At the end of a long, winding country road, in the Scottish highlands, sits the ancient castle of Hogwarts. Built in the style of the tenth century, an aura of history envelops the castle and its environs. Surrounded by acres of lush green grass, the castle sits just as it has sat for a thousand years. To the east of the castle is a vast forest, and to the west is a small lake. This castle, complete with dungeons and secret passages, seems to give an impression of a quiet manor home, or perhaps of a posh boarding school. The peacefulness of the location is broken only periodically by the screams of the castle's habitants. For, you see, the ancient castle of Hogwarts is an institution for the mentally defective. Or, if you prefer, a madhouse.
Somewhere inside Hogwarts, on a warm late summer's day, a white rat is scurrying about his business. He rarely leaves his comfy hole in the dankest dungeons of the castle, but this is a special mission. The white rat is on the way up to the tallest tower of the castle, searching for someone very specific.
The rat makes its way to the dining hall of the castle, where, hopefully, it will find some scraps of food and a pocket to stow away in. The rat knows exactly where he is going, and who he must use to get there.
The dining hall is full of the castle's inhabitants, all going about their affairs, eating and drinking, some even attempting coherent conversation with their table mates. For the most part, however, the vast majority of the patients of the asylum drool over their rations, while the attendants rush about, attempting to make sure all their charges are fed. The rat makes his way towards a table on the extreme left of the room, where the patient who would take him to the tower would be waiting. One of the attendants stood next to his link, attempting to spoon-feed him some gruel.
"Come on now, Neville. It's good for you!" Sprout attempted to spoon some of the runny grey paste into Neville's mouth. The patient in question keep his lips firmly closed, and clutched even tighter to the potted fern he held. The rat watched patiently, and when Sprout turned to pull the plant out of Neville's hands, he took the opportunity to scramble up into the oblivious Neville's shirt pocket. Safely inside, the rat watched the proceedings around him with a cross between scorn and amusement.
Across from Neville, directly in the rat's line of sight, was Seamus, an Irishman with a rather unhealthy potato fetish. To Seamus' right, in a straightjacket, sat Dean, a young man who liked to draw with his own blood. Attendant McGonagall was roughly spooning gruel into his mouth. All along the table, patients sat, some complacently eating their paste, others staring into space, waiting to be fed. Around the dining hall, the scene was repeated at every table. The rat, bored, turned his attention to the high table, where the off-duty attendants and doctors sat.
At the centre of the table, surveying all that took place in the general area before him, was the owner of the castle, a tall man with black hair and piercing eyes. Dr. Riddle was a harsh man, preferring brutal methods to modify his patient's behaviour. Dr. Riddle had come into possession of the castle upon the death of the former owner, one Dr. Armando Dippet, and had reformed every aspect of the care of the patients. To Dr. Riddle's left sat Severus Snape, the pharmacist whom Dr. Riddle had hired. Snape was a bitter man, who had seen his most promising enterprise go up in smoke (literally). His research into a cure for Alzheimer's had been destroyed in a fire which had left his left arm horrifically scarred. After the loss of his research, he had had no choice but to take the only job offered to him, that of distributor of pills for the mad.
Various other doctors and staff members sat around the table, but the rat couldn't examine them at the moment. The gong had sounded, and dinner was over. His transportation stood, and along with the other patients, shuffled out of the dining hall. The patients were seated according to the ward in which they lived, and those at the table on the far left lived in the tallest tower of the castle. Under the supervision of Attendant McGonagall, their warden, they gradually made their way up the many flights of stairs that led to the target of the rat's mission.
The ward was composed of two large separate rooms, one for each sex. Neville shambled over to his bed, the second last from the wall. Gently placing his beloved fern on the bedside table, Neville turned to the patient in the bed next to his, and smiled.
The young man in the next bed ignored him. Empty green eyes stared back at Neville, and a thin, bony hand raked itself through a tangled mass of black hair. Neville's roommate seldom spoke, and on the rare occasions that he did it was only to shout gibberish and wave his precious stuffed pet around.
Neville turned back to stroking his fern, gently muttering 'Trevor' to it every few minutes. The rat, disgusted, waited for the right moment to make his move.
"Bedtime, everyone! Settle in, now." McGonagall walked past the end of Neville's bed. "How is Trevor today, Mr. Longbottom?" She came to stand in front of Neville's bedside table.
"Trevor is thirsty." McGonagall touched one of the plant's brown, wilting leaves.
"Indeed." She moved on.
The overhead lights were put out, the cries of those who were afraid of the dark were muffled with sedatives, and within minutes the room was filled with the quiet snores of the patients.
This was the time to make his move. The rat crept out of Neville's pocket. Using the bedside table to gain access to the next bed over, the rat was exuberant. He crawled around to face the boy in the bed.
The young man clutched his stuffed animal to him tightly and murmured groggily. The rat, taking his time, leaned forward. He put his pointy little rat teeth around the young boy's nose, and bit down, hard.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEARGH! AVADA KEDAVRA! AVADA KEDAVRA!" the young man howled in pain. All the lights in the room came on, and some of the other patients started to cry. McGonagall stormed in, with several attendants close behind her.
"What is going on here?"
"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"
"You again! You do this every week!" she turned to one of the attendants behind her. "Inform Dr. Riddle that this patient's condition is not improving." McGonagall reached out and gave the patient a slight tap on the nose. He growled, and threw his stuffed pet at her. The warden laughed.
"Shout all the gibberish you want, Mr. Potter. You're going to see Dr. Riddle tomorrow," she chortled, "Take this ridiculous thing! Everyone back to sleep!" Storming out, she threw the stuffed animal back at the boy. He gave a little sob, and clutched the stuffed weasel to his thin chest, yelling after her, "Avada Kedavra!"