Imagine a life.

This life starts out simply enough. There's a few months of floating around, being fed and kept warm, and you don't even have to worry about going to the bathroom. A heartbeat is your stereo, and you have funny, slick walls to play with, when your fingers suddenly start to develop.

Then someone's squeezing the shit out of you, and there's this lady screaming, and some guy you don't even know...who has hair growing out of his nose...is smacking your ass like a master of bondage. You decide to scream. You are not a happy little duck.

A few more days being surrounded by others, who squall as much as you...if not more...and then you're in a house, with a nuclear family, and your dad's best friend happens to be your new puppy companion.

Things continue swimmingly. The screaming lady...she actually seems pretty normal and nice, after awhile...feeds you and changes you and does all matter of nasty things, and does so with this little smile on her face. You can't decide if she's nuts or just optimistic. And your father? He panics a lot, mostly. Especially after 10:32 pm.

Then one night, you get punched in the guts by fate, and it all goes to hell.

Evil nasty men storm your house, and a malicious old bloke with blood red eyes suddenly decides that you're the Anti-Christ to his Messiah. Himself. Suddenly you're a hero, and people worship you because somehow you bested his ass while still in the cradle.

A few years later...sixteen, to be precise...you start to wonder about old sayings.

'From the cradle to the grave...'

All this has a point, of course.

But be buggered if I remember it.

I've got what they call Magical Wrought Senility. In other, not so pretty words, I'm as fucking crazy as a bat and I don't remember much. Eh, there are some things from early childhood...I actually now remember my birth...but it all seems to fade and sway after that.

They keep me in this room. They keep telling me I'm some sort of HERO, that I bested that snaky bloke again...on the castle grounds, I think it's some fancy lawyer word, really...and that his last, disastrous stroke caused this. Be buggered if I know what the hell they're talking about.

People visit me. This bloke called Ron, he's an okay sort of guy, even plays this game called...called...

The pieces move. And it has horses. What is it again?

Oh, fuck it.

Anyway, he pops into my little lap of luxury, every now and then. This girl called Hermione comes too, but she ends up crying a lot...and then something...oh yeah, something happens, and they have to take her away. They say I get upset.

Me? Upset? I dunno. Maybe?

And then sometimes, this pale, skinny, taller than me guy comes along. He won't tell me his name. He just sits and stares at me, with saddened grey eyes. I have the feeling he's important, but I don't know why. I think he uses more hair products than a girl, though, and for some reason, that always makes me sad.

I sometimes remember him when he didn't care about his looks.

But sometimes I don't.

Hmmm.

My room is rather nice, actually, Of course I can't leave, and there are no windows to show me what it looks like outside. I barely remember the sky anyway, and when I do, I feel all funny inside. I don't really like things much anymore. They have to get me to eat with...with...those tubey things. Big machine, and they hold me down. I don't even know if they're feeding me, or...or...

Damn it, I forget.

Anyway, that bloke is here again. Just sitting there, staring at me.

I stare back. Not much else to do, really. Though all the books are new. I think. Maybe.

"I know your name. But...do I know you?"

If anything, he looks even sadder. I sigh. I have this really bad feeling that I was never supposed to make him sad, and yet every time I talk...even to try and...and...whatever. He just gets even sadder.

Comfort him? Yeah, those words feel right.

I ask, a little plaintively, "Can you tell me my name? I...well, I kinda...anyway."

His eyes are like storms, I've come to realise.

Who is he again?

And why does he stare at me like that?

That bloke's here again, always visiting. I don't know why. But every time I look at him I feel sad, and wonder about him, and try to remember things I don't want to. It...hurts, to think about all the long, long ago's. They don't want me to remember, either.

"Did I do something wrong?"

He almost smiles, for a moment. I want to know what's so amusing. Or...or...a joke? Was there a joke?

"Or maybe I did something right."

He stares at me, and his face goes pale, and I...I...

"Who are you? Do I know you?"

That bloke that always visits me...why does he always look so sad?

I sometimes wish I could see the sky. I don't know why. I just feel like all this stone is choking me, and I want to go away. But they won't let me, because I ripp-rippe-. I did something...good? Bad? What did I do?

That bloke. Heh. Always staring.

"Dra...Drama?"

Eyes.

"Dra...Draco...that seems...right, doesn't it?"

So sad.

"Draco...Malleable? Marco? Draco...the Trout? Tree? Traitor? Yeah...but no...truth in lies, it always hides, and the darkness...something. Draco...like the constellation? Or the mythical beast?"

So empty, sometimes.

"Draco...I remember you...I think...you were there...when I-"

What?

Oh. The room. I don't really like the room. But it keeps me away from the sky, and the ground, and I somehow know that's a good thing.

"Oh, hi. Uh...who are you?"

I wish I was back in the warm, slick place again. At least it was sort of safe there, and I didn't need to try and remember.

If only I could imagine a life...a better life...

Imagine a life.