On October 30th, 1981, a Friday, on what was to be her birthday, Bella was dragged, a cackling, shrieking mess, inside Azkaban. Spat upon, shoved and taunted by her Auror guards, she’d dutifully put on her show, while surveying everything through a wind-disheveled curtain of hair.
She didn’t fear Dementors: one-on-one, even two-on-one, her Occlumency would hold strong. Escape, though, was a much trickier business. So, in the moldy damp of her barren cell, she slept and schemed, a spider webbing and spinning, and waited.
Years went by, counted out by the autumns banging on decrepit shutters, snagging her hair in snarls, and creeping, icy-fingered, below her dress in tatters. She’d come alive then, in the season of her birth. Magic would simmer, a bridled fire underneath her skin, and she’d strain all her senses, reaching out for the sign, waiting to unleash the burning within.
But it would be in a bourgeoning summer, that she’d finally feel it: that sweet ache thrumming through her body, spreading from her Mark. “My Lord,” she’d whisper, drunk on such loving devotion to send Dementors swarming at her mercifully barred door.
And when the following winter came, her conquering hero came with it.