I remember the wallpaper best. It was a cream-colored background covered with vibrant flowers and vines. I would trace them with my fingers and pretend to color them in. Everyday, the same flowers, the same vines. And I would pretend that I was just an artist, painting, and could not hear the shouts below.

It was usually hard to block them out, but I managed. It was all I could do, really. Was just to try, just to pretend that they did not exist.


Always the screaming.

They would echo around the room, echo around the peeling wallpaper, echo in my brain. I would cover my ears and shut my eyes tight, pretending that I was on a white balcony someplace warm, just painting the flowers around me.


No. No. Please, no.

Always the same. His victims would scream, and I would fly. I would paint and soar with the best. And always, I had my flowers.

Once, the torture session with some poor, hapless soul lasted longer than usual. They went insane. He thought it terribly funny when they did that. He usually would bring them upstairs to me. He told me to 'have fun' with them.

I sat the boy—he could not have been older than twelve—on the bed. He stared dully, not really knowing what was going on. His gaze was dull.

Paint with me.

I guided his fingers around the flower. He giggled stupidly and pressed his hand to the cold, peeling wall.

His hands shook, and he drooled. There was no hope left.

He was no older than twelve.

Later, my Lord returned and killed the boy. He laughed at me.

Don't be so sentimental, Wormtail.

He left me again, gone downstairs to speak with Lucius. I went into the bathroom and smashed the mirror with my bare fist. In shattered to pieces on the floor and but my hands and feet.

I didn't feel the pain. I used the blood to colour on my flowers. They were even more vibrant then they had been before. I smiled and traced endlessly. The screams would come more and more often. I intentionally cut off the tip of my pointer finger so that I would have more paint.

Then the day came when Harry Potter challenged my Lord. He dueled him.

He won.

I was in the room when it happened. Harry did not notice me; maybe he didn't care. I sat in the corner, humming, painting, flying…Harry killed my Lord. He went screeching and yelling. Magic discharged off of him, and hit the Boy-Who-Lived. He was flung into the wall.

My blood, fresh, smeared onto his back.

He looked up and saw my contorted face.

You've ruined it. My flower.

He turned in surprise and his face became horrified. He thought I was sick. He thought I had gone crazy. He didn't care too much, though; he pointed his wand. His face twisted into an angry expression and I calmly picked up a shard of glass from the floor.

I sliced through my pinkie.

I painted.

He watched, horrified. I hummed and flew with Michelangelo. Suddenly, he took his hand, pressed it to my flower, and smeared the paint all over the wall.

It was ruined.

I killed him. I took the glass and killed him.

And as they came for me—the Aurors, the Ministry Officials, the students, I did not pay attention to their useless grieving.

No, I simply sat in my corner and painted.

My cell wall in Azkaban is covered in flowers. Vibrantly red flowers on every inch of space.

And I fly.