When the attack, or seizure, or whatever the bloody blue blazes was happening to her began to stop and recede back into the depths from which it came, Bellatrix could do no more than lay backwards into the cot and sigh. Her body had been strapped down against the bedframe with thick loops of white cotton braid that brought her more memories of good times spent in her bedroom with various daughters of the political hierarchy than something that Auror’s would use, more reminiscent of a make due control rather than cautious safekeeping. Her ankles and wrists chafed at the material where it held her down and pulled her tight, the hold just limp enough to allow her uninterrupted blood flow without compromising her inability to move.