Disclaimer: Yeah, you may have guessed, I don't own it......

A Rejected Soul

Ginny Weasley was a busy woman. Having to raise three children on her own was difficult enough but today she had to oversee the antics of her brother's offspring while he and his wife were off on some sort of cruise to celebrate their anniversary. She had been kept running around all day keeping the excited group of children in order, helped by her eldest daughter, Elizabeth. Now, as the evening drew on, she could finally put her feet up without having to worry.

She sighed. Ever since Voldemort had been defeated her life had been monotonous and uninteresting. Almost everything she did revolved around her children, except the small, part-time, admin job she had at the ministry. Her husband's gold lying in Gringotts bank took care of financial issues. Well, there had been at least one advantage in marrying the man who now lay rotting on the island of hell that was Azkaban prison.

Let him rot. He had killed her father. The man who she had trusted, married, the children of whom she had carried, had showed his true colours in the final stages of the war by ruthlessly murdering the man she loved. Let him rot. He did not have to see the suffering that he had caused. She found herself wandering to her childrens' bedrooms. One day they would have to be told. Their father, Harry Potter, had betrayed them all.


The young man sat in the cold, bare cell, his head in his hands. Slow, deathlike figures patrolled outside. Their icy breath chilling him down to the bone marrow. He was no longer affected by then as he used to be, but nothing could take away the feeling of their presence. Their hollow death- like presence. He turned around on the hard, splintered play of wood that was the only piece of furniture in the cell; no-one wanted to waste money on criminals. Or at least on those who had been convicted of being criminals.

Why? Why had he been sent here? Locked away until he died, or until he was released. He laughed. It wasn't a manic, insane laugh like the many others that filled Azkaban prison but neither was it a kind, warm chuckle. It was cold as the grave. They would never release him. Not that he wasn't innocent, no, he was sure that he was. It was the fact that everyone now believed him to be a dangerous murderer. Even Dumbledore.


The man who had always stood by him before now. The man who he was sure could have saved him from the death camp where he now lay. The man who had been the first on the scene and who had instantly believed him guilty.

He remembered the look in the old mans eyes. The usual twinkle had gone and been replaced by an icy stare. And then there was Ginny. Her usual joyful, soft brown eyes had turned to stone. Why hadn't she, of all people believed him? He had pleaded, begged that it wasn't him but what good did it do? They all stared at him and told him with their eyes: Your Guilty.

'No, NO!' he shouted in his cell. No-one replied. He listened to the stillness of death, the plague of silence, his only companion. Would he ever get out of this pit of Beelzebub, this hole of the devil? And if he did, who would care? He remembered the day of his 'trial'. Trial? He laughed, the same cold laugh. It had been a mere excuse for everyone he had ever loved and trusted to turn their backs on him. They hadn't even allowed him to speak, or anyone to provide him with a defence. Not that anyone would have. They didn't even use Veritaserum.

One day, they would be sorry. Somehow, he would make sure of that.