I gently touched my tangled mane, watching the tremors ripping through my hands like the wings of a Phoenix emerging from the ashes. They feel light, numb. I worry, sometimes, that if I touch the bars the effect would resemble that of the touch of King Midas. My hands would freeze to glass and shatter. I imagine my hands shattered at my feet, like the glass panes of James and Lily's home all of those years ago. It felt very vague to me, looking at those panes. Like a premonition, and I am living in the Ice Age. The hovering guards seem to be emitting a mist of liquid nitrogen.
I don't see the outside, but I wish I knew if it would be a due time to sleep. It bothers me to sleep if the sun is out, though here there are permanent dark clouds. Here, the hail never ceases.
Some called out in sleep, some without the inhibition of stability, and all mingle together to create a terrifying chorus of pain. Shrill cries against an attacker not to hurt Mummy. Screams. A trapped Death Eater, clearly receiving the Dark Lord's punishment for abandonment.
And voices.
We don't hear them much here.
A green bowler hat outside of my cell causes me to stand from the pile of filth that I sleep on on instinct. My bones have no substance around them, so I feel them grind together, making an uncomfortable vibration run through my spine. Sometimes, I think my face is gone. That I have only eyes. Certainly, this is what others see of me.
The bowler hat turns to face me, eyebrows raising. The Minister's face reminds me of an old cup of coffee, left on a table. It is likely he often appears warm, but the Dementors chill even him. I try to keep my gaze steady, but it remains as steady as my legs.
"Hello, Minister," the rasp doesn't sound mine; it is ravaged. My face doesn't recognize the movement it takes to speak very clearly. Avoiding talking to myself helped keep me sane, like the knowledge I had not committed the crime I was sent here for.
The knowledge that I did not kill Peter.
But what happened to Lily and James was my fault. I convinced them to make the change, to change the secret keeper to the coward.
I suppose the pinstriped man responded to me; he was looking expectant of some response. "You're well, I assume?" I asked casually, voice as cold and despondant as I felt.
"Ah, yes," he replied, looking awkward and a bit shocked that I remembered my manners.
"Are you done with the paper, Minister?"
"Oh, eh—yes," he bumbled, holding the edge of the paper and passing it through the bars as though I would try to grab him.
"Thank you," I said, feeling a small amount of relief, or what could've budded into relief. Whichever. The paper was heavy with moving figures with colors that looked washed out.
The heading bore words about a grand prize and Ministry employee. The attached image showed nine cheek-splitting smiles and hair that burned more brightly than a bonfire, despite the fading common to most newsprint. The attached image showed one mangy shoulder-perched rat and fur that was patchy and faded like the quilt Lily wrapped Harry in on that horrific night, faded so greatly that it looked just off of the color of the parchment it was printed on.
I know that rat.
In my mind's eyes, I saw the familiar sight of the tail receding into nothing, the hair leaving all but his head. The small body grew into Peter, glinting eyes and weak character. He convinced the world I was a murderer. He is the reason I am trapped in this hailstorm.
He's at Hogwarts.
He's at Hogwarts.
I will find him.