Shades of black(contd..)!!

Read the beginning here

He was not sure how long he had slept, just as he had not been sure how long he had kept running, and he wondered vaguely if he would ever be sure of anything ever again. But it was still dark outside when he awoke, so he concluded from this that not much time had passed, only a few hours at most.

Rodolphus rolled over onto his other side, and felt an unexpected lurch of his stomach:it sent an icy pang through his heart . . . well, probably not a heart, he mused, because Death Eaters didn’t have hearts, of course, everyone knew that. So perhaps just the dry, rotten remnants of his heart.

The remnants still hurt enormously strong for something so broken.Or was the fear getting to azkaban?He did not know!

He hadn’t thought he would miss her like this. Sure, they had been married, but it had been a meaningless marriage, arranged by their parents right from the beginning. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been pleased at the time, because what man would have been displeased by being able to call the lovely Bellatrix Black their own? Only a fool man, of course.
And in their early years, he might have fallen in love with her, had they not been thrown into Azkaban . . . but they had been put in that horrid place, and being separate for all those long years did nothing to build the bonds between them. That Muggle saying about time making the heart grow fonder was true bullshit. But then again, neither of them had hearts (being devoted Death Eaters), so maybe the Muggle really had been right? How would Rodolphus know if the filthy Muggle had been right, really, if he could not speak from experience, if he did not have a heart?

In any case, he had not ever truly been in love with his wife — she was so distant, so unpredictable, so close to insanity, how could he have? But, he did not care..damn it, damn her!

He was confusing himself with all his contradicting and colliding thoughts. His head hurt, and had the pain in his chest not been so much worse, he probably would have been grumbling. But he did not grumble about it, and he did not try to remedy it either, for he did not care. Or did he care, and just not care enough to do anything?

He couldn’t take it anymore, he couldn’t stay here.The aurors would show up soon and catch him!

He continued on with his aimless walk through the woods — what else could he do? There was nothing else to do, not anymore, no lord to serve and sacrifice for and accomplish ‘tasks’ for . . . and so he trekked on, oblivious to the tears in his clothes from stray branches, listening to each haunting thud of his heart’s remnants against his chest, wondering if life in Azakban will be any worse than being on a run with nowhere to go!

He suddenly realized that it was not just his own footfalls he was hearing against the bark and twigs; someone was behind him. He turned his head around to see several cloaked figures.

“He’s making a break for it!” said one of them, a tall burly man, and all the people took off running.

Rodolphus didn’t stop to think; he just reacted, digging his feet deep into the ground as he bolted away, running, running, running, just as he had done mere hours ago as he went away from Hogwarts; running endlessly, onward and onward, his legs knowing he needed to get away, his mind only knowing Bellatrix, same as last time he had ran.

He did not run for long. He should have known he would not; they did, after all, have wands. So did he, but it had not occurred to him to use it in such a moment of reflex.

A spell hit him square in the back, knocking him to the ground, his body sprawling in dirt...

Shades of black!

He was running, running, endlessly and without pause. He knew not where he was running to, not where his final destination was, not where he was at present, not where the Aurors were positioned and waiting to catch him . . . soon, he figured, he would not even know his name. But nothing really mattered to him in that moment anyway, and certainly not something as trivial as his name; for really, what had his name ever done for him? What had anyone ever done for him? What had life ever done for him, even? Strange how disjointed and yet how clear the senses and mind were at the height of adrenaline.

He ventured on, running wildly through the thickets and trees. His head was clouded, and yet his thoughts were strong as they popped out at him; his muscles ached from not being used like this in so long, and yet he could not feel the burn; his throat was parched, and yet he did not want to drink; his breathing came out in short, haggard spurts, and yet he did not stop, could not stop . . .

They were looking for him, he knew it. Not just him, all the Death Eaters. Sure, there would be trials held at the Ministry, but what in the world could he possibly say in his defense? He was guilty of the crimes, he did not regret his actions . . . all he regretted was . . . but no, he would not think of her, not now, not ever again.

The battle was over; Potter had triumphed over the Dark Lord. The thing that Rodolphus Lestrange had dreaded and feared for years, the death of his master, had finally happened. So why did he find that he did not care one whit, why was it that the penetrating hurt deep within him came not over the Dark Lord’s demise, but over someone else’s? Because it shouldn’t, he knew, it shouldn’t . . . but it did. Terribly. Wretchedly. But, no, he would not remember her, he did not need her, and even if he did, it didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do anymore . . . still, his eyes stung with bitter tears for the first time in many years as he thought of her yet again.

I always needed time on my own
I never thought I'd need you there when I cry

He did not know how long he was running for, did not care how long he ran, though this was not saying much seeing as he did not care about anything more . . . but eventually, he reached a destination, a destination he knew very well. And though he had not planned to, he went inside.

The house was just as it always was: dark, impressive, grand. He should know: it was his very own house, after all. But it felt different, somehow, knowing that it was just his house now, and not theirs.

He knew it was stupid to stay here. This would most likely be the first place the Ministry looked for him, after all. But he found that, just like everything else now in his life, he did not care if they found him or not. Would life really be so much better on the run than it would be in Azkaban? Might as well just stop here for a bit, get a few hours sleep. So he went up the stairs, his stairs, and fell onto the bed, his bed, pulling the covers around him. The singular possessive of the items made him feel strangely hollow again, and his eyes stung irritably once more. He wiped them with the back of his hand roughly, rolled over, and somehow managed to fall asleep despite his heavy thoughts. Well, he was very tired: servants of the Dark Lord did not have the most regular sleep patterns.

Continued here