starting to ask myself if you are being remorseful all of a sudden, you know, with all the nightmares you've bee having. Careful, remorse makes you soft." He concludes rising from his bed and walking to the door. "Urgh, bloody fuckers shut the 'peeping hole' again…"

"What, you miss the view?" I can't help laughing at him. Boredom turned him into an old lady. He hangs by the small eyehole, looking out for hours on end. Of course guards rarely pass the hallway - when they bring a new prisoner it's the event of the day and when they decide to close the tiny window Lestrange is in the foulest of moods.

"Shut up, Lucius!" he grumbles and returns to his cot. He sits heavily and the rusty springs moan under his weight. He wipes a hand over his face from the forehead down over his beard and looks back up at me. "What would you have me do? Sit around like a statue, like you? There are things I need to understand, and I can't do it if I don't learn their work pattern." Oh, here we go again... We've been discussing our conspiracy theories thousands of times and neither wants to accept the other's opinion - him, because he has always been a pig-headed brute, like his wife; me, on the other hand, I'm rejecting his delusions simply by principle.

"There is no pattern…the Auror catches one, brings him in and that's that! There is no specific hour, day or month when they do it. The only 'pattern' is in the time when we are fed or taken to work. And that is important only if you sprouted the idiotic idea of trying to escape. Which I hope you haven't…" I turn around and sit on the edge of my cot to face him. He seems overly excited for some reason.

"Of course not!" he waves a dismissive hand toward me. "I know it's close to impossible…"

"That if you are not feeling suicidal." I interrupt his upcoming tirade with a direct quote from my dream. The realization of what I said makes me shiver.

"Yeah…sure." He doesn't seem to notice, instead he returns with fervour to his new interest. "At five, breakfast, at five thirty we go out to work. At five PM, lunch, back to work and then at nine – lights off, right?" he looks hopeful at me. I nod with bemusement. "What happens during the night that doesn't happen during the day?" He's lost his mind. I shrug and wait for whatever aberration he is about to spout this time.

"We rest?" I make it a question. I never knew exactly how to behave around people with mental issues, even though I have spent all my life among them.

"Not 'what we do', Lucius, but 'what happens'?"

"Rodolphus spit it out; I want to get back to sleep!" He grabs the end of his beard and twirls it around his fingers; he has grown fond of twisting and pulling at his beard when he's stressed.

We are not allowed to shave, comb our hair or knotted whiskers in here and the jail looks as if populated by an army of Dumbledores. My beard has already reached my collarbone and Rodolphus looks like a smaller version of Hagrid.

He bends forward to me and whispers, "They close the peeping hole at night!" I look at him and ask him with my eyes what he means. "Listen here." He leans back and adopts what it supposed to be a commanding posture. "They leave it opened all day, they communicate with us through it, but at night they close it, regularly. Though, theoretically, they have no reason to do it, no one walks the hallways then and even if they did it's not like they'd want to make sure we are not disturbed from our beauty sleep. Following me? Right, then why?"

He stands up and walks back to the door. The latch by which they open the porthole is on the outside and he tries to slide it open by gliding his palms forcefully along the smooth steel. He fails for the hundredth time.

"I have stayed awake a few times and I heard sounds, voices on the other side of the door. They don't sit around doing nothing at night, mate." He shakes his head knowingly at me. 'I know they don't sleep at night, you idiot', I yearn to tell him, but I stop myself dreading his paranoia. I know what he suspects. It's the thing that has been whispered among the prisoners for months, the thing I have feared for even longer. I know that if I keep my cool I have higher chances to pass unnoticed and if they ignore me I will not be subjected to whatever it is they are doing to some of us at night.

"Rodolphus, get to sleep, you're babbling." I slide my feet back under the dirty blanket and turn to face the wall.

"They are brainwashing us, you oblivious moron!" Oh, the revelation, Rodolphus Lestrange discovers the Earth is round!

"I will pretend you didn't just call me that, Rodolphus, for simplicity's sake," I speak to the wall in front of me, without bothering to turn back to him. "you are my cellmate, I'm not in the mood for drama following me even here in the cell. And speaking of brainwashing, you should remember you are supposed to be used to it and you should realise that in the given situation such a thing is highly improbable. It is better for us if we don't believe those things out loud. There is no such thing as brainwashing in Azkaban, Rodolphus." Poor lunatic will get himself in trouble again with his lack of tact and by habit will drag me down with him.

I can hear him breathe loudly and I ignore him. He grumbles for a while, shuffling through the room, his feet rustling the straw scattered on the floor and then a loud, metallic screech announces me that he got back into bed.

As I try to fall asleep I hear a gruff laughter muffled by the door that separates our cell from whoever is issuing it. It sounds like something heavy being dragged on the stone floor.

Unintelligible words ring into my ears before fading in the distance, along with the dragging sound.

"I told you!" whispers Rodolphus.

*

Stone, mortar, another stone, another scoop of mortar, stone, mortar, stone, mortar. I'm dizzy; fortunately soon I'll be reaching the end of the wall. I'll finish the corner and then continue to the other wall. After that I hope to get a break. I look at the Goyle boy blending the mortar energetically with a long iron rod. The boy looks like he has an excess of vitality and I'm thinking he should put it to better use by building the wall instead of stirring through a bucket.

It is the first time after two months when I'm not trapped between stone walls. The guards took us out to work today and then they formed a large circle around us supervising and 'motivating' us with insults and random kicks in the shin or arse. They stand wrapped up to their teeth in thick woollen cloaks, while we are wearing meagre, moth eaten, light overcoats. We are perhaps one hundred men here, half frozen, some half dead, building an adjoining building. They didn't tell us what it is for but by the size of it I suspect the goal is to enlarge the prison. There has been talk that we are so many that Azkaban can't contain all of us. It isn't only a rumour because I have met people from all over the world in here lately; there is even one fellow from Korea. From the sign and grunt language I was able to improvise with him I understood that he once made some trading business with Avery and that is why he is here. They accused him of trading dark magic items.

Azkaban is truly an internationally recognized and appreciated prison. I must be proud to be a part of such a successful and respected institution, therefore to show my appreciation I piss on its walls whenever I get the chance. It gives me such an unexplainable and in the same time mediocre satisfaction. This place is turning me into an animal.

I reach the corner. Borgin follows me to hand in the stones. His skinny arms rise to me with a new one. A strong wind blows around me, like a miniature tornado.

"I need a brake Borgin!" I yell over the howling wind at the husk of a man in front of me. "And so do you!" He smiles a grim, toothless smile and says something, but his voice is too weak and I don't understand. "I'll get young Goyle to finish, you need to do something easier, you look terrible. Wait here I'll talk to Gregory." I yell in his ear. He nods and drops the heavy stone to the ground and then proceeds to sit on it. I grab him by his upper arm and keep him on his feet. "Stand up man. You want to get beaten to death? Stand and wait." I look him sharply in the eye trying to remind him who I am and how he used to obey me once in everything. I have some responsibility for him – he helped me in many occasions with my collection of dubious items and besides it's obvious that he won't last long, he is extremely sick. He nods and straightens his back shakily.

I go straight to Goyle gathering my gnawed coat around my body along the way. The wind is incredible in its power, it almost forces reverence.

I reach the boy. He looks startled for a moment and then relaxes when he sees me. "Won't you take pity on an old man and work on that side of the wall?" I point at the wizened Borgin that stands in the middle of the bustling workers. "Take Nott or Zabini and let me and Borgin take it from here."

"Yes sir." He says and I take the steel rod from his hands and wave at Borgin to join me. The wind brings tears to my eyes and I need to squint to see Goyle's face. "Have you seen Draco today, Gregory?" I ask him. He turns around, hair whipping around his face. He seems hesitant and almost frightened. He makes to open his mouth but then looks down to the ground. I frown at him and he looks even more frightened. "What is it boy? What happened?"

"I…I don't know how to say this, sir…I…I" he looks at me doing a very good impression of a fish out of water.

"Gregory, what happened?" I grab one of his shoulders and shake him a little. He thins his lips and looks cautiously at the guards.

"I haven't seen him since yesterday…" he stutters and then looks behind me. "Mr. Lestrange, he told me that he is in the hospital wing." My heart travels in my throat and as I follow Goyle's gaze my eyes land on Rodolphus, mere metres away watching us intently. I haven't seen my cellmate since morning when they brought us here to work; perhaps he just didn't have the opportunity to tell me. I have a powerful feeling that something bad happened to my son.

"What happened, Goyle? I swear if you don't tell me I'll…"my voice shakes with fury and Goyle's whimpering face just asks to be punched. I calm down and push the boy away turning to Lestrange and practically running towards him. The man puts his shovel aside and looks at me with something akin to anticipation. I hope it's just my overactive imagination, but Lestrange has been acting odder and odder these past few months.

It's been one year and a half since I've been given the three years sentence, one year and a half since Lestrange was spying on the guards and scratching their daily and nightly schedule on the stone under his bed with a tiny nail he extracted from a table in the canteen. He stoped doing this for a while now, instead he sits on his cot, thinking, seemingly planning. He is more silent, sometimes almost self assured. I want to believe that he lost his mind, I honestly, deeply want to fool myself into thinking this is only insanity. But it is obvious - he's always been too obvious to me. There is something that makes him feel superior and a proud Lestrange is as transparent as Severus' obsessively scrubbed potion flasks.

Severus... It's one of those times when I'm in dire need of his calming, dry sarcasm.

"Rodolphus, we need to talk." I grab him by his sleeve and drag him behind one of the walls, away from the prying eyes of the guards.

"What is it Lucius? You alright?" he tries to sound casual – he fails.

"Cut it out!" I hiss at him as quietly as I can. "What happened to my son? Tell me now!"

"Ah, yes. I meant to tell you earlier but with all this hustle and bustle 'round here…" he shrugs and looks down morosely. "Goyle asked me earlier because he didn't see him last night. I only just found out myself from one of the boys at lunch. I honestly – at one point – thought you knew…" he looks me in the eye and sighs, I urge him to continue. "He's been beaten, Lucius. Beaten like a punching bag by Husher. It seems they've taken him to interrogation last night and he lost it, he jumped the man with a knife he smuggled from somewhere, cut him around a bit and, well, you know how that filthy squib is. He's beaten him, disfigured him from what I heard from those that saw him being taken to the healers. They were saying he had blood all over his face and the stretcher was soaked through." He whispers. "It was bad! At least he's alive…" he trails off.

If there is anything I fear is that my heart will fail me and I won't finish my sentence and live to see Draco and Cissy out of here. I hate it sometimes, I hate its weak flutter in my chest, and I hate how it chokes me and forces me to take desperate gulps of air.

I lean against the wall with Lestrange beside me watching me attentively. I look around at the guards, some are huddled together in a corner guffawing like morons and another herd is watching a group of prisoners to my left in the farthest side of the wall, the others are scattered throughout the yard. There is only one I need to see, only one I'm looking for and suddenly I spot him, just few metres away hitting a prisoner over the head with his cane. Having fun, are you? There is nothing lower and more worthless in its mere existence than Husher.

I feel my hand pushing Lestrange aside and I put my chin in my chest, making my way to my target. I don't have to work to control my outer image anymore. I can easily appear normal, calm even while I'm on my way to destroy someone. It is a wonderful ability, fire, on the inside, ice on the outside – and now no one suspects what I'm about to do.

I reach him in a blink of an eye and as I'm standing behind him hearing only his voice as he yells at the miserable bundle at his feet, I debate what would be the easiest way to kill him. Strangle him effectively from the behind or hit him in the head repeatedly. Neither – I need to get my satisfaction from something; I need to see his face.

"Husher." I hear my surprisingly controlled voice. He hears me; he stops his tirade of mumbled oaths and turns his pudgy frame to me.

"Malfoy? What d'ye' want? If ye' want a bit of this," he brandishes his cane around, "ye' need te' wait yer turn." He laughs looking very proud of himself. He straightens his back and lifts his head up to appear taller than he already is. His Adam's apple protrudes as he pulls his shoulders down – this is too easy. Stupidity, as useful as it can be in others, it is still disappointing.

"If one day the impossible happens and you do that," I point at the shivering prisoner behind him, "with a wand I think I would actually stand in line for my turn." It is so easy to provoke him that it's almost mind-numbing.

"Yer' really askin' fer' it, are you?" he growls and lifts his chin even higher, his neck even more exposed.

"I know it's hard for you, but you should really keep that hole you call mouth shut, one day you might find it ripped off." I hiss and approach him, my hand trembling beside me, yearning to rip the quivering apple in his neck. He laughs loudly and his head falls back. This is my chance.

"Threatenin' again, are ya…" his words die as I launch myself at him and curl my fingers in an iron grip around the protruding cartilage in his neck. He roars in pain and tries to escape me while clutching at my arm in desperation. I feel my fingers sinking deeper into his flesh and his yells are gurgled and suffocated. It all happens extremely fast - he staggers away from me and into a wall behind him, I follow him and in mere seconds I'm on top of him and out of my mind with rage.

It is one of those moments when time seems to stop. A force I thought burned out runs through my veins and there is nothing else that matters in this world but revenge. I forget everything, the place, the people; all I see is Husher and all I feel is whatever demon drives me to do this. His cry reverberates around me as his pudgy fist launches itself straight towards my face. What's left of my famed duelling skills takes over and I duck. I have been praying for this moment for almost two years, for two years I wished to beat the pulp out of this animal. I'm blinded by fury, I sink my feet and knees into his fat gut, I break his bones with my fists and I swear and yell and detest and abhor…

"This is for my son, you foul, mindless, worm! Die, I'm going to KILL YOU!" I pummel him to the ground and twist my fingers into the collar of his shirt bringing his face closer to my fist. I am aware of people around us and commands being yelled. Someone tries to grab me but a surge of uncontrolled magic runs through my body and whoever it was flies through the air away from me. The hog beneath me coughs and tries to breathe through the blood that seeps from his mouth and nose. His face is a bloody mess and I see the skin on my knuckles torn to pieces but I feel no pain. Not the least bit of pain, only pleasure as I hear the bones of his face cracking and his yells dyeing down.

This is not only my revenge upon the mindless guard that has beaten my son to a pulp. For a moment Husher's face turns gray, his nose disappears and two gaping holes replace it, his eyes become shiny, red slits and his lip-less mouth gapes into a horrid grin. My heart races and I lose all the strength of will I have. My mind has lost control over the body a long time ago and I realise that if I'm not stopped I will kill him.

"Incarcerous!" someone yells close by and suddenly I find myself unable to move.

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Another chapter done! Thank you for reading this*bow*, I hope you liked it and even if you didn't let me know. Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated and highly motivational.:)