Fenrir had never, could never, condone the abuse of a child; the imprisonment of a child; the torture of a child. A child was to be cherished; to be loved.
Many would scoff at the thought, pointing out all of his past failings, but he had never willingly bit a child that hadn't needed a family. And that was what being a werewolf brought; a family. A pack to return home to. There was only one, whom he had bitten for another reason. But it had been to protect the others, but all the same he regretted it. If only because he not foreseen what the boy's father would cause him to believe.
Remus Lupin had been a misgiving on his part, and he would admit that.
As much of a monster as they claimed him to be, he could not see how they were so different. The had tossed two children into the depths of Azkaban, to forever remain amongst the worse of criminals. He had become fiercely protective of little Harry when he arrived, and equally so of Elladora when she had been tossed aside, to the harsh reality of consequence. Not that there was much he could do- bound by a silver cage, and with no means of escape but the vain hope that the Dark Lord would return.
His amber eyes slid over to the cell next to him, where Elladora lay curled into the tightest ball she could become. Those dark silver depths were wide and unblinking as they stared at nothing; the body trembling and the mind in the same turmoil and creative torture that they were all in, for various lengths, after each visit. He wanted to hold her; to protect her; to comfort her. But he could do none of those things; only watch. As her parents were forced to watch. As Rabastan was forced to watch. And as Barty was forced to watch.
That was all they could do. Watch. Listen. And hope for a moment of sparse conversation between each episode.
He often believed none of them would even hold any resemblance of sanity if they were alone. Their conversations, Elladora's lessons, were all they had to live for. All they had to keep them going.
He sighed, the light of a nearly full moon tingling his senses.
Even his blessing could not give him reprieve anymore.
It would be bearable, she had often decided, it would be bearable if it weren't for the Dementors.
They had asked her what she heard- what she saw- when they passed over her, and she had never answered those questions. They could've guessed, but she spoke little of what she had been put through at the hands of muggles, and at the hands of the 'virtuous', and what she had told them was only to answer the question of why she was there in the first place.
She hadn't meant to kill those people, but some part of her laughed with vindictive glee as the corpses were called to mind. They had caused her so much pain and suffering; she hadn't done anything. Her magic hadn't done anything. But she had been condemned twice over regardless.
So what she saw, what she felt, what she heard with the haunting draw of a Dementor's breath was her damnation; her condemning.
It was clinical and cold, though the stone walls dripped red with still echoing screams of those before her. She had been drugged after she had made it evident she would not go without a fight; her body was heavy and she could not move her limbs. The same preacher that haunted her Sundays stood with the same pitying look he always had, as though he personally knew she would drown in the fires of hell. Beside him was another, who was a man of concrete and salted gravel. There were others, in the shadows- each holding something she could not distinguish- their faces were blank and unsympathetic. She would receive no mercy here.
Ankles and wrists were chained in each corner of the altar, giving her a darkened view of what was to be her first torture.
The water.
It rained down upon her in icy droplets, choking her as it 'cleansed' her of the evil. Not that she knew it; she only knew the burn as she couldn't breathe; she only knew her screams; she only knew the harsh echoing voice of the men that stood at her head; clasping hold of their belief that within her the devil resided.
She was disorientated when the rain stopped.
It was chanting.
It was burning.
There were prayers spoken.
They got louder.
And she became more fearful.
She didn't want this.
Who would?
She wanted her parents back. She wanted the soft lullabies and kind smiles that were but dreams to ease herself to sleep with.
Her magic wanted the same.
But it took a more violent approach.
The screams reverberated against the stone walls of the room; bouncing back at her and fuelling the protective fire that burned around her.
Blades tore at limbs.
Blood stained the floor and the walls and her skin.
She could taste it.
And she was stuck among it.
Breathing in the scent of seven dead, and two fatally injured. Breathing in the scent of her first murder as it climbed down her throat and choked her in her own terror and tears.
There would be no going back from this.
And there would be no forgetting it either.
Every moment was memorised and seared into her brain.
She had only been a child. She still was a child.
Fresh sobs racketeered throughout the dark corner of her prison; tearing at the heartstrings of her little make-do family. But eyes hardened rather than shattered.
Revenge could not be taken away like beauty. The Dementors didn't care for it; so it would drive them through the insanity, the depression, and it would give them something to live for.
It all relied on Harry now.
Harry, and his mission to find the Dark Lord, and free them all.
Even if he died trying.
Even if…
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