A/N: Another addition to 'My Own Azkaban'. I think I might continue with this trend, and create
more monologues from what I consider the 'misunderstood' characters. Trelawney, Percy, Fluer,
who knows who else? And I'm thinking of taking my Madame Pince monologue and turning it into a
whole story. I probably won't start it 'till after exams though. I'm really supposed to be
studying for the one tomorrow, but oh well. Please review, and ell me what you think.
Disclaimer: I sincerely hope you would know what is JK's. If you didn't, you wouldn't be reading
this story.


It is cold.

That thought is always the first to come when I wake up. I find myself once again down here,
locked in the dungeons of my own manor. I am imprisoned by my father. I am always imprisoned
by my father.

And I am always held captive for the same thing: disobedience. I do not wish to follow my
father's will, so I resist. It is all in vain, as I always find myself back here.

He wishes to mold me into a replica of himself. He is the sculptor, and I am the clay. But I do
not wish to be formed and folded into him. I am not evil. I have never been evil. Even
throughout school, all my actions, all my hurtful words, were the product of obedience to my
father. I never really hated Potter, or Weasley and Granger. I had to be hostile towards them,
or I would be punished. Not punished like some teenagers get, like being grounded. My father
takes punishment to the next extreme, by waving his wand and saying the word 'Crucio'.

Did you know the sorting hat wanted to put me Gryffindor? I had all the characteristics, it
said. A good heart, a good mind, and the will to do good. Of course, one thought about what my
father would do if I didn't get in Slytherin, and I got my wish. I still wonder, though, what
would have happened if I was put into Gryffindor. Would I have friends? Would I be happy? And
most importantly, would I still be alive?

But I have learned there is no use in dwelling in the past. Or worrying about the future. There
is only living in the present, and trying to survive. For example, I am presently trying to
calculate how long I was unconscious. That was the longest I have ever been put under the curse,
and the second time I have passed out.

My head hurts. I put my fingers up to my head, and draw them back. Blood, sticky and chilly,
coats my fingers. I close my eyes, and wince as I imagine the contrast between the dark red of
the blood and the pale white of my hair. This will leave a mark. I suppose my father will
concoct some story for me to tell, when I go back to Hogwarts tomorrow. Like he has done so many
times before. The teachers believe, for the most part, but some are starting to suspect.
Professor Snape, I don't think he believes anymore. He nods his acceptance, but I see something
behind his eyes. Something like... compassion? Pity? No, it is not pity. He knows I scorn pity.
I do not need someone to feel sorry for me.

What I need is an escape. I need to escape these walls, escape this manor. I need to escape this
life! Day after day I am sent constant reminders of the man who I am supposed to be turning
into. I am supposed to except this silver spoon set into my mouth when I was born, and live the
life of luxury, to show my contempt to those less wealthy. I am supposed to pledge my allegiance
to Voldemort, to except evil as all. But I refuse to.

And that is why I am in the dungeons, this room reserved just for me. I am in my own Azkaban.
And I am beating against the bars, screaming to be let out.

I take my pledge as a Deatheater in a few months, when I graduate from Hogwarts. I have only
until June to be free, then I am thrust into my gilded cage, and my wings are clipped.

Have you seen what the Deatheaters do? I have witnessed what they do to muggles. They had
kidnapped an entire family, held them captive here at the manor over Christmas. For their
amusement.

There was a mother and a father, a son, and a girl about my age. They had them magically bound
and gagged, and they were grouped around them in a circle. I stood there with my father, and
watched, transfixed in horror, as they fired unthinkable curses at the muggles. Practice, they
had said.

I locked eyes with the girl. We had a silent conversation, an understanding between us. She was
trapped, captured. I was the same. And in that moment I felt something. Compassion, empathy.
And I wished I was the one tied up.

After the amusement wore off, they were locked in the dungeon for the night. The next day, they
were killed. Avada kedavra, and they were gone. They burned the bodies so no evidence would be
left.

The next day, I went into the cell they were kept. I saw something scratched into the wall.

Boy, it had said.
I wish you luck. I don't know what is going on, but the feeling of death is among us. It
is too late for me, but it is not too late for you. I saw something in your eyes; you did not
want to be there. You have a good heart. Take my advice: The first chance you get, run. Run as
fast as you can, and never look back. If you cannot do this for yourself, then do it for me. Do
it for all the children who will die because of these people, whoever they are.
You still have time,
Elizabeth Rebecca Thomas

Elizabeth Rebecca Thomas. A muggle, yes, but a person who truly understood. I will not forget
her, and I will take her advice. This summer, I will run. I will go to the farthest ends of the
Earth, and never reveal myself.

No. That is the coward's way out. I will run, yes, to the protection of Hogwarts. I will join
the fight, and take down the ultimate evil. Perhaps I could be a spy, and infiltrate Voldemort's
inner circle. But if I did that, I would be forced to be with these, these sorry excuses for
human beings. I would be forced to play their devilish games. Forced to kill the good. I
shudder; I would not be able to live that life. I am not man enough, and I can admit it. I have
already caused harm to others, for no legitimate reason, and I will not do it again. They are
not deserving of it, just as I am not deserving of their empathy or understanding.

But I yearn for it. I yearn for their acceptance, and to finally be a part of the solution, not
the problem. High hopes, yes, but if I reform my ways I may be able to achieve it.

First, though, after I manage to survive the rest of this holiday break, I need to talk to
someone. Dumbledore, or Snape. They can help. I will have to swallow my pride and ask for it,
but I know they will help me. And I think they know that I am not like my father. I pray to God
they know I am not like my father.

Until then, I sit here. I sit in this cold, dank dungeon, silently mopping my blood with the
sleeve of my robe, and dreaming of better days.