Tell Me About Gray Skies

Hope's POV

The sun didn't shine in Azkaban- Hope was uncertain how much time had passed. Only that the clothing she was in was really starting to stink. So, to combat the odors, she sometimes used her daily water allowance to clean her clothes. It didn't do a lot of good, given that she had a very tiny soap bar she needed to preserve.

Taking her little water dish, she put her hands in and reached for the soap bar before plunging them back into the icy water. When visible bubbles appeared, she slipped out of her uniform, which felt more like cheap and tattered pajamas, and sunk them into the dish to soak.

Despite her animalistic nature, she refused to succumb to the stench of her surroundings. 'just because I'm part animal,' she thought, 'doesn't mean I have to smell like one.' 

Standing to her feet, she crossed the freezing floor, completely bare as she leaned against the bars of her cell. Above, black shapes ghosted past. This was how she spent most of her time these days.

Watching Dementors, offering occasional middle finger waves.

Turning off her humanity had been the best thing she'd done in a long time. The relief had been instantaneous. All the hurt and guilt she'd felt vanished completely, leaving her feeling light and refreshed. Sure, it was boring here, but compared to the other prisoners, it seemed fairing well.

At least she wasn't singing nonsense to herself.

"99 bottles of Wiggenweld potion on the wall, 99 bottles of Wiggenweld potion. Take on down, pass it around 98 bottles of Wiggenweld potion…"

The creaky voice sounded from the cell to her left. It wasn't unordinary to hear the witch next door sing this particular song, but it gets annoying after a person has heard it ten times a day.

"Could you like…shut the fuck up?" Hope asked, pressing her forehead against the bars, but the moment she thought there would be silence, the song started up again, and she sighed, turning back to her soapy clothes in the tin.

Hope pulled the sodden thing out, rung it until damp, and then laid it out on her sleeping cot. Using the remaining soapy water, she cleansed herself. She didn't want the drinking water anyway.

Water was far from what she was craving.

Shivering from the water and the chilled air, Hope looked down at her bare toes and wiggled them. She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for her clothes to dry. Ignoring the biting cold when a breeze ushered down the hall, it was something to ground her from the ache in her gums.

She was given food and water daily, but nothing satisfied her desire to sink her teeth into warm flesh. Oh, what she would give to let the sensation of blood run down her throat. 

Hope could almost taste it.

"82 bottles of Wiggenweld potion…"

"Fuck me." Hope sighed and walked to her cot, moving her clothes aside so she could lie down next to it. Nobody had warned her how bored she'd be in here, it was no wonder people went insane in here.

At least offer a chess set or a couple of books, damn. Hope rolled over and faced the wall, gritting her teeth together to resist them chattering too loudly. 

Newt and Albus were probably out there in the world having fun, screwing each other. She missed those orgasms- that's the first thing she'd do when and if she got out of this place.

Demand an orgasm.

It wasn't nearly as much fun here, especially with it being colder. She'd tried to get off a few times by her own hand, but she just couldn't get into it. Her body didn't heat up enough to make it worth it.

"I had my own shop in Diagon Alley before I came here," the witch's frail voice sounded. 

At least the singing had stopped.

"Congratulations." Hope retorted.

"But I didn't sell the savory sort of things, you know," she sighed, voice barely above a whisper, "I was in too deep with selling creatures on the dark market. Never did think it would catch up to me. Who suspects a little old lady?"

"They did. Obviously."

At least her voice, and a few shared screams down the way, was the only one present. Ever since she'd flipped the switch, the other voice, the voice that had driven her near madness, was gone.

Hope would never turn it on again if she could help it. The quiet inside her own brain was so peaceful; she'd never give it up for anything.

"Such a shame you have to rot here too…" she trailed off.

Raising a brow, Hope sat up a little. "Right, because you know me so well." She rolled her eyes and laid back again, looking up at the ceiling. The cold brick next to her was more uninviting than ever.

"You're a Mikaelson, a rather rare name."

Hope didn't respond, frowning as she continued to stare up before the itching to reply was too much to bear. "How would you know my last name?" 

Silence stretched between them.

Hope waited a little longer before trying again, curiosity clawing at a part of her brain. "What's your name anyway?"

There was no answer as the minutes ticked by, but Hope had a strange feeling; maybe she didn't want to know how this woman knew her name.

If she ignored the problem long enough, eventually, it would go away, and after all…what more could be done to her? She was spending her days in Azkaban prison. 

There wasn't much left to take.

"My time here is short," the old lady coughed- it came out as a pained wheeze, "but he sent me here to help you."

"Who did?" Hope glared at the wall, incisively bearing her fangs despite having no one to visually intimidate.

A pregnant pause and then another wheezy, strangled cough.

"You know who he is."