Kingsley is looking at me, aghast, or maybe it is the stains on the wall he is looking at-not that I care either way. I stay in the corner of my cell, smiling to myself.

"Harry?" he asks, as though he cannot believe it is me, and I wonder abstractly what he is seeing.

I know I must be dirty. After all, they do not allow showers to the prisoners. I can feel the blood on my skin, a lasting "present" from the last time the guards decided to "favor" me with their presence. I am actually fairly popular here.

Despite the dirt and the blood, he ought to be able to see the familial resemblance.

I know I look like Sirius now-Sirius, who was the only family I ever knew. We must truly look alike by this point- except for the eyes, of course. On me, my mother's eyes only ever shine over-bright or reflect a dull flatness, and I almost laugh as it occurs to me how I must look, with their emerald glittering absurdly out of a gaunt and worn face, like some perverse Dumbledore.

"Harry?" he asks again, his voice as deep as ever. Its depth used to be comforting, like the sound alone was a reassurance. Now, Kingsley's voice sounds unnatural as the only voice to break the harmony of hundreds of others, high and cracked from pointless, anguished scries.

I realize he is keeping his gaze locked on me, which is a little strange as even the guards do not bother looking at me during their visits, though I can tell he only does so out of a sense of honor. He seems almost uncomfortable.

He breaks the near silence (In Azkaban, there's always someone screaming).

"I've come to tell you that some new evidence has come up. The Wizengamot has reversed their decision. You're free."

Having delivered his message, he allows relief to show through his posture. He probably expects me to do the same, but I drop my smile and look away.

"There is no such thing as free."

Now I know that that was not what he was expecting, because his eyes are wide and he is speaking in supplication,

"But, Harry-"

I look him directly in the eyes for the first time since his intrusion into my cell, stopping his protest. His eyes follow mine as I slowly change my view from him to the wall, taking in the dead brown on the gray wall that seems to emanate the misery it absorbed from the previous occupants here.

By way of explanation, I say, "Blood stains, Kings," and look back into his currently disgusted expression. "It was I, you know."

His disgust morphs into surprise, before his dark eyes narrow. I can tell he is ready to commit my next words to memory, so he can convince the Wizard Elders to re-convict me.

"My parents," I say, and I watch as his suspiscion changes into disbelief, as though he suspects such a thing is impossible.

I continue, naming the next death for which I am responsible- "Cedric" - and watch as Kingsley swallows convulsively.

"Sirius."

My visitor suddenly finds his voice again. "Bellatrix," he whispers.

"Dumbledore," I say.

"It was Snape, Harry," he says shaking his head. "Not you."

I let his words pass over me. "Mad-eye."

He counters, "Voldemort."

"Dobby."

"Bellatrix."

Poor woman, I think, to be blamed so much, before I speak again. "Fred."

"Rockwood," he tells me.

"Tonks, Lupin."

"Dolohov."

"Colin Creevey."

"McNair."

"Snape."

"Voldemort."

"I could have saved them all," I whisper, pressing a hand to my face. It comes away sticky and red. "I should have died, never have been born."

I carress my left hand with my right and watch as the blood spreads.

Kingsley walks up and kneels down in front of me, causing his purple robes to scare the dust bunnies into motion. He crouched posture mirros mine as he grabs my wrists to stop my movements, but I still do not move my eyes from the jewel-tone scarlet glistening on my palms.

"I see their blood on my hands," my voice cracks and my tongues darts out to wet my lips, "all the time."

He is motionless as I gently remove my hands from his grasp, so I draw my palms across his, leaving shimmering trails.

Then, I lean close to him, while he is still to dazed to move, and I whisper in his ear,

"Whose do you see on yours?"

He sucks in a sharp breath and finally jerks his gaze away from me to stare at his hands. Then he quickly looks from his hands to me and back again. For the third time, his eyes grow wide, though, this time, I can see horror in them.

Slowly, with the horror in his eyes directed at me, he backs away- and flees.

I listen to his quickening footsteps fade as I close my eyes and lean back, allowing the life-blood still weepiing from my head-wound to further stain the cell wall. Maybe, if I give enough, I can earn forgiveness.

So, I let it flow around me until there is no more, and, as the familiar darkness starts to consume me (for the last time), I think that there must be some irony in that fact that I will be as blood-stained in death as I was in life.

Author's Note: So, I've only included an A/N at the end this time because I feel that it was more appropriate, though there's not really much to say. I guess the fic says it all? Anyway, please review!