Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: And maybe he is stupid. After all, he's the one rotting in a dingy, old cell in a prison located on an island in the middle of the ocean.


He shivers restlessly in the cold, stone cell; his tattered robes barely covering his frostbitten body. His once lively eyes sit on prominent cheekbones, dulled to a slate gray.


A whimper escapes his thin blue lips, whispering under the bared doors and into the corridors where the black demons of his nightmares float.


The sounds of cold air seeping through cracks are not all that he hears. The screams of the insane; prisoners like him. Their shrieks of agony only prove to fuel his fear as well as the sadistic pleasure of the soul sucking bodiless monsters that guard this horrid place.


He's been here for an unmeasurable amount of time. The crooked grooves he had carved are fading, and he hasn't made new ones for months he thinks. Not that he can see them. All he beholds are lies; there is no truth in this place, this cold, dark place.


For all he knows just yesterday he was visiting his good friend James and his new wife, Lily. And yet, he knows this is not true; that he has been in this prison for years upon years.


If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the slick movement of skin on skin; he can almost feel it too. Unbearable heat coils deep and heady in his adominen and his head falls back, a low groan resounding throughout this room. But he is somewhere else; somewhere in the throws of an old school romance that he thought would never end. That he wishes had never ended.


And as he climaxes -- a miracle in itself as he doesn't think he has done so in at least a decade -- James' name tumbles from his mouth, erotic and loving.


He curls in around himself, his arms encircling his spent body, thinking about worthless things. The old days when life was a game and war was a story parents told their kids to scare them. When it was all about sex and drugs and booze. When reality seemed so far away.

No more

It's funny, he thinks, how idiotic teenagers can be. How pathetically oblivious and ignorant they are. But he isn't talking about teenagers in general although he knows it applies to all of them. No, he's specifically thinking about himself.


And maybe he is stupid. After all, he's the one rotting in a dingy, old cell in a prison located on an island in the middle of the ocean.

© 2008 Inyx Dawn