In a Pestulential Prison
Love me today, love me do, love me tomorrow, love her, too.
Sat I, tortured in a cell, wondered what it's like in hell, abandoned hope I could not see, here you're given parts of me. A cracking heart, though broken be, is reparable inside. Softly punching, pounding through, seeping red through sleeping children lie awake; and in the night, their souls to take.
Clara thought that she might never escape.
All those days, months travelling with the Doctor, and it had to end here. Only a month ago she had been so free. Nothing to bind her-no stone walls, no rattling of chains.
She had heard the prison's name whispered through iron bars- Azkaban.
An awful name, indeed, and for a repulsive place. A desolate place.
Clara found that she could not cry. Those terrible monsters had taken even that small respite from her. She found that she spent most of her days sat in the middle of the cold, stone floor, staring out through the cursed bars at the front of her cell, imagining what the skyline might look like if she could see past the ice-clouds. Clara could just barely imagine a slashing of bright orange in her minds eye, but then the image was gone. She couldn't hold on. It wasn't fair.
At night, Clara heard the screaming. There were wails echoing all about during the daytime, if one could call it that, but nothing so monstrous as the ones she could hear at night. Sometimes, the screams she heard were her own.
It wasn't the screeching of her madwoman neighbor that kept her up at night, or the knowledge that some of the inmates were children, no. It was the nightmares.
Whenever lady Clara tried to sleep, she saw the frightening faces of Cybermen and the not-faces of the mighty Dalek. Sleeping Clara could see nothing more than all the tragedies of her time with the Doctor, and so terrible they were.
Falling, and ice-women, and gaps in time.
Running, and silence, and angels, and queens.
River Song killing the Doctor.
It wasn't hers, the memory, but Amelia Pond's. She had given it to her one night in the space between Time. A secret place; A very, very, dark, and scary place.
Clara awoke one night-day from her most recent nightmare, jolted not by the terrors of her own mind, but the rustling of rough canvas and the jostling of metal.
Afraid to open her eyes, Clara made herself look.
"Aye, lady, I've got to find my godson. Care to join me?"
Sirius had been Clara's right-side cellmate for the past eternity, and he had offered her the occasional kind word. He had feared she would go mad, Clara thought. He had been telling her of his godson, Harry. The reluctant Hero of the Wizarding World. He was very important, Sirius always said. Very important. And now, Sirius had said he was going to get him.
Clara didn't know how he had gotten free, but in her time with the Doctor, Clara had learned never to backtrack unless you had to.
Cell door clinking open, Clara asked "How are we getting off the island?"
With a grin, Sirius said "Magic."