A/N I don't know if you will like this chapter. It was really difficult to write. I couldn't find the right point of view for a long time. It was written under influence of many things, like lack of sleep, very bad mood, a very sad, but good film I watched on the TV about a woman whose world fell apart in a few moments, a horrible quarrel I had with my sister… And of course it's like always written between 11PM and 1AM… mostly.
Disclaimer: It's all J. K Rowlings. If you want to send me some money for this I mustn't agree ;) If you don't recognise a character, it's my own.
I was watching when Arthur entered the courtroom. He is even thinner since his only daughter died in the final battle. Ironically he may be called lucky – he lost only free of his children, twins, Charles and Percy are still alive.
What have we become if we say 'only three children'?
The Order of the Phoenix lost many of it's members. But people in the Order were adults. Prepared for everything. Determined to put their lives at risk to give those, who needed protection a chance. Death Eater's attacks killed many children, wizarding and Muggle.
My all family is dead. My children died in the attack on Hogsmead, not the one year ago, in the most recent one. My husband died in the final battle. I have no sisters or brothers, and my parents died in the first war.
Who didn't experience being so alone can't understand it.
And as I had a family, I was happy, and then all of it was cruelly taken away, the pain is irresistible.
Sometimes I wonder if I should kill myself. Join them, wherever they are, if they are. But then I take the box with photos of them inside, and I watch them, one by one.
On those photos they are smiling and waving at me. Sometimes my husband gives me – the one on the photo, of course – a hug, or kisses me. Then I take my potion or don't go to sleep anyway.
They are caught in there forever. And I may watch them, and smile between tears. I feed myself on glimpses of what once was mine. I even envy myself from these times, not only for having, but also for not knowing. For blissful carelessness.
There is a reason I don't cut my wrists, or hang myself. Or drink a lot of my own sleep-potion. It's because I don't know if there is something after. And I must masochistically watch them and remember. Remember, remember, remember. I find some sense in old Egyptian idea of people living as long as they are remembered. So I remember with all my strength. The way they moved. Their first smiles. Beating of their hearts. What they liked to eat, and what they didn't. The clothes they wore. How they looked in their sleep. How they were growing and how they were happy when they received their letters from Hogwarts. The excitement I felt, when I was waiting for their letters, about which House they were in, that described the teachers, classmates, their first loves… The way they were saying 'Alright' and 'Yeah, mum, stop fussing' and…
And there is another thing that keeps me going.
I come here every day. I watch every trial. I see Death Eaters, people who killed my family, when they no longer have their masks on. And not only these ghastly white ones, that hid their faces. Ones that hid their souls, too.
I see them when there is no more self-confidence in their eyes. They don't look so superior, not any more. Now it's their turn to be in pain, to suffer, to be afraid. I see them no longer sneering and smirking. I see them shouting, crying, cursing without effect. I see all the hope fade of their faces, I see their eyes lose al the light.
When I see, when I feel the hatred the crowd here shows towards them, when I feel their emotions, and when these monsters finally are broken, children crying in my head are a bit less loud.
Maybe you think I am mad? No, I am not. Madness would be a blessing. I am totally aware of the world.
I have put a veil on the mirrors in my flat. No longer home. Just a place to sleep.
The door open and I wait impatiently as they bring the prisoner inside. I notice, that I have dig my nails deep in the skin of my palm. A small drop of blood shows, and I lick it. It's sweet. I grew accustomed to blood's taste lately, when I discovered how effective physical pain is, when you want to wipe the real suffering away.
But there is one thing, that is even more effective. And that's why I am here.
First time I came here it was just after one of many funerals, and one of my friends asked if I could go with her. It was one of Death Eaters who killed her husband's trial, and she didn't want to be alone. So I came.
I felt such a rush of adrenaline, blissful feeling in my veins. And the feeling when he was convicted to death sentence… The shriek he gave… Oh, he wasn't one of fanatics. He was His follower just for money, and probably even more, fun.
The vengeance is sweet indeed. Just like blood.
And like blood, feels bitter later.
I drank my own doom.
Every time I come here I say, that it's the last time. I believe for a moment that children's cries in my head will be silent forever. But later I wake in the middle of the night, and I yell, yell my lungs out, because they are not here, and I am, because I survived and they didn't. So in the morning I dress in my black clothes and come to Azkaban – I still have useful connections – to feed my crave for others pain, to once more make sure they will suffer for what they did. Murderers of my children.
I would dance on their graves with a pleasure. I feel pleasure when they scream, when they cry, when they are in pain. I feel as good, as they feel bad. When they lose hope, I see light.
I look at the prisoner. He is dark-haired, pale, thin. I don't focus on his features, instead try to read from his movements what he feels. You can make your voice and face emotionless, but the way you move always betrays you. But there are few who can read it properly.
He is apathetic.
Doesn't matter. They always break anyway.
I close my eyes completely and listen to the voices. There is a murmur of people that keep watching him, and the clear voice of Arthur, sharp voice of the prosecutor, changing voices of the witnesses. It's mixed in my head together, like a music. No words, I only literally suck emotions. Like a dementor.
It's addictive. I no longer have a power to express my own emotions, except for these hours of the morning. I drug myself with a slowly killing substance – hatred and pain.
Together with vengeance I drank my own doom.
I don't really care. I take a deep breathe and with it I full my lungs with the scent left in this place by many faceless prisoners. The scent of fear.
Arthur stands up to say the verdict. The air is full of tension. I guess the only person that doesn't care is the prisoner and it disappoints me.
But there are still three other trials today. I will not be hungry, I am sure.
And maybe, just maybe today my children won't cry in my dreams.
There is no chance. But there is irrational hope.
Because if they won't what I will do the day there will be no more trials? When I will lose even this temporal relief? When they will never stop, even for a minute?
I don't wait for the verdict. I exit, and people turn to look at me.
Damn the world. Damn him. Damn me.
God. Wherever, whoever You are… Just make my children stop crying.
A/N2: I guess I didn't get the effect I wanted. I wanted to show a victim, who loses her soul because of her pain and suffering, because chose the wrong way of dealing with thinks. And it happened accidentally… She wasn't going to start her addiction. She is a victim, though she is disgusting in her sadism.
Everyone of us can become a monster, if we don't watch out. There is devil and angel in our soul. This woman is just a dot in the statistic.
And I am sure 'dancing on graves' was used in many places, but I got this particular idea from polish writer's Andrzej Sapkowski, who named his character 'White Flame Dancing on Mounds of his Enemies' (well, it was a title of the character, if I remember correctly, the name was Emhyr ).
'Wherever they are, if they are' is a bit changed quote from most important Polish Renaissance writer, Jan Kochanowski, from his 'Threnodies', addressed to his dead 18 months old daughter.
And now please leave a review. The reviews are what keeps me writing (well, there is also the small fact that I like writing, but…). Please, when I get to know what you liked and what you didn't, I can write better. And it makes my day…(That's as close to begging as Yllens can get and not be killed by a lightning).
And thanks to all that reviewed so far. If you leave me your e-mail, I will send you e-mail when I update. And there are probably only two more chapters, and maybe a long author's note till the end… It would close the number of real chapters as 7, the number of perfection;)
Next chapter will not be soon. I am leaving for at least two weeks.