Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter world, or I'd be sitting in New Zealand, sipping a glass of cold Cola and wasting my days listening to 30 Seconds to Mars.
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I shiver as a draft of icy wind flows in my direction, the meager cloak not nearly enough to keep my abused body warm in this oh-so-cruel environment. My lips are chapped and covered in clots of blood, years of gnawing at them in fear and pain showing through. Crusted tears line my angular, skeleton-like visage and my hands clasp at each other, shuddering, finger-nails bitten low. Though I cannot tell due to a lack of physical reflection in this place, I am sure my hair is grey, the weight of it pressing against my pounding head, whether from dirt or simply a lack of strength, I am not sure.
And yet, even through all of this... this pain, this torture, this anxiety... I am still sane. Perhaps not in the conventional sense, but my mind is my own. I don't heedlessly ramble nonsense into the wind as the Dementors come and feed on my little remaining power... or do I? Am I so far gone that I cannot remember the small pieces that fit together to create the puzzle? The thought frightens me, and though I know I should guard myself from any sort of fear, I cannot help but shudder. And this time, the cold has nothing to do with it.
Memories, I push aside, for I have no use for them. It only feeds the preying wishes of my sacredly haunting guardians, this oblivion-like abyss a temporary stand-point. For I do not plan to stay here for long. Irrespective of being sorted into Gryffindor, my cunning mind pays honour to my lineage in its keen thinking of strategies. Perhaps not worthy of an Order of Merlin – and here I laugh at myself, because I know I would never receive one for such a cause – but certainly brilliant in its own right. After all, I have lived in this monstrous cage for over eleven years, paying the price of a man thought to be dead. And now that I know this is a falsehood, why stay any longer? I have wasted enough time on self pity, whether in my youth or otherwise.
A small smile curls at the corner of my lips, malevolence winning out. This is what Azkaban has done to me. Gone are the days of the good-natured Sirius Black, naughty in his own right, but certainly not wicked in the face of near-victory, regardless of whether or not for a good cause. And revenge... when did vengeance begin to matter quite so much? When did I begin to forsake my life for a dead – or more obviously not-so-dead – cause?
I can answer that. This conversation has been played back in my mind far too many times. I have no life. I have no one, therefore nothing to forsake. A few years ago, I may have attempted to convince myself that I was doing this for Harry, Lily and James' son, but I understand now that that is a lie. I am risking my soul (quite literally) for no one but myself.
Oh, how I smile when the tables turn...
Victory is to be sought for.
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A bit short, yea. It was just a random idea that came to mind.