February 8, 1981
It has been deathly quiet here lately. If it weren't for the constant bringing of my meals by James, I'd think that everyone had left me alone in this desolate stone hell. But, they are there. I haven't the courage to ask what is going on out in the world anymore, but the side of good must be making headway.
Otherwise they wouldn't have locked us away in our cells. We are not allowed to leave these cages, not even to aid the side of evil. The lottery for who is to die has been halted, as it is no longer safe to transfer us to the camps. But that isn't stopping them from continuing their death raids.
I heard from the boy across from me, when he had enough courage to open his mouth, that a few of the Death Eaters went and killed off an entire ward. That's at least a hundred muggle-born innocents. Maybe Dumbledore has found out about this particular camp and he is on his way to save us. And maybe then, pigs will fly.
As heartless as this sounds, I dearly hope that no one is on their way to save us, and if they are, that Voldemort never finds out. What is to stop him from taking us all out at once, to commit the murders and still save himself from the wrath of the great wizard, Dumbledore?
Nothing. I know, with all the logic I can possibly muster up, that we would all die if word got out that a savior was on the way. So whomever this savior is, stay away from me. I don't wish to die yet, not when I've worked so hard to gather up my own strands of hope. They're fragile and already the news of the genocide of an entire ward has them breaking down.
The time for dinner draws near and I think that tonight will be the night I try to ask James about all of this. I'm hoping that he'll at least hint to what is going around this place, but I have to be careful. As humane as he seems, James is still the enemy, the one born with blessed blood. But he is still the enemy, and I do not know how he really is.
Maybe it is only a matter of time before he too takes advantage and tries to end my life.
February 12, 1981
James hasn't been bringing me meals for at least five days, nor have I seen him walking past the iron bars. Even though he is the enemy, I do wish that no harm has come to him.
No word on the happenings and why the tides have changed, but another killing spree occurred. No one told me this time . . . but I heard the screams from the ward next to mine. The screams, they sounded so much like the dead, yet they came from the living. Has being subjected to this torture taken our souls and left us as empty shells.
February 16, 1981
Still no James. The witch who brings me my meals is absolutely horrid. Bellatrix, as many have called her in passing, seems to be particularly hateful of me, far exceeding her hatred of the others. A single scrap of food is constantly delivered with a curse, any breath I wish to take is paid for with a slice to my skin.
Dear Andrew, my love, if you saw me now, after all this pain, would you recognize me? I fear the person I'm becoming, the anger that seems to constantly boil in the pit of my stomach. No longer does the real pain matter, for I fear a deadlier thing has occurred. I'm losing myself, who I once was. And I'm becoming a hateful monster, no longer the naïve shell I once was.
What once as sweet and caring, now spites the entire world. And I don't wish to feel this way, I wish the hate I feel would leave, but it doesn't. They still torture me, and they still breed hatred inside of me.
February 19, 1981
Bellatrix has killed five of our ward already, and from what I gather, through the hushed whisperings, she is merely stepping in until James returns. The hope I hold, while bright in some areas, has diminished when it deals with me surviving her. It is only a matter of time until she turns that wand upon myself.
Fate, how could ye be so cruel? I thought I lived my life by a good code, always trying to do the right thing. So why this? Why this imprisonment in a hell that exists above the land. Why the red hot pain that has been inflicted upon my defeated frame? Why, oh why, have I been selected to go through this torture?
I thought I was living my life well enough to stay out of this trouble. What could I have possibly done to deserve this degree of pain. If what comes around, goes around, then why hasn't my hair been pulled or my pencils broken, instead of me being locked away with no light, no hope, no life.
February 23, 1981
James has returned! This morning, which I had a feeling would be my last, he appeared with breakfast. It was such a wonderful appearing, to see my guardian angel walk into the cell, instead of that foul creature, Bellatrix.
I thought today would have been my last, as she promised the day before that today was the day I died. Already she had killed almost twenty people in our ward. But joys of joys! The nice James has returned, though something was different.
At first, I paid no attention to the entrance of him, assuming that Bellatrix would merely walk in and kill me off, but moments later when he cleared his throat, I nearly jumped him in relief. In a world so dark, without your family and love, it is wonderful to see a sight such as James, who has helped me in small, yet meaningful ways.
I owe my life to him on numerous occasions, and I believe some of that relief was knowing that I'd be somewhat safe with him around. It was well-known that James had the most humane ward, though he had to allow some of the prisoners to be killed and tortured, or else Voldemort would have noticed.
Something was wrong with him though, I noticed it from the start, yet I couldn't fathom what could possibly be wrong for a Death Eater, who was on the other side of the bars and had a higher level of safety than I, who trembled in fear with each passing shadow.
What could possibly be wrong from someone with it so lucky? A lot more than I could have imagined, apparently. As usual, James had delivered my food last, which allowed him to linger and talk. In the midst of shoveling food down my throat, I had to ask. I just had to ask as to what was wrong.
I never meant to come across as hateful or cynical, but these walls have made me loose myself. My words nearly sent him stumbling backwards by the bitterness, but I couldn't imagine how he could possibly be feeling that something wrong had happened to him. He was the lucky one and I the cursed one, not the other way around.
For a moment, he simply stood there watching me, and I feared that I had just angered my one chance for salvation, and that the moment of my death was finally at hand. But death never came at that time, instead I was thrown into a story about a boy who was forced into killing innocents to simply save his family. A family that, for the most part, he had been forced to murder. The core family, his parents and siblings, still remained alive, but the others, the cousins and such, had been killed by his hand.
Had it not been for the chains, I would have hugged him, as he appeared to be so lost in this war of good and evil. How could someone be forced to choose between their various family members? How could Voldemort resort to such means of gaining followers? Poor James, who still appeared as if he was reliving the moment in all his dreams and waking moments.
That is what this world has come to, hasn't it? Forcing people to spill their own blood lines, pitting them against one another, and taking away free will. I thought those type of times were left behind as society advanced, but we're still the cruel creatures, the primitive barbarians against our own will. We'll always be those creatures.
Author's Note- It's been awhile, 'eh? With the boredom of summer setting in, I've somewhat returned to the world of Harry Potter fanfiction. The original notes for this story were lost, so I'm rethinking the path that I'll take with it. Enjoy! - gina