Caged wolves go mad, you know.
Not that I care much about that, or anything else for that matter.
I don't care that the (Insert profanity of your choice here) Ministry has imprisoned me in Azkaban, which even without Dementors is depressing.
I really couldn't care much less that I've fulfilled the Light's prophecy. Voldemort put up one heck of a fight, even with only 1/7 of a soul left, but he fell to a well-fired reducto. Pathetic.
I cared at the time, when I saw Bella's mangled body. Neville and Sirius got their revenge, and Neville proved beyond all doubt that even something that looks powerless, acts powerless, and sounds powerless, doesn't mean that it is powerless.
He has disproved the theory that when it waddles like a duck, looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it is a duck.
Not that I care, not anymore.
Ron and Hermione were with me to the end, aiding in everything from dueling Voldemort's Inner Circle to brewing vats of poisoned acid to destroy Horcruxes.
Ron got thrown into St. Mungo's by the Lestrange brothers, and Hermione's kept vigil at his bedside as far as I know. I still feel something when I think of them, you know.
They were my friends when all others left me. They loved me for who I was.
I'm not sure I'm still that man anymore.
I remember crying at Percy's funeral, a few weeks ago. Percy-the-World's-Greatest-Super-Pigheaded-Prat took a really nasty decapitation curse meant for Minister Scrimgeour. I can't understand why I cried, looking back. That letter he sent to me in fifth year I haven't forgotten.
Unbalanced, am I? Mad, am I?
Maybe I am.
Maybe I'm not.
Maybe I'm in denial.
Who knows?
Maybe this cell-five paces by six and a half, I know it far too well already-has already pushed what sanity I had to the edge of my consciousness.
Maybe Voldemort hit me with one too many Cruciatus curses.
If that last one did it, I wonder if that's what addled Snape's mind. What a greasy, grimy, grumpy, git. Insert more profanities - every one, any and all would be applicable to the treacherous son-of-a-gun that murdered my Granddad.
Remus got his revenge against another traitor - a certain rat with a silver paw was eaten one full moon.
Wormtail always was an idiot.
I wonder what that did to poor Remus' stomach…no, no, I really don't want to know.
Moody's curtain fell with a bang and a blaze of fire-or at least that's what Tonks told me before I got thrown in here. He saved Ron's life just in time, killing Rodophus and would've killed Rabastan if a giant-thrown boulder hadn't gotten him first. It still gave Hermione enough time to use her really nasty blue flame on the murderous bastard.
The Ministry Auror guarding my cell told me, glee written on his face, that Minister Scrimgeour is going to have me pushed though the Veil for 'doing an Auror's job without having proper permission'. I didn't have a trial, either-but of course. Anything for the rabid public.
No one will know of my 'passing' until a week from tomorrow.
I go through the Veil a week from today.
So I pace.
Already I feel the Magical Suppression wards pushing upon my magical core.
Eventually those under Magical Suppression go insane, or go into shock from having magic removed from their bodies. Neither is fun, both are painful. I'm really not looking forward to the next week much.
That really annoying guard, glee still etched on his face, tells me that the Suppression wards are new.
Which was really stupid of him.
I can feel the wards around me, tightening the noose slowly, constricting my soul until no breath can come.
But I brush them away. No one bothered to tell the bumbling bureaucrats that if a person's already mental, Magical Suppression is rather weak.
Or that sheer magical power can obliterate the wards.
Guess I'm already mental, or I'm about twice as strong as my Granddad at his peak of life.
Which am I…? Which am I…?
Oh well. I can't decide. I'm going to be both very soon, no matter the case.
Nobody's figured out what will happen when this wolf is caged.
I'll go mad… and come back to bite my tormentors in the butt.
Wish me luck!