Thy voe's violet stream
Confusion clouded her eyes as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings, the world around her coming back into focus with each passing second. She was in a yellow waiting room, at the watch of two Aurors, her hands cuffed and dressed in striped pajamas – prison robes?
Her head was pounding. Then she could take a better look at her injuries – that blooddy nurse had stopped the bleeding, but not the horrible aspect of the injuries, and the pain was still there.
How did she end up there? When did she receive the Death Mark? Was she truely a Werewolf? The sharp pain in her head was too severe so as to think of a reasonable answer.
Another man emerged through the door, ”Bring her in.”
The two men grabbed her by her hands and dragged her outside. Her feet were too heavy in order to stand on her own, and she did not have the will to do it either, or to fight them to release herself.
They brought her in front of a large photo camera and was handed a small panel engraved with anciend hieroglyphs. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her fate, shuffled forward in the ill-fitting, coarse fabric of her Azkaban clothes. The stark, striped uniform hung loosely on her slender frame, its rough texture a constant reminder of the life she had abruptly fallen into. As the flash of the camera captured her image, she couldn't help but wonder how she had ended up there, her freedom stripped away, her future then a series of uncharted, uncertain steps.
At the sight of her mugshot, a sense of dread washed over her, her heart pounding with an intensity that made her feel faint. The face in the mirror was unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, and marked by deep, angry cuts. Her once vibrant, thick hair was now patchy, large clumps missing, leaving behind raw, scarred skin. "Who is this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile image before her.
The girl, barely more than a teenager, was ushered in by two towering Dementors, their skeletal hands gripping her arms with a coldness that seemed to seep into her very bones. The heavy, iron-clad doors of the Ministry of Magic's courtroom creaked open, and a hush fell over the assembled crowd. Her face was pale and gaunt, framed by wild, disheveled hair, and her eyes held a mixture of fear and defiance as she was forced into the enchanted chair at the center of the room. Magical chains slithered around her wrists and ankles, binding her securely.
The judge was the Minister of Magic himself, introducing as Pius Thicknesse. The room was filled with Aurors, their expressions a blend of suspicion, anger, and sorrow. They had seen too much carnage, too many lives lost, to feel any pity.
As she looked around the courtroom that was filled with all sorts of wizards, her gaze fell upon two familiar faces—Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. Her heart ached at the sight of them, and a glimmer of hope flickered in her eyes. They had been her mentors, guiding her through the complexities of magic with patience and wisdom. Now, their expressions were etched with sorrow and pity, their eyes heavy with the weight of the situation. She searched their faces, silently pleading for recognition, for some sign that they would stand up for her, defend her, or at least acknowledge the girl they once knew. But they remained silent, their pity offering no solace, their presence a cruel reminder of the distance that now separated them.
In stark contrast, Professor Snape sat among the observers, his face a mask of indifference. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion, no hint of the thoughts that lay behind them. She remembered his disdain, the cold, cutting remarks that had made her school days with him a trial in themselves. As their eyes met, a chill ran down her spine. She was certain he took some twisted pleasure in seeing her brought so low, condemned to this fate. His presence felt like a personal torment, a reminder of every moment she had felt small and powerless under his gaze.
The judge peered over his spectacles, his voice stern as he asked, "Are you Lucille Lupin?"
Lucille's voice trembled, her throat raw and coarse. "Y-yes, sir, I am."
The girl was being tried for the horrific attack she had carried out during the last full moon. As a werewolf, she had lost control and unleashed a night of terror on an unsuspecting village, resulting in the deaths of 34 wizards and 89 Muggles, and leaving 12 others grievously injured, according to Umbridge.
"You stand accused of being a werewolf and attacking a village during the full moon, causing the deaths of numerous wizards and Muggles. How do you plead?"
Desperately shaking her head, tears welling up, Lucille cried, "I'm not a Werewolf, sir! Please, you have to believe me! I have no idea how this happened, I swear, I just—"
The judge raised an eyebrow, his tone incredulous. "Not a werewolf, you say?" He pointed to a document. "The bite on your shoulder says otherwise, Miss Lupin."
"Lies! I—Please, bring my father—Remus Lupin! He—he will believe me!"
The judge's voice turned cold, with a hint of sarcasm. "Your father, uou say? Remus Lupin has denied you as his daughter. He claimed his daughter died long ago and even held a memorial for her." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Not even he wants you anymore."
Collective mocking laughter filled the room as the Death Eaters jeered.
Lucille collapsed in her seat, sobbing. "No... no, that's not true... I swear, the nurse—"
Banging his gavel, the judge called for order. "Order in the court! Miss Lupin, your fate is sealed. The evidence is undeniable, and your pleas fall on deaf ears. You will be taken to Azkaban to serve your sentence."
"No..." Lucille whispered, broken.
Motioning to the Dementors, the judge commanded, "Take her away."
The Death Eaters continued to laugh, their cruel mockery echoing in Lucille's ears as she was dragged from the courtroom. As she was led away, the weight of the cold reality of her sentence crashed down upon her, her spirit crushed under the burden of despair.
Pius Thicknesse pronounced the verdict, and the room seemed to grow colder as the Dementors moved forward to reclaim their prisoner. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, the weight of her fate pressing down on her. The Aurors watched, unyielding, as she was led away, her spirit already beginning to wither in the presence of the Dementors' soul-sucking aura.
She was taken to Azkaban, the grim fortress of despair, where the howling winds and the cries of the damned would be her constant companions.