A/N: Simply a bit of Harry torture... I kept Sirius alive simply because I read too much fanfic and forgot he was dead when I wrote this... Oops. Just pretend it was set after GoF. Please review!!!!!!! It really doesn't take long!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. But you know that, right?



Strong. Silent. Brave. Whatever I do, whatever I see, I never cry. A rare occasion indeed when tears leak past my shuttered eyes- I never let myself howl and rage. I'm strong- I must be. Strength is measured in many ways, and I always come out on top. Physically, I'm horribly, beautifully, strong. Magically, I pose a threat to the Dark Lord himself. Mentally, I;m right behind Hermione. And emotionally, well, I told you I never cried, didn't I?

I hate this. Hate, hate, hate it. Because its impossible to remain dignified well writhing and screaming. Impossible to be strong when pure pain rips away all barriers. I'll keep at it, of course. Keep pretending to still have something to cling to, even if it is my own fool pride and stubbornness. So I'll keep up my charade, banter insults between screams. And hope- and hope-

They will come for me, of course. Its a given. Not out of love, but because they're scared and they need me. And I know they will come for me because Snape was here, and he'll tell Dumbledore. I hope he doesn't mention how I flinched and moaned, whimpering like a bloody animal with his leg caught in a trap. And I'll never listen to that voice whispering in the back of my mind that maybe they won't, maybe they'll leave me to die here, spread naked on a damp floor, screaming. Some hero I am now.

Pain again. It comes and goes- comes, mostly. The worst part about that damned curse is that even once its over you're still twitching and gasping. I'm still twitching and gasping. He's talking again- does he ever stop? If I could get the ringing in my ears to stop, I would listen and come up with a sarcastically clever remark. As it is, I rasp out the words that will damn me- useless save for the stubbornness that keeps me hanging on.

Fuck you. The words were hoarse and almost unintelligible- I felt instantly ashamed to have them croaked from my mouth. Ashamed, and again in pain, my throat harsh and raw from too many screams. Too many goddamn screams. And again- the words of the spell beyond my comprehension. I know the speech he'll be giving, of course. About how strong he is, how weak I am. Death to the mudbloods- never mind that genocide means the end of him, as well. Voldemort's dirty little secret. Have you screamed, Riddle? Do you cry?

We are a lot alike, in some ways- life dealt us both bitter hands, and where abuse and lack of affection drove him insane, it merely drives me forward. Perhaps there is a sort of insanity in the way I always must talk back. And never cry... Dirty, worthless, good-for-nothing freak... I am not! I'm hearing things, now. I could have sworn Uncle Vernon was here, bending over me, fists clenched, face purple with rage. Hurling insults and emanating hatred. Am I going to go insane? End up like Neville's parents in an obscure ward of St. Mungos?

If I did go mad, and spent year after year locked in a padded room, would that be so bad? There would be no pain, certainly. Nice nurses to change me, bathe me, feed me, to talk as if to a small child and smile sadly. I'd never have to worry about what other people thought. There would be no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no exacting demands to live up to. Nothing but a small room, rather like my cupboard.

I think I am in my cupboard now. It's very, very, dark, and if I keep quiet I can hear Aunt Petunia's snores. I love my cupboard- it's mine. All the Dursleys ever gave me that hadn't once belonged to Dudley. *All mine.* It's wrong, though. Someone's laughing. He's not allowed here, in this haven in my head. He's not allowed. I curl up into a ball and plug my ears. It's just me, now. All alone in my cupboard. All alone, save for laughter and distant screams.

I wonder who will come and see me when I'm gone. Hermione and Ron, attempting to hold a conversation with a crazy person- her crying into his shoulder while he puts on that brave face that only I could ever see through. Sirius, ranting and raving and finally sobbing into my hair while I stare blankly into the air behind him. Dumbledore, apologizing. My house mates, begging me for a safe return. But there is now where safer than here, locked tight in my cupboard.

Once the screaming stops, I will come out. Once that raspy, agonized wail stops vibrating through my mind, reverberating and echoing, getting louder even as it dies. The sound of my screams alone could bring me over the sharp edge of sanity. If I'm not there already. But I refuse to accept that- I'm far too proud to let myself be hidden away, safe thought it may be. Once the ringing stops I'll come out, if I have to break down the door to do it.

Silence. Blessed silence. I'm through screaming, then. Is it over? The only way to tell is to open the door, and face it. All I want to do is curl up like a little boy and cry. But I'm not a little boy, and I don't cry. And I'm far too reckless for my own damn good. Time to face the world, I suppose. I don't want to. But I don't cry.

Pain. Ah, yes, the pain. I had forgotten how sharp it was. I am jerking and panting in an undignified manner, and I have the distinct impression of being carried like a woman, like a bride, face burrowed in some strangers neck. They smell of bitter soap and unpleasant potions, dank and moist like the room I just left. A Death Eater, then. Damn.

I almost retreat again, but stop myself. Im not going anywhere until I am sure I can come back. As nice as my fantasy of the mental ward was, I am not quite prepared to be treated as a child for the rest of my life. So I look up- oh. It's just Snape. That's all right, then. I let my world go black- this time, it is a much broader darkness then that of my cupboard. There might have even been stars. And the tears fall unnoticed from my shuttered eyes.