Scabior sat on his uncomfortable, wooden bed, with his scrubby blanket wrapped around his almost bare shoulders. He closed his dried out eyes and leaned against the cold, brick wall while thinking of a female's body, about a good glass of whiskey and about how perfect some bloody eyeliner would be...
But that time those happy thoughts weren't turned into insufferable pain.
Scabior opened his eyes again and looked around. Something is wrong.
He dropped his blanket and walked to his iron cell door containing only a tiny peeking hole, blocked by bars. He looked through it, but didn't see the usual amount of dementors. How bloody strange, he thought.
Scabior walked back into the centre of his cell, only containing the petty amount square feet and leaned against the iron sink, looking into a mirror that disfigured his face. He had no idea what he looked like anymore. He let the chilly water flow out of its tap, onto his hands, which made their way towards his face.
Suddenly he heard a loud bang and saw the back wall of his cell collapse in front of him. Scabior held onto his sink for another minute or two and then gathered the courage to let his clamped hands unclench. He moved his attenuated body step by step towards the hole in the wall.
He breathed in the cold air coming through. His nostrils widened, so did his eyes as the wind brushed against the skin of his cheeks and chest, coming through the shreds of his shirt, the damage done out of utter frustration and boredom. His hand brushed against the ripped bricks, clenching it tight, so he wouldn't fall into the mess of bricks and drown in the sea surrounding the prison.
Dozens of little rowing boats were stranded on the ruins of Azkaban. This was it, the big escape planned by Voldemort.
Scabior looked upon the dark, clouded sky that he hadn't seen for ages.
"Too bad there aren't any stars," he said, finally being able to grin without having the happiness being sucked out by those terrible creatures, as he started his climb down the bricks coming from the walls of Azkaban.
The bricks cut the bare soles of his filthy feet as his hands made sure he didn't tumble down from the massive pile of stone. Alongside him he heard his fellow convicts cry out, and join him in the climb down.
And even though he was scratched, weakened and thinned, this climb was one of the best moments of his life. Because, my dear readers, this climb was his path towards freedom.