The slime was lovely this time of year. What time of year was it, exactly? Or what year, for that matter? The days seemed to blend together like a noxious potion spilled on the floor. There was no sunrise, no sunset, just four stone walls and a set of rusty bars for a door. And the guards, let us not forget about them. Lovely chaps, but they were never good for conversation, frankly. There was precious little of that these days. For who would speak to a convicted Death Eater? No one in their right mind would, which was fine with these inmates. After all, the left mind was always considered the seat of power. The lone occupant of that slimly cell sighed, picking at the hangnails on her long fingers. Her once white blond hair was dingy and her skin had taken on a rather sallow color to match what had once been the whites of her eyes. The next cell over, an off-white-haired man was doing the same thing. Except he had taken to biting his dirty nails, spitting the clippings against the far wall, humming rather loudly to himself. He seemed rather pleased with the work on his left hand, and started on his right, even though he had clipped both sets of nails quite short the day before. Routine was what kept these people alive. Their food always came at set times during the day, and their chamber pots were always cleaned early in the morning. To break that routine was to break their already tenuous hold on their sanity. At least what they thought was sanity. Sometimes perception could be stronger in a place where reality was what you told yourself every day. If you changed the message, you could change your reality. However, hope was as feeble as wishing for your wand back. At least to do a little cleaning in the cell. The stench was horrid, for both guard and inmate. But after a few days, the smell became indistinguishable from all the other smells in this place. The food that was brought morning, noon, and night was not the best in the world. In fact, it was so bad the rats were resorting to cannibalism just to stay alive. But the rats had an option, and the inmates highly doubted eating other people would be a dignified thing to do for the highest house in the land. Besides, they knew what each person put into their bodies every day, why in the seven hells would they want to eat what had eaten the food here? Crusty bread so old it was guaranteed to be harder than the stone walls. Some orange lumpy substance indistinguishable from what ended up in the chamber pots every evening. But self preservation was all there was left, and the only thing left to do was hold your nose and throw it down as fast as you could before you could taste it. The occupants of these cells had gotten quite good at not tasting their food, well most of them, that is. The man in question appeared as a rather dignified bag-man. His hair was so dirty it had formed dreadlocks. Like nearly every Malfoy, his hair had once been white-blond, shock straight and able to reflect the light of the sun so that he appeared to be surrounded by a halo. Now the only 'halo' he had was a bunch of flies that seemed to find his smell rather interesting, and no matter what he did, they always swarmed around the top of his head. Lord of the flies, indeed. “Draconious! I appreciate you trying to lighten my mood, but might I remind you that your singing is enough to drive our guards suicidal!” Lucius hissed, grinding his teeth at the gentleman in the cell across from him. He had been hit by the stray fingernail clippings that he had spit out of his cell. And even though this man was family, he was still rather perturbed with the whole situation. The occupant merely smiled, spitting another piece of fingernail across his cell. “If that were true, dear cousin, our gracious guardians would have fled long ago.” The man could be infuriatingly infuriating at times. He had had a strong head on his shoulders once, but now all that intelligence went into choosing another portion of Mozart's Requiem to butcher. Lucius rolled his eyes, pointedly looking away from Draconious and toward the slightly younger woman opposite his annoying cousin's cell. “Lucinda,” he asked, watching her carefully unfold a yellowed piece of parchment. Her blue eyes scanning reverently over the contents before she folded it up before anyone could see it. This parchment held the smiling, giggling picture of the person she longed to see. She had spent the early days of her incarceration in Azkaban pacing the floor of her cell, shooting stabbing insults at anyone stupid enough to ask how she was doing. But now, she sat where she had sat for nearly ten years. Her fire had been utterly spent, her indignation was gone, as was the cunning that had put her on top of her class at Durmstrang. Lucinda was the near spitting image of her brother, Lucius. Though that was where their similarities ended. She had joined Voldemort's cause from the beginning, although, unlike Lucius, she was not quiet about it. She was more like her sister-in-law, Bellatrix. She was reverent in her service to the Dark Lord in a way that sometimes frightened others. But the one thing that she loved above all, was her family. She had met Draconious for the first time at her initiation, and had fallen madly in love with her fellow Death Eater. They had been married almost straight away, and their daughter Hera followed soon afterward. Though they had spent precious little time with their daughter before the Ministry had taken them away to Azkaban. They were arrested almost immediately after the death of Lily and James Potter since they had flaunted their association with the Dark Lord so openly. There was no real evidence to convict them, but the fear that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named would return at any moment had spurred the court to arrest and convict all of his known followers. Their toddler daughter, Hera, was taken away to live in a wizarding foster home. From what Lucius had gleaned from reports, she was quite a destructive child. She was not yet old enough at the time to tell between Pure-Blood and the other Wizarding folk. She just lashed out at everyone that was not her family. She had calmed down after a few months, and had even begun to tolerate some of the other children being in the same room as she. Lucius had dug through every report he could find that the foster mother had made concerning Hera. The pictures of her depicted a tall, skinny, somewhat tom-boyish girl with long silver blond hair. She almost never wore wizards robes. She instead wore what was in style for Muggle children then; torn acid washed blue jeans, faded, untied sneakers and a rather vile black shirt depicting U2, in huge white print. What ever that meant, Lucius had no idea. Everything was over sized and hid everything feminine about her. Even her hair was put up in a pony tail that seemed to swish behind her like a Thestral's tail swatting flies. Though her life was not to be as tranquil as her foster parents had hoped it would be. The family that had taken her in was murdered suddenly, and Hera disappeared completely. She was three years old, and already showing great promise as a witch. Even though she more often than not would take out her anger with reflexive magic. There were numerous copies of letters sent to the foster family warning that such offenses so close to Muggles would not be tolerated. Lucius had to smile even through the gloom after her disappearance. Even taken away from her famly, she was still a Malfoy. She apparently had found her disdain for Muggles after all. “I wonder what she looks like, now...” Lucinda said dreamily to no one in particular, her voice trailing off into the darkness. Lucius understood his sister's pain. He worried about Draco the same way, wondering how he was fairing under his master’s command. He hoped that the Death Eaters had found Hera, as they had promised they would. Draco was betrothed to Hera from the moment of his birth. Such was the way the families made sure that their blood was pure. Marrying cousins was accepted as one method. Lucius himself had married his second cousin, Narcissa. The mere mention of his lovely wife's name was enough to bring a smile to his dirtied face. Even through these trying times, the Malfoy family was going to maintain their dignity. Draco would meet his betrothed, and they would marry; thus keeping the lines pure. Though lately, odd thoughts were entering his head. Hera would be the age to be dating, if she was being raised in a non-wizarding household. And that could present trouble. Hera was nearly two years older than Draco, nearly nineteen years old. Though age differences were nothing too scandalous as long as everything was in good taste. Though nothing would sour his stomach more than if Hera were raised in America. American Wizards left a bad taste in Lucius' mouth. Ever since they had assisted in winning the Revolutionary War, the Yanks had been thumbing their noses at the rest of Wizarding society. Even the Pure-Bloods that had somehow managed to keep their status. That was certainly the last thing the Malfoy family needed, a Yankee mudding up their image.