by Morrighan

DISCLAIMER: The Lestranges, Lord Voldemort and Azkaban belong to J K Rowling. I'm not sure anyone else would want them, actually... The LoTR quote belongs to J R R Tolkien.

CENSOR: PG-13.

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

And cold be sleep under stone:

Never more to wake on stony bed,

Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

In the black wind the stars shall die,

And still on gold here let them lie,

Till the dark lord lifts his hand

Over dead sea and withered land.

(The barrow-wight's song, Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings)

Sunset, 24 June 1995.

When he comes, I must be ready.

Her cell had a window over the sea, and, as she did most days, she sat by it, looking out to the horizon. There were never any ships. No seabirds, not even gulls. No fish. So she would watch the driftwood instead, focussing on each branch as if it were a lifeline. If there was no driftwood she would watch the waves themselves, concentrating on their rise and fall, trying to memorise their shapes, find the patterns that shaped them.

While she watched, she combed her hair.

The comb was of her own making, from the ribcage of a rat that had once tried to steal food from her cell. There were no combs in Azkaban, and this comb - this set of bones - was her link with sanity. She used it constantly, as the focus - like the driftwood and the waves - of an artificial obsession that would keep some part of her mind beyond the Dementors' reach. Her long hair had not been washed in thirteen years, but it still shone, dark and thick and lustrous even though her face was thin and haggard, and her eyes feverishly bright.

From her earliest years her father had taught her self-discipline. Only learn to master yourself completely, Lucrezia, he would tell her, and you will be able to master anything in the world. Nothing will ever be beyond you, and no spell will be too hard for you. He had been a fine teacher. She had learnt the lesson he taught, and he had been right. Had he known she was bound for Azkaban?

Azkaban. They threw us into Azkaban. Just thinking the word caused the horror and the foulness of it to grip her mind. There was nowhere more terrible, nowhere colder. Somewhere in the darkness her husband Felix Lestrange lay. She'd hear him screaming sometimes in the night, and want to go to him. She'd throw herself against the bars trying to get to him, until his screams stopped or the Dementors came, and then she'd lie on the floor of the cell, lost in dark dreams, as they stood over her, feeding on her soul.

No. Don't think of that. The sea. Watch the sea. She stared out through the barred window, and watched the rhythmic swelling of the sea, trying to lose herself in the sound of the waves on the rocks below, trying to work out whether the tide was going in or out, and when high tide would come. When that wasn't enough she began to comb her hair again, concentrating on each stroke with her whole being, on the feel of its teeth against her scalp, on each tangle and knot it encountered. It didn't work.

It's been so long. I will be here till I die... Will he never come for us? The comb fell from her hand, and it lay in the shadow of the window. Our master has forgotten us.

She forced that thought out of her mind, and stood up. Her bones creaked as if she was an old woman, but she forced herself to stand as straight and as dignified as she had been taught. That had also been her father's training: Never slouch, child. Head up - just so - and walk like you own the world, even if you are dying on your feet. Show the world that you are to be respected and feared, and they will honour you as they should.

Head up, and back straight, she began to pace diagonally across her cell. She did so daily, spending many hours in walking. I will not let myself become feeble. It took six paces to cross from one corner of the cell to the other. And then turning, and another six paces to return. The Dark Lord when he comes shall not find me weak and useless. I shall be ready. Six steps. Turn. Six more steps. Turn again. I shall be ready when he comes. I shall be ready. Pacing again. The floor uneven and gritty under her bare feet. The air smelling of dust and decay, and of human fear. Turn. Six steps. Never look down when you walk, Lucrezia, look straight ahead, her father would say. Only servants look down, and no daughter of mine will be a servant. Six steps. It's getting darker. It's cold. Six steps, and turn, and another six. It's always cold here. She stopped, and pulled the tattered grey robe tighter about her.

Over the sea, the moon began to rise. Only a small crescent showed above the water, but she could see that it would be a full moon. Another focus. She went and knelt before the barred window, picking up the comb of rat's bones again, and started to run it absently through her hair.

Half of the moon was now visible, and it was blood red. A Dementor passed her cell, and she shivered uncontrollably. So cold! And still the Dark Lord does not come. We will die here, and never finish his work. We were his servants but he will forget us. Has he already forgotten us, we who worked so hard for his cause? The Dementor was hovering not six feet from her. Come for us, master! You would not forget your faithful ones? The Dementor glided away, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing for her master, and powerless to find any focus that would enable her to regain control of her mind.

Gradually the horror and despair faded - she was still alive, still in Azkaban. She realised that the light of the moon was shining into her eyes, and pulled herself up by the bars of the window and looked out, pressing her body against the cold iron bars. The moon. Watch the moon, she told herself, Don't think about anything else. Focus.

It hung low on the horizon still, an almost-circle - not quite full after all. She watched it, dredging up half-forgotten astronomy lessons, trying to name the craters and oceans. Mare Tycho, Mare Copernicus, Oceanus Procellarum, Mare Crisium, Mare Tranquillitas. The other names were long lost, but she strained her memory for them, as she traced the outline of each formation with a skeletal finger, her hand stretched through a gap in the bars to the world outside.

And then, just for a moment, the face of the moon changed, and she saw - thought she saw - the faint green outline of a skull superimposed against its surface, with a serpent protruding from the skull's mouth. And, as deep calls to deep, it woke for the first time in thirteen years the pain in her left forearm, which spread and blossomed like the opening of a rose.

It is his sign! His sign at last. VOLDEMORT.

It was almost hope, though it vanished almost immediately, and she could feel the Dementors flocking to the door of her cell to feed on it. In doubt and desperation and despair she began to shout, determined to get the words out before they reached her and the feeling was lost.

"The Dark Lord will rise! He will rise, and come for us, he will stretch out his hand and take us again! We will be his servants again, and he rise and he will never be stopped. He will come..."

They flocked to her cell, congregating at the barred door, and the weight of their combined presence hit her like an avalanche as they tried to feed on that sudden futile gleam of hope. She choked in mid-phrase, and the words deserted her. She clung to the bars of the windows feeling as if she were about to faint, haranguing herself for her weakness. Her father had never approved of weakness. Do not submit to them, Lucrezia, she told herself. Be strong. Control yourself.

She felt them begin to drift away, and gradually she became aware of a tidal wave of noise spreading through the fortress. She could hear Felix shouting, repeating her words, and as she listened other voices took up the cry: some shouting, some moaning, others screaming, in a sudden tumult, a ululation in a silent world, a charivari of defiance.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

The faintness lessened, and she allowed her grip on the bars to loosen, letting herself fall to the ground. She saw that most of the Dementors had gone, and as she watched others dispersed silently through the fortress, until she was left alone at the window of her cell. Doubtless gone to feed elsewhere, she thought indifferently.

It was not long before the silence returned. She could hear someone whimpering nearby, but paid no heed to the sound, as she gathered all her strength of mind for the task that was to come.

When he comes, I must be ready.

She picked up her discarded comb, and with great care began to comb her hair again, concentrating on each knot and tangle as though it were a matter of life and death.

PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

The inspiration (if that's the word) for this fic came during a seriously bad hair day. I'm not sure it really works, but I can safely say it's the strangest thing I've ever written.

I'm assuming that Mrs Lestrange was the woman who was tried with Crouch's son in GoF. She's just too impressive. She says about two lines and still dominates the entire scene. We have just got to see her again. I've tried to keep the sense of her strength and determination even when seriously weakened by the Dementors.

The date given at the beginning, is that of the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, and hence of Lord Voldemort's 'rebirth'. One day I'll manage to start a fic without giving a date and time, but it hasn't happened yet. I hope the use of italics isn't too confusing - I probably shouldn't have used them for two different things.

This is the revised version owing to the fact that some idiot (i.e. me) totally forgot about Voldy using the Dark Mark to summon the Death Eaters that night.