Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.
Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.
"Ring-a-ring o'roses,
Pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down."
--Anonymous, 1665?
Nursery rhyme. Based on the symptoms of the Great Plague, which often began with a rash and ended with a prolonged sneezing fit.
The figure sat huddled in the corner of her little cell, rocking back and forth, back and forth, smiling and muttering to herself like a madwoman. This was not unusual for her; after all, she was a madwoman.
"Yes, yes, I see it, I see how it all unfolds," she whispered excitedly to the air, her greasy, lanky hair falling forward and back, forward and back, over and over again as she rocked in her little corner.
"No, they wouldn't listen to me…they never listen to me… they'll all die if they don't, though, oh yes they shall, terrible, bloody events…they'll all die if they don't listen to me, yes they shall," she continued, voice growing distressed as her childish sing-song chant went on. The rocking was faster now. Back and forth. Back and forth.
"I must warn them, but they won't listen…no they shant, never, never, never," she continued. "Must talk to Dumbledore, yes, he shall listen, yes he shall, listen, listen, listen," she cooed, the rocking growing slower and less urgent with each passionate repetition, until it finally stopped.
The woman's pale, gaunt face abruptly changed into another expression entirely, from being pleased at her decision to becoming calculating and determined.
"I've got to get out of this shit hole," she said disdainfully, every word perfectly articulated and draped thinly over a hot, burning core of anger and disgust as she cast a speculative gaze around her pristine white, padded room.
"And I haven't got much time," she muttered.