Prison of Emotions

A red haze obscured Harry Potter's gaze as he awoke, blocking out the sight of the world around him. A blurry, crimson landscape stretched out before him, frightening in its furious intensity. Harry stared for several long moments, confused and afraid. The air around him was thick with a strange smell, reminiscent of the scent of copper and rusting. Harry blinked, trying to clear his vision and helplessly ran his hands across the floor in search of his glasses. The smooth feel of wood met his fingers, and he continued to run his hands along the floor, searching. All he could feel was a sticky residue coating the wood and clinging to his fingers.

After a few more moments, he gingerly felt at his face, his hands quickly contacting the smooth surface of his glasses. They felt unbroken, and he began to fear why the room was red. He took them off carefully, staring at the slick, red fluid that covered the corrective lenses and carefully keeping his blurry vision from focusing on anything else in the eerily silent room. Using the edge of his shirt, he tried to rub the red liquid off, but only succeeded in smearing the crimson fluid. He shakily muttered a cleaning charm, slight tremors running through his body as he placed them on his face, eyes tightly shut.

He wasn't sure that he wanted to see.

For a few seconds, he just sat there, not willing to look, afraid as he hadn't been in so long. He could feel his body shaking, dreading what he might see. Yet, he couldn't put it off forever. He would have to see, have to look, have to know. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes to open.

He wasn't sure that he wanted to live.

Blood decorated the room, harsh splatters starkly imprinted on the pale walls, small drops clinging to the soft cushions of the furniture, and a deep puddle forming around the two bodies crumpled like broken dolls on the floor. Hermione. Ron.

Harry felt himself fall to the floor and knew he was crying, screaming maybe, but he couldn't move, couldn't make himself run for help. There was no help for Hermione or Ron, nothing that could bring them back to him. He was alone.

He dreamed of death when the sweet embrace of oblivion claimed him, dragging him into the realm of painful memories.

* * *

When he awoke again, it was to the sound of voices and the soft, careful thud of footsteps. Glancing around with sleep-smeared eyes, he could see figures about, dressed in wizard robes and with wands in hand.

He tried to stand, to speak, but, before he could, someone grabbed him roughly from behind. He twisted in the harsh grasp, afraid the man was the killer. His instincts wouldn't let him die, even if it was what he wished. As he tried to twist free, he caught a quick glimpse of an insignia on the man's robes, marking him as one of the Ministry's Aurors.

Harry began to rave, telling him of how he had awakened, how they were lying there, dead, but, the Ministry official just grabbed him roughly and put a restraining charm on him. He struggled in his fear, wondering if the Ministry had become corrupt, if all this was some sort of cruel conspiracy. The man just shoved him into the arms of another, disgust written across his face.

They were speaking now, and, Harry tried to calm his mind, fighting to understand through the hazy fog blanketing his grief-stricken mind. After a few moments, some of their words became clear.

"I can't believe this. It's sickening," the first man said.

They both looked at Harry closely for a few seconds, searching his face curiously.

"The Boy-Who-Lived. Can't believe he'd do this to his friends," the second added.

Harry's mind went blank after that, unwilling to believe this had been his doing, or that anyone could think such a thing. Ron and Hermione were his friends. He would never hurt them. Never.

He repeated this in his mind, over and over, trying to control the rising hysteria growing within him and wishing for the return of oblivion to help him escape the horrible pain that clawed at his heart.

* * *

Ginny Weasley couldn't control the hysterical sobs issuing from her chest. What Dumbledore said was unbelievable, impossible. Ron couldn't be dead, couldn't be gone forever. And blaming Harry! It was ridiculous! Ginny knew Harry, knew what sort of person he was. She knew the gentle nature of his heart, the unbreakable softness of his soul. He was strong, kind, wonderful, and most definitely not a murderer.

She stood up from the chair and walked in a slow circle, oblivious to the eyes that followed her. She knew she should be saying something, anything, but words seemed beyond her now. To talk would be just too much. She raised her eyes to Dumbledore's for one brief instant before she ran out of the room.

As she raced through the halls, she didn't let herself think about where she was going, what she would do. She just ran, letting some of her pent-up emotions break free. Many students turned to stare as she sprinted past them, but she refused to acknowledge their shouted inquiries. She couldn't talk to them. She couldn't talk to anyone.

It was only when she had reached the Quidditch supply shed and was holding her broom that she realized where she had to go. She couldn't just run off and pretend nothing had happened. She had to go home and see her family. And, later, maybe she would see Harry.

But she wouldn't talk. She couldn't.

* * *

"What's going to happen to him?"

"He'll go on trial, and, if he's proven guilty, he goes to prison," the speaker said, his voice heavy with stress and sadness.

"He wouldn't have done it."

"I know."

Harry could hear the voices quite clearly now, as if they stood right beside him. He opened his eyes wearily, his mind still careening with images of his slaughtered friends. When he glanced up, he saw Arthur and Molly Weasley gazing down at him. Automatically, he tried to sit up, but found he couldn't move.

"Harry, don't try to move. The doctors have you restrained," Mrs. Weasley cautioned.

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that escaped was a choked sob. He could see the fresh tear stains on the two grieving parents' faces and the dark circles under their eyes.

"Don't worry, Harry. We'll get you out of this mess," Mr. Weasley said comfortingly, as Mrs. Weasley broke into fresh tears.

He wondered what was going through their minds, what they were thinking as they looked down on the person who had last seen their child alive. It was hard to believe that they didn't blame him, and he wondered if maybe they did, in the secret parts of their hearts. Maybe they thought that even if he hadn't committed the murder, he had been there and failed to stop it.

Harry desperately wished he could comfort them, say it had been quick, painless, but he couldn't. He didn't know.

Did I kill them? No! I'd never...They're my friends. Were my friends.

"Where's Ginny?" he asked in a hoarse, scratchy whisper.

He had to know, had to make sure that at least she was okay. Even if they were no longer together, she was still so important to him. Inwardly, he cringed at the thought of her reaction to the news. Did she hate him now, blame him?

"She's in the lobby with the twins. She's safe, and so's everyone else," Mr. Weasley reassured him.

"Everyone but," he paused, unable to speak their names.

Mr. Weasley nodded slowly, his face suddenly haggard and weary. He hugged his wife to him tightly, clutching her to his chest as she cried. Harry looked away, unable to bear the sight of their mourning.

Everything's lost. My friends, my future, my life.... What will I do?

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the sounds around him. Maybe, if he closed his eyes long enough, everything would go away, and, his life would be back to normal. Maybe Hermione and Ron would come back, and they could pretend nothing had happened.

* * *

It hurt to see him lying there, so pale and helpless. His black hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, which seemed rather vulnerable without the protection of his glasses. Ginny reached out her hand slowly and brushed the stray locks from his eyes. Harry started slightly at the brief touch and looked up at her wonderingly. She tried to smile, but could not.

"Ginny?" he whispered, his green eyes brimming with tears.

She nodded, but didn't speak. She wouldn't break her silence, not even for Harry.

"Your mum...says you won't talk. That's okay, I guess. I don't really want to either. It hurts too much."

She nodded and grabbed his hand, gripping it hard. Unbeknownst to her, tears had started to stream down her freckled cheeks to fall with soft splashes on the floor.

"They say I'm to stand trial in a week. I guess that's a mercy. I'm sick of waiting, of wondering. After that,....They'll probably find me guilty, Ginny. I know that, and, I can't do anything about it. I can't tell them what happened if I don't know myself."

He paused and closed his eyes briefly, trying to gather his thoughts.

"I'll go to prison, and maybe that's for the best. But, you...you have to live your life. Mourn them, mourn me, even, for as long as you need, but don't let it become all you are. Someday, will you please smile again, Ginny? For me?"

She nodded shortly, her breath hitching in her chest. She could feel the sobs trying to well up, trying to force their way into existence. She squeezed Harry's hand one last time, and bent over to kiss his cheek. When she did, she tasted the familiar salty taste of tears upon his skin. Backing away slowly, she slipped out the door, never taking her eyes off his face.

She sank down onto the chair outside of his holding cell, where he was kept restrained at all times. Until now, she had refused to see him. For two long months, she had missed the sight of his face, the sound of his voice. And, now, she was faced with the prospect of never seeing him again, and it hurt more than anything she had ever known.

* * *

In a way, Draco Malfoy was grateful for the dark. It hid him from the sight of, not only others, but himself. It still shocked him how much he had changed. To cringe from the sight of his own body was something he never thought he would do. But he was different now. When the guards brought a pale light, he could see the thin protruding bones of his wrists. It was a painful sight, this reminder of what he had become.

He hated them all, hated them dearly and with all his heart. Of course, for Draco, hate was nothing new. It had filled his life, coloring his view of friends, classes, family, and, basically, the whole world. It had always been an angry whisper hidden within him, creeping out to fill him with venomous rage.

Lucius Malfoy had said that anger strengthened a person, and, for a long time, Draco had agreed. Now, he wasn't so sure what he believed. He had only his own experiences to compare, and they were relatively few. Confinement in the cold, miserable prison was unlikely to increase his understanding of the world, either.

He looked around slowly, noting the gray, water-stained walls, nearly invisible in the gloom. He had been in solitary for the last few weeks, since his behavior was considered detrimental to the other prisoners' mental well-being. It didn't really bother him, being alone in the cold cell. He didn't want anyone to see him as he was, even other criminals. His pride couldn't bear it.

He sighed softly and ran a hand through his spider-silk fine hair. The once well-cared for locks were now limp and dirty with grease and dirt. Once a week, the guards forced the prisoners to shower, but Draco found it all rather pointless since no one ever saw him but the coarse guards. He went through the motions of caring for himself, pretending his appearance still mattered when locked away in the dark bowels of the earth, but it didn't. It used to disgust him that they only showered once a week. Now, after two years, it was just another useless inconvenience. It was all just so pointless. His scars alone would prevent him from returning to his normal appearance, no matter how often he bathed, and the accumulated dirt actually served to hide the deeper marks.

As he sat in silence, a door clanged somewhere in the dank hallways and footsteps resounded through the corridors. Draco knew it was visiting hour, just as he knew he wouldn't receive any, even if he had been allowed them in solitary. There was no one to come visit him. His father was locked in a matching cell somewhere, awaiting execution, and his mother....Draco didn't want to think of what might have become of her.

He never asked the guards of the outside world, already knowing their answers couldn't satisfy him. They, too, were isolated from life, though not for any misbehavior on their part. Misbehavior...Draco couldn't stop himself from laughing softly at the word. What a way to describe what he'd done. It wasn't as if he had merely talked out in class and was being punished by another detention. What he had done was serious, serious enough that he had lost all chance of life with it. True, he still moved and breathed, but...Draco knew it wasn't living, not in the true sense of the word. He was merely....existing.

Another door closed in the distance, and Draco pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the sounds and forget everything. If only there was nothing but the cold dark, no sound or smell, no pain or fear. Maybe, in a way, the kiss of dementor would have been preferable to this living hell. At least, then, there would finally be the sweet nothingness he craved, the lack of tormenting thoughts. But, the dementors were all dead, killed along with Voldemort's forces, just as Draco himself should have died. His continued existence was merely a mistake, one which would not soon be remedied.

To be hidden, forgotten, gone. It would be sweet, he thought.

* * *

When Harry stepped into the prison the day after his trial, he couldn't quite control his shock. He had expected something different, brighter maybe, but this place seemed to designed to suck the joy out of you. It reminded him of dementors, even though they were noticeably absent from this facility.

They had to find a replacement for the dementors, he realized. That's why they designed it like this. They don't know how to deal with happy prisoners.

"We've placed you in the solitary ward for the time being. You'll be kept for away from the other prisoners, both for their safety and yours. Of course, there is one other inmate in this particular section, but you'll be separated by nice, big bars, so don't you worry," the guard was saying cheerfully.

Harry thought it rather tactless of the man to tell him not to worry. He had plenty of worrying to do, no matter what the man said. However, he stayed silent, letting the guard lead him down the seemingly endless hallways without a word of protest. There was really nothing that could be done. He knew that now.

"Of course, I should be warning you that the other fellow's a bit of an odd one. I don't think he's quite right in the head. 'Course, he's also a nasty mean bloke. Killed people for Voldemort, you know," the guard continued, oblivious to his prisoner's silence.

The guard chuckled, apparently amused by some errant thought. Harry prayed that the man wouldn't feel it necessary to share.

"Isn't that something? You killed Voldemort, and he killed for Voldemort!" the man chortled, pleased with his rather dull observation. Harry was not amused.

The guard turned right, leading Harry into an even darker portion of the prison. Here, there were few lights, and the air felt cold to Harry's skin. He shivered slightly and wondered how he would survive this.

"Shouldn't solitary be more solitary?" he asked curiously.

The guard shook his head, smiling merrily. Harry wondered if the man knew what he had supposedly done. He supposed that the man was just used to criminals who had committed such heinous deeds. There was really no reason to think he would be treated with special cruelty just because of his renowned name.

"We just call it solitary confinement because no one ever goes down here. It's a mostly unused part of the prison. If you do something really bad while you're here, we'll move you to the real solitary. In there, there's no one. You don't even see the guards. Not a fun place. I'd recommend you stay out of trouble to avoid going there," the man informed him.

They had now reached a heavily locked door at the end of the hall. As the guard fumbled with his keys, he turned to look at Harry one last time.

"I'd watch yourself in here. Some of the guards are itching to get their hands on you. They're not too pleased about your little murdering spree. They seem to think of it as a personal betrayal of their trust. Also, the prisoners here are mostly Death Eaters. Don't get caught alone with them," he warned seriously, all traces of his smile gone.

Harry stared at the man, surprised by this unexpected kindness.

"Why are you being so helpful?" he asked in confusion.

The man smiled gently and patted him on the shoulder.

"You saved our lives. I don't know why you did what you did, but it doesn't change that fact. Nothing can," he answered softly.

Harry nodded and followed the man into the small hallway. On each side, there were three small cells, poorly lit and furnished with only a bed, a sink, and a small toilet. All the cells but one were empty. In the occupied cell, a small figure lay motionless on the hard mattress, his pale hair shockingly bright against the dark sheets.

Harry wondered who he was and if he had ever fought him in the war against Voldemort. He hoped not. He didn't need his life to get any worse than it already was.

"Here's your cell. I'll be back in a bit to bring you some food, but another guard will take this shift tomorrow," the guard said, opening the door of the cell across from the other occupant.

Harry stepped in and nodded, blankly staring at the dismal little room. Behind him, the door slammed shut. He was a prisoner.