A Gift
School: Beauxbatons
Theme: An innocent being turned into a scapegoat.
Mandatory Prompt: [Character] OC (Limitation: Name has to be Verity Grahams)
Additional Prompt: [Physical appearance] A jagged scar
Special Rule: A story set in a single location
Year: 1
Wordcount: 1517
I woke up in Azkaban on the morning of my twentieth birthday.
I'm probably the only person who can claim to have received a birthday present from You Know Who. It's not the best gift I've ever received, but I'm sure he has better things to do. He's the Dark Lord, after all.
The view from my bedroom window—a luxuriously large window about the width of my hand and the height of my face—is simply marvellous. The dawn rays of the sun illuminate the sky in a grotesque shade of blood-red. Against the backdrop of screaming prisoners, the waves crash tens of metres below me. The brackish water clogs up every pore and invades every sensation. The stench of sweat and blood, of human fear and desperation, fills my nostrils with each inhalation of the dank air.
What else could a girl want for her birthday?
Hmm…
Now let me think.
I don't know, maybe basic human rights? Or, if that's too much to ask, perhaps not being thrown into Azkaban for being a Muggle-born who supposedly "stole" magic from the pure-bloods?
It's been three days since my farce of a trial, and I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.
My hair is greasy and knotted, and I comb through the curly brown strands with my fingers, trying to regain a semblance of normalcy. My back hurts from the hard floor digging into it when I sleep. And I always, always feel chilled to the bone.
I don't know how much longer I can cling to sanity.
Each time the Dementors come around, I relive my family's deaths—the silver masks, the fire ravaging the street, the flash of green light. The pain of the cutting curse slicing through my bicep as I fight against the Death Eaters in vain. In those moments, it seems like it all happened just an hour ago, the pain still so raw and fresh. My arm, with its shiny, jagged scar, aches all over again.
I repeat a mantra in my head, My name is Verity Grahams. I am a Muggle-born. I am here because I am a Muggle-born. I am a Ravenclaw. I like reading books and writing short stories. I am innocent of any crimes.
I don't know how much longer I can pretend to be human.
It's been thirty-nine days since my imprisonment—I've counted, marking each day with a new line etched on the dirt floor—but it seems a lot longer than that.
The days ahead stretch on interminably, a constant cycle of nightmares and tears, dark memories, and shoving gruel down my throat in an effort to stay strong. Meanwhile, the days behind me mix together; without my careful tally, they'd be an indistinguishable blur.
I try to be cheerful. I try not to give up hope. Maybe Harry Potter—with his lightning bolt scar on his forehead, so similar to the one on my arm—will defeat You Know Who. Maybe it's only a matter of hours until we are all set free.
It seems so unfair to pin all my hopes and dreams on this kid, this seventeen-year-old who's the same age my little sister was.
But if not him, who?
If not him, how else do I stay hopeful?
And so, on the days when I feel a bit more sane, I stare at the jagged line etched across my bicep, and I hope that the one who carries its twin will be able to fulfil his destiny.
It was a lot easier to have hope at the beginning. But the Dementors—they suck the hope out of life. The silent, grey walls tower over me, trapping me in the tiny space that is my cell. I try to laugh and smile, but I no longer know how.
Azkaban is lifeless.
Except for the screaming.
Everyone screams in Azkaban. Some, because they're insane. Others, because of the horrible memories they are reliving. A couple even scream for help, for mercy from a benevolent power which does not exist.
But I do not scream. I bite my lips bloody as I hold them in. I refuse to let them free; they're the only thing I can still control.
I don't know how much longer this can last.
When the Dementors are gone, I try to remember. Who I am. Who I was. Where I came from. Why I'm here.
I repeat my mantra again and again, My name is Verity Grahams. I am a Muggle-born. I am innocent. My name is Verity Grahams…
It's difficult to remember sometimes. My memories are a blur, a messy watercolour painting of discordant colours.
When the Dementors swarm me, feeding on my happy memories, guilt overwhelms me. The weight of my world presses down on my shoulders. If I had been more careful, if I hadn't been magical, then my parents and my little sister Vivian would still be alive.
But still, I try. Just as I etch a new line into the floor with each passing day, I chant my mantra in my head. Even if I lose all grasp of sanity, at least I will keep part of myself—at least I will remember something.
My tally says it's been seventy-four days, but it feels like a lifetime. My hair is matted, and my fingernails are caked with dirt. Dried sweat clings to my skin. The smell once bothered me. It doesn't anymore.
I long for things that I can barely remember. If I try hard enough, I can almost reach them. A blazing fire, red and bright. A soft, blue blanket cocooning me. The crinkle around my mum's eyes as she laughs. But I fall short. None of it is real. None of it can be real.
I lean against the wall, tracing my scar with one hand and wrapping a scratchy, woollen blanket around my body with the other. I repeat my mantra to myself until the Dementors return once more.
My name is Verity Grahams. I am a Muggle-born. I am here…because I am…a Muggle-born. I am…a Rav—
I don't know if I can do this for much longer.
With every new mark on the floor, the tide of insanity becomes more and more insistent. Soon, no matter how desperately I try to hold on, I know I'll be swept away.
I try to repeat my mantra to myself. My name is Verity Grahams. I am a Muggle-born because I am innocent. I like being a Ravenclaw.
It doesn't sound right, and something is missing. I can't remember anything else, though.
I think I've lost count of the days. My tally says one hundred and three, but I may have missed a few. Sunrises become sunsets in a blink of an eye, and time no longer makes sense.
I try to stay hopeful, to remind myself that somewhere out there, Harry Potter is still fighting—has to be still fighting—and one day, he will defeat You Know Who. But with each day, that hope fades.
Everything feels like a dream. Counting the days doesn't matter anymore.
Insanity seems inevitable.
It feels so much easier to let go.
And so I do.
Outside the window, it is dark. Then light. Then dark again. Now it is red, the colour of the blood that drips down my arm as my nails claw my scar.
A bowl is set in front of me. They tell me to eat. I don't know why. I put a spoonful in my mouth. It is cold and dry. I push the bowl away.
There are a row of marks on the floor. I add another one. It seems important, but why?
Even the Dementors leave me alone now; I have no happiness for them to take.
Thunder briefly drowns out the constant screaming. A bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, and hail bounces in through the window. I pick it up, but it melts away—like my memories. I look out the window. A shaft of sunlight forms a rainbow between the clouds. Surely that means something?
But none of that matters.
Everything is empty.
I float along in a world of nothingness. My fingers trace the scarred ridge on my arm.
I don't know why I tried to hold on for so long.
Someone is standing outside my cell. I blink. He's wearing red. Against the dark gloom of the walls, he stands out like fire.
I don't know what he wants. I trace the jagged scar on my arm.
"Verity Grahams?" he asks.
I don't understand what he is saying. The words seem to evoke a memory, but I don't remember it. Perhaps something about innocence? My head bobs anyway.
He unlocks the door. "Harry Potter has defeated Lord Voldemort. Congratulations, Miss Grahams. You're free." His lips continue to move, but I do not hear.
The moment feels like it should be important for some reason. But I can't remember why. I do the only thing I can do—the only thing I remember how to do. Still tracing my scar with my finger, I throw back my head, and I scream.