got no car

got no money

I've got nothing, nothing, nothing, not at all.

got no god

got no girlfriend

I know I don't need either one to be.

No Hope Kids are bruised.

got no time

got no money

I got nothing, nothing, nothing, not at all.

got no friends

got no family

Just a bunch of people always running around me.

No

Hope

Kids are bruised.

I try to strike a conversation with the walls tonight, but they're not particularly talkative. And my idiot neighbor insists on having fits all night long, his screams hurtling themselves against my eardrums. My other floor mates call out to me, making it so so hard to sleep.

I am the calm center of the universe in the supermax wing of Azkaban. Years ago I used to cry myself to sleep in here every night.

I've got nothing left to cry about now. Life has left me desiccated. I look up through my sliver of a window and want to tell the stars that somehow I'm significant. Haven't had the courage to do it yet.

Though here in Azkaban I'm a celebrity.

While we're here running out the clock the guards will let us out to yard for one precious hour a day. And every day prisoners from all walks of life approach me with their grand ideas of escaping. Like they're asking my approval. I could write a book on the subject, I've heard nearly everything.

-Dig out the walls with spoons from dinner.

-Craft explosives with soot collected from the kitchen vents.

-Raise a cockroach army to over throw the prison guards.

Wouldn't it be nice to just use magic? Since we've all been disarmed, the Overlord reduced us to muggles. And we're too weak and malnourished to perform any kind of nonverbal magic. I've been without a wand for three years now; you snapped it in half the day I was captured. You called it an act of love.

Nobody knows that Azkaban has a prison yard, well, unless of course they've actually been in Azkaban. No one expects it to since Azkaban sits to the left of bumfuck in the belly of the North Sea. Set smack in the center of the prison; a balding scalp of earth serves as our brief daily vacation.

For one hour.

The yard also serves as our little center of commerce. Trades for food, tattoos, information, even lives. Here in the supermax wing, we aren't allowed visitors, but those who are allowed visits will have often have things smuggled in for them. At the yard you're given your one chance per day to get some extra sustenance. Then it's back to the cell for another 23 hours of self-reflection.

The first year that Harry, Ron and I were imprisoned, out in the yard the prisoners all called us 'The No Hope Kids'.

Forget "The Golden Trio". We were already brass.

Our fellow inmates unloaded their love for us with their fists and other various objects in the yard. Harry would be reduced to pulp almost daily, and Ron, he was a bit of a scrapper, but after awhile, he'd all but given up after having each of his arms broken twice.

As for me, I had a badge of honor sitting right on the skin of my forearm. And it's become my name here in Azkaban.

mudblood

To my fellow inmates (and even the guards) it means I survived an encounter with you. That's what that scar means. I've since earned a few more from you too, but none are as important.

They'll never understand how much this scar means to me. I am yours.

My tattoos followed. In Azkaban tattoos are earned by stealing, fighting, and killing. They especially encourage the last activity, gives the guards some entertainment, pitting us in fights against each other for better food or even showers. Prisoners are more than happy to oblige since death is more preferable to living here. Before Harry's execution, I had one tattoo; my prison ID number, tattooed into the side of my neck.

Now I've got a baker's dozen. Including the hallows, the size of a sickle, inked directly under the corner of my left eye.

From what I can remember of the time before the Overlord, I was consistently called 'the brightest witch of my year'. Dreamed that I'd become a healer, or a champion of magical creatures. Some farcical notion that serves little purpose to me now. Always my biggest fear was earning poor marks. I was always scolding Ron or Harry for breaking the school rules. After graduation I was fully prepared to marry Ron (I did love him once), be a doting Aunt to Harry's children, be the cookie cutter Gryffindor I was expected to be.

However, Hogwarts doesn't prepare you for Azkaban.

In Hogwarts you were always special; no matter who your family was, what your past was like, someone, somewhere believed in you. In Azkaban you are considered a living, breathing piece of shit; especially in the age of the Overlord.

In the yard I get blamed for everyone here being locked up; most prisoners are incarcerated for being half-bloods and mudbloods. Why this is my problem, I'll never know. I didn't fuck their mothers. Blaming me for their existence? Everyone is searching for his or her own scapegoat, I'm more than happy to oblige the rumor mill, but after a few…incidents…people know better than to say it to my face. For those people there are a few commemorative tattoos on my legs and arms.

At least I earned my way here; conspiracy, treason and attempted murder of the Overlord himself.

Dementors observe our every move, filling us all with a sense of nothingness. There are jinxes in place everywhere preventing us from doing anything remotely magical. Unless you consider the metaphorical sense of the word magic, in that I magically survived a scrape over half a pint of butter beer in the yard with a man three times my size. Stabbed him in the neck with the sharpened plastic knife I had saved from supper the night before. They stopped bringing me knives at dinner after that. I've got an Ace of Spades tattooed on my neck for that one.

Wait.

I hear the high-pitched whine of the entry doors to our cellblock. Someone's coming in.

Must be someone important, none of my neighbors are shouting. A silhouette appears at my cell door, and I can't help but grin like a fool. All I can smell is pure arousal. The cell door starts to slide open.

It's you. Dressed in a whisper of a nightgown, you approach me, pressing your body against me. Your naked thigh pushes up between my legs, and your mouth latches onto mine.

We pull apart and you run your tongue along the top of your bottom lip. "I need you to finish me."

A/N: Lyrics from "No Hope Kids" by Wavves.