Her initial bouts of rebellion had been hard to deal with, and the enforced stay within the dungeons after her latest attempt to usurp Hermione had become the longest. Her lustrous hair had become unkempt and liable to bouts of insanity; three months deep within the bowels of the manor had ended up leaving the woman just as bedraggled as she’d been upon that escape from Azkaban. Her lips were dried and parched, no longer covered over with lipstick or blood. Her eyes were pitiable and shallow, yellow and cracked where once they’d been silver and glowing. Even her arms hurt Hermione to look at; Bellatrix had been positioned so that her shoulders were pulled taut, her hands held above her head at an angle that Hermione knew hurt.  But she was awake, as evidenced by the side-to-side bobbing of her head as she waited, or thought.