A/N: This. This is kind of extremely horrible. I'm sorry.
The prompt was good, and I am genuinely sorry about this abomination.
heh.
yeah, for the What if competition over in HPFC.
Review and all that, it makes me happy.
Oh and I'm not JK Rowling, ergo, I don't own HP.
You wander through the halls of Azkaban and listen to the screams of the prisoners.
Broken, tortured screams.
They grow silent as you approach.
You are quiet and you are cold and you might as well be death itself.
You can feel them shrink away from you.
The voices in their heads grow louder and louder.
Eyes wide.
Afraid.
You cannot feel fear.
That is probably a good thing.
The light stings.
It is bright and it is much too cheerful.
Too happy.
It burns.
The wisps of silver and blue wreathe around you.
You shrink away from it.
The voices of the prisoners grow louder and louder.
As if they can feel the warmth radiate outwards.
You are afraid.
You cannot feel fear.
That is probably a good thing.
The people come, their auras surround them.
Painting the surroundings with the colours of their souls.
You draw nearer.
They are happy and they are warm and there is so much feeling and you just want to devour all of it because it hurts and it burns and you want it gone.
In the end you give up and follow them out of the dark halls.
Auras glimmering.
Blue and Silver and Bright and Light.
Too much light.
There is nothing you can do.
You enter a large space.
The number of people-the number of souls overwhelms you.
It does every time.
There are the sad ones, the ones who want to die.
Grey and Lead and Storms.
There are the regular ones.
The ones who fade into the background.
The ones who don't add to the feeling of the room.
They are green and bronze and brown and purple and orange and they don't really matter.
Well, to you at least.
There are the angry and bitter.
The ones who you meet in the halls of Azkaban.
The Red and Black and Rust and Blood.
They eventually fade to nothing in Azkaban.
Into tatters and shades and navy blue.
You like them the most.
There are the good ones.
The ones filled with sosomuch that you want to remove them just for existing.
Just for being able to live and to live exuberantly.
To be filled with that much emotion-to feel.
Just for being happy.
You think this might be jealousy.
This is probably not a good thing.
You wander through the halls of Azkaban and listen to the screams of the prisoners.
Broken, tortured screams.
They grow silent as you approach.
You are quiet and you are cold and you might as well be death itself.
You can feel them shrink away from you.
Navy blue and tatters and shades.
There is a new one here.
This one is more grey than black.
This one is just sad.
They will fade soon enough.
There are other dark black tattered things gathered around it.
They feel like you.
They are you.
You have met them before and they wander like you.
You see yourself in them.
Because you are all the same.
None of you are different and none of it matters.
This is probably not a good thing.
There is a girl this time.
There is a girl here.
She is yellow and green and blinding white.
She is almost bright enough that you stay away.
Almost.
Everything is almost.
She walks through the halls and you think you can feel sunshine.
You don't know what sunshine feels like.
This is probably not a good thing.
There is a girl.
There is a girl here.
She is navy blue and silver and blinding white.
Almost enough to make you stay away.
Almost enough to make the other-yous stay away.
It has never stopped you before.
She tiptoes through the halls and you think you can feel starlight.
Singing to you.
Your halls are filled with Grey and tatters and how could you expect to stay from the moon?
There is a girl.
There is a girl here.
She is turquoise and sea-foam and something else you can't really define.
This has never happened before.
It scares you.
You cannot feel fear.
Can you?
There is a girl and she is cast adrift and her colours change and no one's colours have ever changed and this bothers you more than you care to admit.
You follow her still, and your cold and black and fear have never managed to make her fade to grey.
She tells you something.
You don't know what it is.
Her voice is like feathers and the ocean that batters the wall outside when it is calm.
You have never felt feathers.
The ocean is never calm.
This is most definitely not a good thing.
You can't bring yourself to care.
This is a good thing.
You have never cared.
You find yourself waiting for the burst of colour to arrive.
This is a bad thing.
She doesn't come.
This is a goo—bad thing.
You don't know what this feeling is.
You have always been good at feeling things.
You don't have any other sense.
You feel empty like you are fading to tatters and shades.
This scares you.
Because you –you should not be able to feel this.
You cannot feel fear.
Right?
She comes back.
This time she is clouds and white and dandelions and she is drifting away in the wind.
You have never seen clouds or dandelion or wind.
This stopped bothering you a while ago.
This is a bad thing.
She visits again.
Yellow is the first thing you feel.
And soap.
And clean.
You feel lighter and you feel so much more.
You feel less empty.
You feel silver and blue and white and you have never been silver and blue and white and the other-yous have never been blue or silver or white.
This—this may be a good thing.
You feel happy.
She comes every day now.
A different colour clouds the air.
And it makes you feel fuller and you feel more than you are.
You feel better. You feel like you are good.
Your aura starts to look pink.
Pink behind layers of Dark and Slate and Lead.
This is probably a bad thing but you don't mind because you feel full and wonderful.
You don't know what to do.
You don't think there is anything you can do.
You think you like the yellow the best.
The orange and yellow and light.
You have only ever been dark and Black and tatters, and you should feel different.
You should feel something else.
You should want to steal the colours from her.
The way you used to want to steal the colours from everybody.
The way the other-yous want to steal the colours from everybody.
You—you don't know what to think.
Your world has been painted in her colours and this scares you more than anything else.
You can feel fear.
She stops coming.
There is no more blue or white or green or yellow or dandelions or wind or waves or fire and sunlight.
There is only Black and Dark and Tatters and now there are Ashes and you don't know what to do with them. You feel Numb.
Numb is not a feeling.
You like feeling.
You want to feel.
But you can't.
You never have been able to feel.
The other-yous have never been able to feel.
Why should you?
Your pink turns to Red and you become rust and blood and metal and fire.
You smoulder and rage and the fire eats you and the flames steal your colours.
The licks and tongues and sparks burn the way the Light used to and you can finally feel.
You feel something and it hurts but you still bear it because you feel and that is all you ever want to do.
The other-yous find you.
They are cold and dark and fear and might as well be death itself.
They do something and all of a sudden you are not the Fire and you are Numb again but now you are ashesashesashes and you still think it's better than being Dark and Black and tatters.
You are silent and you are Numb and you fade.
You are ashes and cold and dark and
grey.
And grey is all you'll ever be.