Shattered Minds

Shattered Minds

Pain ripping though every muscle in your body often makes one insane.

I discovered this power, this delightful little concoction of control on my first attack. Oh, they screamed. They screamed and screamed, even when they were wrapped up nice and tight, bound in white jackets.

Schizophrenia the muggles call it. Shattered mind was the literal translation, I discovered, and the illness lead to delusions. Not being able to curb my curiosity, I researched the 'illness' the amusing muggles had invented. I must say, such a wonderful illness, caused by one's own powers, does so invigorate the ego.

It was euphoric, this distortion of the brain, and it grew stronger each time I cast the spell. Ironically, however, its effects waned more rapidly each time I cast the spell, and I had to cast it more and more often. One brain-shattering event that I particularly adored, the one that kept me sane through my stay at Azkaban, was the one that sent Alice and Frank Longbottom gibbering to St. Mungo's. It was a thing of beauty. The way their faces contorted in pain, the way she held onto her husband's hand until her eyes emptied and her body fell limp. I thought her dead for a long while, and I wondered if my raison d'etre, my addiction, had finally failed me; if I had ruined the perfection of a shattered mind. Following the Prophet, however, I soon established that my talent hadn't been lost. I had reached perfection: a mind so broken, so shattered, that the couple would forever remain insane, living just outside the boundaries of reality.

Then came Azkaban, the prison that would hold me for 14 years of my life, robbing me of my beauty, my wealth, and my power. I thought I would never hold a wand again; never again feel the exquisiteness of a perfectly damaged mind. But my Lord, my Saviour came to save me. He remembered the talent and the beauty of a broken mind, and he freed me, instructed me to continue my work.

I did. Cursing the Potter boy in the Department of Ministries was one of my most thrilling moments. And yet the passion and ecstasy died almost immediately when I did not break him. I craved more power, more pain, and more blood. And now he stands before me--no, he is chained before me: dark hair damp, light eyes dull. And I love the pleasure he gives me.

I watch him for a moment, giggling in spite of myself. A gift from my master for my loyal services, already broken down to the point of submission. Finally, a prize worth having; it shall be the most beautiful mind I have ever created. And he shall sit and wonder with his shattered brain, until the day my Lord kills him. Although he might not; the man is cruel in subtle ways I admire so, and I yearn to be like him.

His mouth is moving, though making no sound. I grin some more, continue to watch his useless tongue flop around the words he is trying to form. How sad, I think to myself, to watch the fall of those who could have been great. And then, surprise; he talks. Shattered words that remind me of what he will become when I am through, that send more thrills of excitement through my body. I am in love with his failure.

"N . . . no . . ."

His mouth is working and I clap my hands together in glee, peering at him through rose-tinted glasses. The dusty light shines so beautifully on his fragile features contorted in the pain he has felt, and I can't help myself. I reach out and graze his cheek with my nail, just to see how alive he feels. While his skin is cold, I feel a pulse just below the pale skin. My nail pares away a thin sliver of flesh. Bright living blood oozes slowly over my fingers.

"Harry. Are you alive?" I whisper, more to myself than to him, tasting a drop of his blood from my nail. I am fascinated at how someone can be so alive on the inside and yet seem so dead on the outside. His eyes flutter slightly at the stinging of the wound, but he does not say anything for a long time. I continue to watch, intrigued by the scarlet ribbon so bright against the paleness of his skin.

"What . . . what do you want?" he croaks at last, sending another wave of shivers down my spine.

"Only life, Harry," I state calmly.

I smile, inching forward a little. They have always fascinated me, the people who are, in theory, worthy of power, but who choose not to take it. They always hold back a little of their remaining power contained within themselves; it beats with their hearts. I live to drain it out of them.

I push his lolling head back, taking care not to harm him. Again, the slight flutter of eyelids, but no other reaction. Carefully, almost painstakingly, I push back his soft, damp hair from his forehead, kissing his greyish skin, noting that his famous scar has also faded. This brings him to life, and his eyes snap back to reality, glaring into mine.

I can't deny that the feeling of power makes me feel revitalized; I have again traversed into the far reaches of the mind, and brought the dead back from the beyond.

I kiss him again, his lips this time, biting and tasting, feeling his pain and his soul flow into mine. It is beyond ecstasy, and as he begins to fight back I feel the tension growing, my lust and his hate merging into one and hitting us both with the force of a train. As I break away, I feel the power inside of me, but know it won't last more than a few moments. I must make him the perfect victim: The paradigm of insanity, if you will. He glares at me, knowing. He must know; he has seen how I work, and how I specialize not in killing, but perfecting my victims.

I draw back, elegantly flicking my wand into my hands, my voice lovingly uttering my favourite word: Crucio. I hear his screams, his absolute agony like music. I watch, mesmerized by the beauty of a human at the edge. The final moments before the brain starts shutting down, I have discovered, vary from mind to mind. Some lose sanity in the first moments of pain, and often the curse will be overdone, killing instead of driving to insanity. Others lasted far too long; the Longbottoms were one such example. Half an hour of pain they endured before their faces lost the signs of life. I wonder how long Harry will last, and how long I will be allowed to fill up on the delightful pure reality of human torment. How soon would the feeling last? An hour, a day, a week, a month, a year? Or just a second?

I stop my curse suddenly, knowing that he is still in his right mind. Perhaps his mind is now more active than it has ever been; pain has been known to stimulate parts of the brain not used otherwise.

"Had enough?" I ask, my voice positively dripping with pleasure. Even if he has, the suffering won't be over.

He does not respond, and I approach him, pressing myself up against his lean body, more aroused than I have ever been. He still does not respond, but I can see in his eyes that while he attempts to fight, he enjoys it too. Enjoys the pain as much as I do.

A final kiss, then I finish my masterpiece. I let the screams fill my ears, savouring the vision of the young man before me, his eyes tightly shut, tears and sweat mingled with blood on his face. The most beautiful vision in the world.

How long will this euphoria last? I wonder, gazing at the living dead hanging in chains.

His body is not dead, but his mind is on the wrong side of reality. Schizophrenia the muggles call it.