Begin Again

Part 1 - Azkaban

It was dark, cold. Not your usual dark or cold, no, this... This was misery. On a small island in the North Sea, the broken down walls of Azkaban prison, contained many prisoners. Witches and Wizards alike, all rotting away, for life, for their hanous crimes against the Wizarding World. The guards of this prision circled the outside—Dementors, awaiting their next victim to punish.

Inside these walls, in a small cell, there was a young man, sitting, awaiting the Dementors. His once silver eyes were now a cold and dull, glazed-over grey. The life they once held was no longer present. The happiness he had once felt was gone—though, that had been missing for many years. His eyes were open but unseeing. He was skilled in Occulumency. His walls, his only guards were up. The only thing keeping his last surviving shred of sanity from snapping. He looked over to where the Dementors circled the broken wall that served as a window, overlooking the sea—the dark, cold, empty sea.

On either side of his cell, was his parents, whom were prisoners as well. However, he hadn't been able to communicate with them at all since their arrival. Not that it mattered much, there were no words, no thoughts to express. Just complete and total emptiness— a void of nothingness.

This young man was only seventeen years old. He and his family were all awaiting the Dementor's kiss. It was set for his eighteenth birthday. A very happy birthday it would be indeed.

As the seconds, minutes, hours passed, the Dementors approached. Was this finally the end? He thought.

No. It was only meal time. Right. I could never be so lucky... He thought bitterly. The Dementors lurked as a small bowl of unknown mush was set in front of him. He didn't move to take it, even though he was starving. He stared blankly at it. He didn't feel like eating, or moving, or doing anything. He sat quietly, staring, waiting. End it. He prayed.

His silent prayers weren't answered. Of course. Eventually, the unknown mush was taken away, and the Dementors continued to round the guarded prison.

He watched as they flew off. He laid down on the cold concrete floor, staring blankly at the wall. He never slept. He never ate. He never moved. He wanted out. Not out of the prision, no. He wanted out. He was done with the misery, with the emptiness, with the emotionlessness. He was done, with life.

He thought back to when he was younger, at Hogwarts. Everything seemed so easy then, so safe, so painless. He wished he go back to those days. He missed them. He missed laughing with Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and even Theodore Nott in the Slytherin common room. How Pansy would come over to their dorm and they would talk for hours about everything and nothing. How Blaise or Theo would make a nasty comment or some rude remark and it would end in a pillow fight with constant hexes being thrown.

He missed his friends dearly. They always supported him. Everyone thought the Slytherin trio was vile and cruel, but they all just wanted  love. They found it in each other. Their safe space, their home was with each other. The walls of the Slytherin dormitories guarded their silent secrets.

He remembered when he came out as gay to his friends, and they accepted him. They didn't care who he was, or what he was. They accepted him either way. That was the thing with the Slytherin trio. They accepted, supported, and protected each other. Only this time... They couldn't protect him.

He thought about the  beautiful grounds. Oh, how he wished he could breathe in that cool, fresh Fall air. He took it for granted back then, like most things, but now he missed it with everything he had, which, to say,  wasn't much.

He missed everything about Hogwarts. The grounds, the air, the dungeons. He was used to the dark, and the cold, and the wetness, but not like this. He missed those dungeons, his home for almost seven years, before it was rudely interrupted. He even missed the people: Pansy, Blaise, Theo, the other Slytherins, the potions master—his godfather. Hell, he even missed Potter and his stupid band of Gryffindorks. He missed the fighting, the banter. It used to be the only thing keeping him going. The only reason to get out of bed in the mornings.

Of course, thinking of Potter got his mind thinking of the war. He shivered, but not from the cold. He hated the war, everything about it. He hated the Dark Lord with his entire being. It felt good to say, or rather, think that freely for once. He thought of Potter and how he had to watch as his lifeless body was carried across the courtyard. His courtyard of sweet Hogwarts. His home, which was now a pile of rubble. He thought of how the Dark Lord announced Potter's Death and his own Victory. He had felt nothing but overwhelming sadness, dread, and guilt in that moment. He wanted to break down, but he couldn't. Not there, not in that moment. He had bitten his lip to keep his tears from forming.

Then he heard it, the Dark Lord asking who wanted to join him as his loyal follower. He didn't want to go. He looked away briefly as his Father called him over to the Dark Lord's side. He wasn't going to join them, no matter if he had the Mark or not. He had made a choice: He was going to stand his ground for once and fight on the right side: with the Light side.

Then his Mother beckoned him over. He saw the fear in her eyes no matter how much she tried to hide it. If he fought with the Light side, he was going to die. He didn't care much. It was for a good cause. But his another... Oh, his Mother cared. She would do anything for her baby boy. That's what she always told him when he was younger. She would do anything for her baby Dragon. He missed her so much, even though she was in the next cell over. He couldn't communicate with her, he could hardly stand. She didn't deserve this fate. She did it for him.

He couldn't disobey his Mother's wishes. And so whatever decisions he had made prior died in their spot. He walked over to his Mother as everyone watched. As his friends, his peers, and his professors watched in utter horror and disgust. They felt nothing but pure hatred in that moment, and he felt it too. The hatred. The hatred for the Dark Lord, for his Father, for himself. Oh, how he hates himself. He decided that whatever punishment he got, he deserved.

He had received the first hug he had ever gotten since he was little, by none other than the Dark Lord. He felt like he would throw up in that moment, but he stayed still and silent as chills ran up his spine. When the Dark Lord finally let go, he was relieved. Relieved to be with his Mother. All he wanted was for her to hold him, and stroke his hair, and tell him everything would be okay in the end. But it wasn't. And she couldn't.

What he didn't know, was that his Mother was an excellent actress. He remembered how Potter's,  the Golden Boy's lifeless body fell out of the Half-giant's arms. How could the oaf drop something so important? Someone so important.

But then the lifeless body moved. It got up off the ground and stood. It casted a spell at the Dark Lord. Potter was alive. He wanted to run to him, to throw him his wand and help with the fight.

But he didn't. Instead, his Mother took his hand in hers and let him off the battle field. They escaped that day, but not with dignity. He felt like a coward for running away from the fight, from his problems, but how could he disobey his Mother when she was by his side, holding his hand. How could he ever be harmed with her right beside him? But now she wasn't beside him, and he was hurt. He was broken beyond repair.

He hated his Father. No. He loved his Father, but he couldn't forgive him for what he did. What he forced him to be. He wished that he could take it back, but he was only a kid. He may be a legal adult in the Wizarding World now, but he was still a kid. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want this stupid mark on his arm. But he was scared. For himself, for his Mother, for his family. He was only sixteen for Merlin's sake! He didn't want to die. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to torture, or be tortured the way he was.

He started to scratch at his forearm, where the gruesome mark sat. A nasty habit he formed when he was sixteen. He tried so hard to scrub it off. He tried everything, scrubing at it, scratching at it, even cutting at it. But nothing ever seemed to work. His only friend that year had been Elizabeth Warren Myrtle. She always tried to stop him from hurting himself, but it didn't always work. He didn't care that she was a muggleborn or a ghost, and she didn't seem to care that he was a lonely, broken Death Eater with an order to kill Albus Dumbledore. With no one there to stop him this time, he scratched and scratched until he bled.

Eventually, as the sky grew darker with each passing second, he heard the screams of the other prisoners: pain, agony, misery, insanity.

He was used to these noises by now as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him—not knowing whether he was conscious or not in the noisy silence—as a small pool of blood formed around him and his arm, which now had deep gashes, slashed into where the ugly, vile Mark sat still, tauntingly.