Disclaimer: I own nothing; if I did, I would be rich and famous and wouldn't be writing fan fiction.
CHAPTER ONE: A PLACE FOR MY HEAD
It's all so god damned surreal. I sit here, strapped and chained and magically bonded to this thick wooden chair that has been the bane of so many criminals and Death Eaters before me and only one thought goes through my mind 'How the fuck can this be happening.' I sit impassively as the jury steps back into the courtroom after their lengthy deliberation and reads off the list of my alleged crimes before coming to the verdict. Only one word stands out in my mind as it resounds about the suddenly silent courtroom. "Guilty."
Guilty?! I feel like laughing...in fact, I think I am. Two days spent in a holding cell, with the dreaded guards of Azkaban, the dementers...God how I hate them, has really done a number on my already questionable sanity. I can hear the laughter now, maniacal and hollow, echoing in the large enclosure, though it seems as though it's a long ways off. Perhaps I should have tried the insanity plea; I'm sure they don't doubt that I'm crazy now. Here I am being led off to the Azkaban hell-hole for the rest of my miserable life and all I can do is laugh. Hell, maybe I am crazy. I now understand why Sirius laughed as he was dragged away. It is the laugh of a righteous man accused of the sins of his adversary, framed for that which he is trying to fight against. It's desperate and helpless and yes...somewhat crazed. But I'm not crazy, they are.
They are the ones that have just condemned a 15-year-old boy, the boy-who-lived no less, to death or a lifetime of physical and mental torture. I barely survived two days with the dementers. I don't think I can take anymore. I have no animagus form to shield myself from them nor any means to escape. I'll probably die in there. Then they'll be sorry.
I'm the only one who can defeat Voldemort. From what I understand, if I die, he becomes nearly invincible. Of course, they don't know this, hardly anyone does. Oh well. I really could care less. I used to, care that is...but it seems to be more trouble than it's worth. I care now only for myself, since no one else seems to deem me worthy enough to actually care about my well-being. If the world wishes to condemn themselves to death, then let them deal with the consequences. It's not my fucking problem anymore.
They had piled up all their hopes on me, expecting me to hold up the world like Atlas without the strength of anyone but myself. They didn't do it because they liked me, although at one time I thought that this was so, but because they themselves hadn't the guts to do anything about it. Instead, they put the burden of their problems on me, the boy who had saved them once before and was as good a candidate as any to do it again, and continued to run around like chickens with their heads cut off. They placed the responsibility to save the world on me, but when things got bad, they just as easily pointed their fingers and placed the blame where once their hopes had rested.
Can't they take responsibility for anything? Do they only care about themselves? I could still picture their faces in my mind's eye, and although the accusatory glares and hateful snarls of the courtroom occupants I saw right before being led (or more accurately dragged) away were painful, they were almost a welcome distraction from the oppressive, sullen walls as I was led to the cell that would soon be my "home" for the rest of my pathetic existence.
I had never contemplated suicide before, but death seemed a welcome release from the painful torment that would be all my life, if you could call it that, would consist of from now on. It's over; I'm through. There is nothing to look forward to, no reason to hope for anything more than death, for that was the only wish I might actually be granted. Perhaps I could escape...but after Sirius had done just that, they upped the security; it would be practically impossible for me to get out without help, and there was no one left who would support me in such an endeavor.
I've never felt so hopeless, so alone, such utter despair. As I was thrown into my cell and onto the cold, unrelenting cement floor, the doors clanking shut with a resounding finality behind me, a blind panic set into my heart. I was trapped; I was suffocating; I had to get out. No matter how irrational my thoughts, I knew that I could not allow myself to be trapped in this desolate cell for any length of time. I started to hyperventilate, my eyes frantically searching for a way out as my hands desperately clenched at my sullen robes, wanting something to hold onto as the world I had known slowly slipped from my grasp to be lost forever.
I bitterly observed the dark, cold cell, ironically mirroring the turn my life has taken for the worst. Although it was undoubtedly day outside, nothing within my sight reflected it. There was nothing to connect me to the world outside, not even a small, barred window. It wasn't the cell itself that frightened me, I had lived in the cramped up space under the stairs at the Dursleys for ten long years, but the fact that this approximately ten foot by ten foot space now encompassed the entire sphere of my world. That thought, that realization terrified me.
No matter how bad my situation had been in the past, it was only portions of my life, small bouts of time in the long run, and always with the knowledge that I would be let out soon. I survived because I knew that no matter how bad things got, they were liable to change sooner or latter. That's why my current situation is so much worse. This is it. This is all I'll ever know again. There will be no more good times to have and cling onto during times of darkness, all I have are memories...memories that the dementors will soon steal away from me.
My situation is hopeless, and, even if I could get out, I would be a fugitive without a home and without friends. But, it would still be better than here. After all, I don't belong here. Azkaban is for criminals of the worst degree, but I've done nothing wrong. I don't deserve this. All of the hate and bitterness for my current predicament only served to strengthen my resolve. I don't care what it takes, or how long, but I will be free of this place before I die, if only to extract revenge upon those who put me here.
I can't live in here, but I don't want to die, not yet. I'm only 15; I have so much of my life ahead of me. Or at least, I did. They stole everything from me. I gave them everything I could, but they weren't satisfied with that. They had to take it all away; my friends, my freedom, any hope I might have had for the future; and stick me all alone to rot in this cell until some twisted sense of mercy granted me release from it in the from of death. They have no right to do this.
But looking around me, I see no way out. No way to escape. No way to free myself from this hopeless path my life has taken. Perhaps, if I wait...something will come. Some sort of plan has got to come along. Even here there has to be hope, because if there's not, then I might as well already be dead. I may have to wait...weeks, months, years. But right now I have all the time in the world, and I might as well use it trying to escape from this utter desolation than pining over the life that I've left behind and, even if I do manage to escape, can never return to.
Author's note: If you liked this story so far, please review and let me know. If no one likes it, then I'm not going to bother writing more, so please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome.