Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960

oooOooo

August 1, 2009

My hands feel as if they've never grasped a quill before.

But even after eleven years or 135 months or 587 weeks or 4110 days, I still know how to write.

And I must write, because this is one of the conditions for my new life. Each day I must write in this diary. Where I am, what I did.

The quill is filled with everlasting Veritaserum. The ink is my blood, drawn from letters etched into my hands. Each day they will cut deeper into my flesh.

My blood is glistening in the sunset like liquid rubies.

The cuts hurt.

I love this pain.

P.

For pardon.
For probation.

This morning, the door to my cell opened.

But the door of my cell does not open on Saturdays.

It opens on Mondays. Not to provide food, or to take care of necessities. There are a Charmed plate and mug for the one, a Charmed chamber pot and jug for the other purpose. Once a month, those Charms are renewed.

The door opens solely to ascertain if the prisoner contained in the cell is still alive.

…the stench of a decaying corpse probably isn't bad after just a week in the cold climate of Azkaban.

The door never opens on Saturdays.

But it did.

Two guards dragged me from my cell.

No one has touched me in eleven years—135 months—586 weeks—4108 days—since that door closed behind me on May 3, 1998.

I don't know what scared me more. The grip of their hands around my arms. Their warmth pressed against me. Their breath on my neck. Or the sound of my voice, when I was trying to scream, scream, scream—and all I could do was whine.

A human being shouldn't sound like that.

I shouldn't sound like that.

But while I wailed and cried a lot in the first year, and talked and muttered more in the second and third year, I have been silent for a long time now.

They ripped off my prison rags. Maybe leaving red welts on flesh grey with grime was more satisfying than a spell.

Thank Merlin I stank.

Naked, they shoved me into an empty cell with a drain at its centre. Before I could catch my breath, they started casting Aguamenti at me.

Afterwards, they hauled me into yet another cell. This time with one desk and two chairs, the surprising accessory of a caseworker of the DMLE...and a pile of clothing and other things.

The clothes I wore on May 2, 1998.

Jeans, t-shirt, sweater. Trainers.

But there was only one sock.
And no underwear.

oooOooo

These are the conditions of my pardon and probation:

1. Within one month, I must find a place to live.
2. Within one month, I must find a job.
3. Within one month, I must find a wizard or witch of good repute to vouch for me.
4. And I must write a page in this diary every day.

I am writing.

oooOooo

A/N: DMLE ~ Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Many thanks to my beta-readers Aranel Took and Ayerf. You're the best!