Disclaimer: I own nothing whatsoever….except Deanna…..and her family….and Paddy….and Greg…and maybe a couple of other things that I can't be bothered to claim at this time of night. Everything else belongs to JK Rowling.
Confessions of a Ranting Deatheater Prologue: Welcome to Azkaban"Welcome to Azkaban Wizarding prison. First thing you need to know is never try to snog a Dementor…Don't know why anyone would want to snog a Dementor, but if the urge ever comes, just say no. Second thing you need to know is that the food here sucks. You see, the chef is generally in a hurry to get done and get away from here, for some unfathomable reason. Third thing you need to know is: don't let anything that anyone in this hellhole says get to you. They're all mental. Including me. Especially me. Third…no, I just said that…fourth thing you need to know is that you will soon reach such an intense level of madness that you will no longer care that the food is bloody awful, the people are psychopaths, and that wizard-Dementor relationships are simply not meant to be.
Of course, I'm not all that mad yet, certainly not as mad as I should be after a year in this living nightmare, here in this maximum security center with no one in the next cell to talk to. Until you, anyway. I've not yet gone silent, like some of them do, nor have I taken to frequently conversing with invisible people….though I did once address the floor as "Tom Riddle." Long story. But, all things considered, I think what little sanity I had before suffered minimal damage.
I've developed a little trick to keep madness at bay. For me 'tis just prolonging the inevitable, but it just might work for you. Find a single, simple thought, not a happy thought, mind you; the Dementors'll snatch that away quicker than you can say, "straightjacket." Not a particularly pleasant thought, just something that reminds you who you are and why Dementor-snogging is a bad idea. You may have a really good one. Mine, unfortunately, is depressing enough to drive me insane in its own right, only at a significantly slower rate.
Mind if I rant at you? You don't seem to be much in the mood to do any talking yourself. Can't say I blame you. My name is Deanna McCuhulain, and my story begins, I suppose, with the thought that keeps me almost sane: I could have been an Auror."