Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or his world. They belong to J. K. Rowling and are protected by copyrights.
She wanders the twisted pathways of her own mind, searching continually for the answer to an unknown question. She is nothing, a memory in a world of memories, the shadow of a shadow. Sometimes she wonders who she is, and sometimes she wonders how she can wonder at all. After all, she is nothing — insubstantial, powerless. She, once a young, strong woman, is now a fading echo.
Sometimes, she watches herself, sees what she has become. It frightens her, so she retreats from awareness, returns to the halls of memory, where she finds comfort in her own dark past. For she has never been a kind, compassionate woman — she was hardened to such feelings long ago. She has killed. She has caused pain — enjoyed it, even. She has supported her lord with all her power. But never — never like this, she tells herself. Never like this.
Something changed, in those fourteen years. That place did something to her mind, and she can't understand what, but there is no doubt that she is different. She has not been driven insane, exactly — she is no raving lunatic. A fiery passion burns in her, a complete and utter devotion to the Dark Lord's cause. She has always stood proudly for his purpose, but never like this.
They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. When she strays into her own thoughts, she finds that old saying. This new self thinks that Azkaban has strengthened her, and prides herself that she was not broken. But a part of her was — the part that now wanders the darkened halls of her mind. The Dementors forced her to live through her worst memories, but she came to thrive on those memories, even to draw happiness from them, and pleasure became inextricably linked with pain. Then, she herself became a memory, perhaps the worst one. Her present self does not want her, and she does not want her present self, so she retreats to the recesses of her mind and hides in her familiar past.
She walks through halls that resound with screams, tearing cries of anguish that would twist the heart of a more compassionate individual, and her face is serene and impassive, or it would be if she had a face. She does not know, anymore, what she has and does not have. It seems to her that she inhabits a body of sorts, that she has feet to tread upon dead bodies, and eyes to see the carnage that she has inflicted — at times. Then she is nothing, surrounded by nothing, floating in space — or is it space? Size does not exist; she is everywhere and nowhere, all at once — or perhaps not, since time does not exist, either.
And then, slowly, her mind filters back to her, and she sets off once again on an endless journey of unfeeling regret. Reality is an illusion, and illusions are real, and she wonders if she has died, or if she was ever truly alive. And she longs to join the lifeless bodies beneath her feet, and to finally be free of thought, free of wondering and questioning and doubting. She longs for the twisted pathways to come to an end.
A/N: I know, I know — what a cheerful story for Christmas day! I did just finish it, though, and I like it pretty well. I need to publish something cheerful sometime.