Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nope. Nothing. At all. No Harry. No Draco. No Snape. All I own is my computer, and I don't even own it, my mum does. Go fig.

Summary: It really isn't that long. Read the darn thing XD

Author's Note: Before I forget, this story would not be on here if it wasn't for the FANTASTIC beta'ing skills of Sugar Ros. She is AMAZING and I will always be grateful to her for editting my story with such finesse and making it more enjoyable!

Alright otherwise I DO have another author's note to insert. This was intended to be the prologue of a story but...I am not sure if it is really a good idea to make a story plot after all of this. If you read it and want to know/read more about what I'm talking about, then please email me at cococoladeficiency at yahoo dot com, do not use the default email, I'm not on that computer anylonger, and tell me that you want more or something.

Without Further Ado:

A Plea of Insanity

By, Queen Gen

In Draco Malfoy's Point of Preference

The smell is the worst I think. Yes, the smell, that's what's making each hair on my neck practically singe. The stench that is of rotting flesh, burning corpses, blood seeping into the ground, never to pump its warmth into a human soul again. Though the smell that makes my heart nearly leaps out of my chest, that makes my stomach wish to empty itself and my throat constrict, hoping no more of it will come in, is a stench that I can hardly describe. The only description is that of its title, which is of slow, lingering, and suffering death. How I am able to escape the fate of those whom I see dead, or dying, on the hard earth is beyond me to fathom. I only know that I am alive, which is almost worse than my death.

My comrades, my friends, my family, all scattered around me like debris in a junkyard. I can hardly tell the hand of my father from the foot of my professor as they lay strewn on the ground. Sorrow is a feeling I cannot yet fathom; only the numbness of shock keeps my blood cold. Surely their death is not real? I tell myself this. I must, to keep my sanity. It is so long that I have with it before I surely fall to the same fate of my comrades.

I kick those who are in my way with a soft nudge to either side of me as I walk. The cawing of the vultures that hover menacingly over the battlefield pierces my eardrums. Had they been waiting on the sidelines till all were dead, I wonder? Waiting until the moment they knew they could feast: a grand feast upon the spilled blood of which is a violent and most treacherous battle? But this smell, oh these horrid fumes that taint my nostrils with their allure, it makes me fight the doom that overshadows my mind. I must not join those who gave into the cold grip of the ruined, never to be reprieved. Yet, the buzzards that reap upon the dead seem to become alive at the foul smoke that rises from the cold ground. It won't be long now before their feast. The poison of death's perfume covers the land, so quickly I must get away.

But I cannot leave just yet, not without a vow of parting towards my comrades, my friends, and my brothers of these dark and everlastingly grim times. I step over them now, there are far too many to kick aside as they get more numerous in amount. Hundreds must have been killed during this bloodbath, if not thousands. For acres around me, there is not a spare piece of land without a decapitated helmet, no doubt with a head inside. There is not a blade of grass that is not crushed by a limb or an organ, or a corpse breaking into its final rigor mortis stage.

Finally, I find one. He was not close to me, yet he was one whom was to always be known as the leader of our clan. Sadly, all I can see left of this powerful man was his severed head. He was the one to call me his own, to accept me even with my flaws that had been cowed and whipped into such torture through my years of learning. A man who'd accepted me, and now he lay not even with his head upon his shoulders. Yet, I do not weep for him. A great man, a smart man, a powerful man, and a man to be forever known as the devil of our kind, yet not someone whom I made myself closer to than I did any professor in school. I look above me, the scavengers still above me as they prepare to start their dive to the banquet that had been so eagerly made for them. Without flinching, I bring the head to its designated body and shut his terror stricken, dead eyes with my two fingers and move on quickly, knowing my time is short.

Finally, I find one. He was not close to me, yet he was one whom was to always be known as the leader of our clan. Sadly, all I can see left of this powerful man was his severed head. He was the one to call me his own, to accept me even with my flaws that had been cowed and whipped into such torture through my years of learning. A man who'd accepted me, and now he lay not even with his head upon his shoulders. Yet, I do not weep for him. A great man, a smart man, a powerful man, and a man to be forever known as the devil of our kind, yet not someone whom I made myself closer to than I did any professor in school. I look above me; the scavengers still fly overhead as they prepare to start their dive to the banquet that had been so eagerly made for them. Without flinching, I bring the head to its designated body and shut his terror stricken, dead eyes with my two fingers and move on quickly, knowing my time is short.

However, the next man is not hard to find. The grease alone could provide enough to oil a rusty tankard and keep it running for many years to come. Stone dead, as I expected this one to be done by that of a dagger, piercing his precious lungs. Blood was dry on his shirt; he left far before I knew he was leaving our world.

I curse again our idiocy. We knew of their tactics, for the most part. We knew this was where the battle was to take place and we knew that this would be the last stand against them. Each plan was calculated, each step on call. But how were we to be informed of one small detail? It was a detail so small, so miniscule in importance that it could cause a world of difference and, thus, an end to the war. Of course, our side could only think of that which we were accustomed to: Magic, spells, and trickery of the soul. But the other side could see that, could see our weakness.

So the powerful species of man, the wizard and the witch, became the slave and sacrifice of the mortal sword, dagger, knife, and gun.

His skin is cold. I can feel it under my clammy fingertips. I kiss them as my face begins to heat, yet not begin to shed their twin rivers on my cheeks. Pressing my fingers to the chest, which protected his still heart, I bow my head in grief. Silently, I move on.

I see familiar faces as I pass them, all of them still and cold, never again to smile, to laugh, to weep. Never to smell the roses of the Queen's gardens, or the honey-suckle of the morning in the spring mist. Yet, I cannot help but feel alone once again, as they also do not share the dreadful and dreary smell of disease as they continue to flare into my nostrils with the vengeance and hostility of a Berserker. Still, I move on.

What is this, I wonder? I hear a small voice; I cannot tell for sure if the name it is calling is my own. But it is a word, it is soft, it is almost empty, so close to giving up to the odor of a final sentence. I run to it, I must find it, and quickly before the vultures find it too and take it away from me. Yet, when I reach it, I know that I am too late.

My dear friend lies before me, so close to death I can practically see it printed in fine print upon his very pupil. Yet he calls out to me, he sees me, perhaps for the last time.

And calls my name again, and I must hurry to him. When I reach him, I can only hold him. His body is severed gravely, his bottom half no longer able to support him, his organs purple with exposure. Beginning to ramble, I can hardly hear him as I know the tears begin to prickle my eyes. Yet, I listen. He tells me nothing that would be important if he were simply a dying man, and would give me no ease if he were a general giving me orders. Yet, to his best friend, I feel they are my world. He says my name over and over until his words begin to quiet. Even though my heart is as cold as ice, it melts and I tell him softly of my devotion and love to him, to my brother. He is quiet for a moment, and I think he cannot hear me, but then he squeezed my hand and I know he heard. But the squeeze was soft and unsteady. His weight grew heavy in my arms. He would never say my name again.

I feel myself begin to cry, but I wipe the tears away in frustration. I must be swift, for the vultures' looming circle draws close to the earth and I know I could easily be mistaken as the dead. Quickly I dash, looking around me for the last victim of which I must pay my condolence. But where is he? It is so hard to see with the salt stinging my eyes like this but I cannot give up. I find him, and when I do I realize why I could not see him before, for I'd never seen such an alteration.

A bullet wound to his head, it was obvious to see, caused the massacre upon my father's life. I feel the urge to cry beginning to come again, as the shock is starting to draw back its gift of numbness, and pain settles into my soul. His hair is no more golden as the noonday sun, the blood caking it in a thick coat and decorating it with dirt and debris. His eyes are open, just like the first ones' had been, yet these are not of fear. My father had not died with fear but with remorse in his slate grey pupils. Much like the remorse I am experiencing. As disastrous as it feels to look at him, I cannot help but watch him as my heart begins to beat faster and faster, full to bursting as I begin to sob. Gut wrenching sobs that echo in my skull, ribs, and throat. I call for him, though he won't answer. I reach for his voice, though he cannot reply. Loneliness, thy name is my own. I kiss his temple, the unscathed and the non-crusted one at that, as I whisper my goodbye to him, muddled with tears yet still rich in love as I stand.

I cannot see as I walk, yet I do not need to; I simply need to leave. More tears trickle down my cheeks as I continue my march away from the smog of annihilation. I do not look back as I step, each time feeling a body either underneath my feet or beside me, but I do not deter as I go.

I reach a hill and begin to climb it, only able to tell since my legs become sore from the sudden shift in workload, yet I do not change my pace. As I reach the top, I feel the evening sun try to warm my face. It mocks me, thinking I would be so foolish as to welcome this false hope. Falling to the ground in exhaustion as it takes its hold on me, I feel myself rolling. It is a very long time that I am rolling and nothing stops me from reaching the bottom, as I roll faster and faster over rocks, roots, and grass, bruising me and cutting me but not halting me in my descent.

How long I have stayed here, I don't know. To say I care, however, would be a lie. It is over, the war is over, and I will slowly deplete from existence as well. But then, there is a voice. It's small and unfamiliar. The unfamiliarity proves it cannot be death, for death had surrounded me as I stood in that battlefield, not…well however long ago that had been, and therefore it makes me nervous, yet I can't find the strength to open my eyes. The voices multiply, now about three or four. Closer they come, oh God. Oh God they are to come for me, these monsters of the world which I have left long ago, yet hardly stepped away from. Soon they are upon me, but I do not move. How can they know I'm still alive? They talk of me as if I'm only asleep, yet I cannot be. I must be dying, for death is all I can feel. The stench is still fresh in my nostrils; take me away, I pray for it to set me free from it.

Yet I am not freed. They prod me, my wounds. I wince and bark in pain, how dare they torture me so when I'm so close to my freedom? They see my movement and I am caught. Yet I still wish to fight. I ask them to leave me alone, let me die. Yet they do not let me. Instead they lift me and then what happened can only be remarked as a plea. It is a moaning plea that came out as a scream and even hurt my own ears. We all know what this plea is for.

I do not plea for guidance, for I want none. I do not plea for mercy, for I will get none. I do not plea for justice, for there never was any. I do not plea for my life, for I do not want it. At last, it is a plea of a death's kiss and of a lost soul. A plea of insanity.

Fin.

Thanks again to Sugar Ros. Read and Review. Hope you enjoyed it.