"Owie ow ow ow ow ow owww!~" I winced as the dude threw me down onto the floor.

Hmm... Grey walls, cold floor, no windows, metal bars... seems to me like a prison cell. Glowering, I tried to struggle out of my bindings. Who did he think he was, tying me up like that? Those floaty...

"Stop struggling, wench!" The bandit-dude growled. "No use. Enjoy the company, mate." He grinned a twisted, psychotic grin to a dark boy in the corner of the cell. Then he left.

"Go to endurance you... you... you big bloated puffer face!" I spat in his direction.

Now, in an unknown situation, one gathers information.

Grimacing, I got to my feet and slowly inched towards the corner. I tripped over something in the dark and went tumbling face-first. Tears came to my eyes despite my attempts to be calm and I bit back a scream of frustration.

I drew myself to my knees, breathing raggedly, and stared at the young man.

"What's your name?" Start by getting to know your informant.

"Nobody who learns my name lives to tell." Mafia?

"Okaaay then, Metal Man, don't thing I'm ganging up on your ego. Zen." I changed subject. "So, Voldemort, where are we?"

His lips quirked up a little. "Voldemort?"

"He Who Must Not Be Named, of course."

"Thank you then. Where do you think we are?"

"A Gloomy, Joy-Sucking, Prison Chamber of Despair."

"Exactly."

I sat down near him and thought about this. Prison Cell. With a mafia-member. Hmm. Don't they have juvie here? I mean ya-sheesh.

I feel like an RPG character or something.

"And why, for the love of pretzel sticks are we in a gloomy, joy-sucking prison chamber of despair?"

"What's a pretzel stick?" He laughed at my dumbstruck expression.

"You don't know what a freaking pretzel stick is? Are we in a third world country or something!"

"'Course not. Don't be stupid. Who cares what a pretzel stick is, anyways? We're stuck here. Blast the gods; only Azura knows what will happen to us now!"

"Who's Azura? Your girlfriend?"

Now, it seems, it was his turn to stare. I went cross-eyed and made a funny face, waiting for him to laugh.

He didn't.

Now I have a headache and my sight is a bit blurry.

"Oh yes. I never introduced myself. I'm Caroline. I'd shake your hand, but it's taped to my arse. Pleased to meet you, Moldy Voldy. So, MV, what do you do for a living?"

"Kill."

Well, that wasn't expected. He seemed to me more of a paper boy kinda' guy.

Wonderful.

I spend my camping weekend stuck in a prison cell with a heart-throb cut-throat who likes to go un-named. That is a lot of dashes. Where's Charlieeeeeeeeeee?

"You're mumbling."

"Deal with it."

"Who's Charlie? You said it really loudly."

"The person who taught me how to say 'deal with it'."

"And it's nice to see you think of me as a heart throb." Grinny grin grin.

"I was testing your knowledge of slang. You passed. And my cheeks are red because of lack of oxygen because you are radiating CO2, and not because I am blushing."

"Let's pretend you mean that."

OKAY I'm seriously stressed out here and that gives me stress and this is just like the movie 17 Again and and and and and...

"Mumbling."

"Shut up. For all I know you're a suicide bomber and you're going to kill us both so you can get 72 virgins when you go to heaven. I miss Charliiiieeeeeee. Even Ian is better conversation than you."

Imagine something like that, over and over again. Boooring.

I wish my hands were untied.

My nose is itching.

I wish I had my sister's Ipod at least, then I could listen to some tunes. Or a manga. Or my books. Or -

"Mumbling." Grinny grin grin grin grinny.

"ARGH! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!" I yelled

"Let's pretend you mean that, along with all the other insults you've been throwing at me."

I pretended to be asleep. I don't think he fell for it because he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Ugh. What a psychopath.

"Mumb-"

"Don't. Say. Anything. Or I will fart. In your general direction. Now turn around, shut the heck up, and let me think of a way to get out without being killed by the various threats. Including you. Now, is there any wood in this room...? If we can find a nail somewhere..." I glanced about. No wood, no nails. No sharp rocks. In the books its sooo much easier. I looked up. "Do you have a fruit knife on you or something? Or a machete. Any will do."

"Yes."

"Can I borrow whatever it is?"

"No."

"Why."

"It's in my pocket."

"ARGH! If I were untied, I would be attempting to throttle you. Probably failing, mind you."

"Easy to believe."

"I did mention you're not helping right?"

"Yes you did actually."

I scowled and tried to loosen my ropes. Nothing.

I tried to lick my elbow. Useless.

I tried to bend the ropes with my MIND. It glowed a bit purple but nothing happened.

I tried to meditate. Purple flashy lights were floating around Voldy. (How gay)

"Um, Dude, you've turned purple. I think you have skin disease. Or you're gay. Your pick."

"Foolish Fool. It's magic. Detect Life. Fool."

"And I am the Tooth Fairy."

"Really?"

"No! Moron. I knew your pants were too tight."

"I'm wearing a robe."

"So you admit you're a cross dresser. I wish you would meet Ian; he needs to accept his PRIDE. Like Patrick and George the Gay Llamas."

Why am I bringing up llamas in a prison cell? I think I've gone around the bend.

"If you can do magic, untie us," He continued.

"There is no such thing as magic. If anything, that was your TRUE COLORS, SHINIIIIINNNGGG." I don't know why I'm happy. Moron drove me insane.

I saw a small pebble by the corner and willed it to hit him. Green flashes, and WHAM! Voldemort found himself with a shiny new bruise the size of... a pebble.

"See? You can do magic."

"Shut up. If magic exists, then so does heaven and hell and god and fairies. And everyone knows that there is no such thing! I mean, next you'll be saying you're part of a Satanist cult. Reality check, we're in a cell, and it sucks. You're being a pain. I have a migraine and my best friend is god knows where. My mom is probably freaking out, my dad is still home thinking I'm camping and I'm going to die in here without ever finding out if Michael Jackson is dead or alive. So shut up! You could at least be quiet!" I scowled at him, somehow got to my feet, and retreated to the other side of the cell.

Only god knows how much time passed. It was dank and humid. My face was still wet from when I was crying earlier. Or had I cried again?

Being insane sucks. It's confusing. Mind empty, and escape seeming impossible, I decided to at least try and get my sanity back. Deeeep breaths. Wait, I need to exhale. Pant. Pant. Pant. Okay, not happening.

Thank god I don't have asthma.

Bored of this scene, I examined the door. Metal bars, not too small gaps.

If I were untied, I might be able to slip my arm under and open from the other side. But noo, I'm tied up. And it's probably locked.

Still, optimism.

The door was rusty. I stood up and rubbed my ropes on it. Rust flaked off.

Then I saw that the lock was in prime condition, and bit back a scream. There goes plan… H?

I wondered if the door was stable. I pushed against it. Considering my tiny size, not much success on that level. Glancing about, I tried to see if there was anyone in the hallway or something. Nothing.

I could see a huge set of keys hanging on the opposite side of the hallway, and a big heavy chest of weapons near the door. If we ever broke out I fancy stealing something and smashing some furniture.

That'll show them Boojum freaks.

Then again, I can't lift heavy objects well. There goes plan I.

Suddenly, Plan J came to me…