Spoilers for PoA, rated about PG-13 for language and slight shounen-ai. I was in an odd mood, so I did this experimental stream of consciousness piece. Please don't attempt interpretation of it, as that will result in headache and possible loss of appetite.

I press my head against the chill of the stone and the chill of the stone presses back, like so much does and has done in this world; the whole world pushing back against me, making me want to quit. Oh, God, why don't I just quit? There's been so much before and it's only going to go on and on--why don't I just give in?

(Please don't stop now)

God, when will this ever stop? Those bodies like corpses hover outside the cell, and all I can remember are real corpses that don't hover and are gone forever, and the blood, and the explosion, and the darkness, and laughter. And, oh God, when will things return to as they where when it made sense? When can I return to him?

The passing of the days are lost to me. I suppose that's to be expected. I tried, once, to make sense of the days and nights. There are tally marks by the wooden platform, that mockery of a bed. But they are long forgotten. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

(Please God make it matter)

It's not like the seasons change here. It's not like day looks much different from night, except for one moment each day, when the sun aligns with the arrow-slit of a window and, through the clouds, light hazily shines onto the barren floor. It's not like there's anything to look forward to. I know that. There is nothing for me to look forward to. I will be here forever. And, really, was there ever anything for me to look forward to?

(Please, remember that there was. Remember summer, summer and a shy tan-haired boy with a crooked smile)

I've only one thing for me. I've only the bitter fact that it was not me. And will anyone ever know? Will anyone ever care? Surely... surely those dementors can feel it, and just as surely, they can consume it. Can't someone see that? Can't someone see the innocent in this hell? Maybe they can. And maybe it doesn't matter to anyone but the ones being fed on.

(Why?)

The newspaper lies on the floor, limply. I press my hands over it. I have read every word in it. The dementors hated it, especially the classifieds. I still read those every night, just to rub it in, because I at least have to maintain that ass-like attitude that helped get me in here. Because it is all I have, for now.

Because every day, the memories fade, and I wish to be free, at least to remember those things they took from me. At least to remember the first time I set off an explosive in potions. At least to remember the first time I pulled a prank big enough to land me in Dumbledore's office, with James (oh God why can I only remember that about him now?) beside me. At least... at least to remember nights spent in a warm bed, with a head of shaggy brown on my chest.

(Please let me remember)

I run my fingers back over the moving picture on the front. I look at it closer, and see him mocking me still.

(Please let me get out)

Because he is free, and I am not.

(Please let me free)

I hate it. I can only feel the hate. But, underneath, I know what's there.

(The hope)

The hope. The hope to get out... The hope to stop him.

(Because...)

He cannot hurt Harry. I have the dream every night, the horrible dreams of that monster killing and taking Harry (and how much has he grown?) to that fucking master of his. And I need to be free.

(And once again, I will see warm brown hair.)

For there is hope.

(I will be...)

Free...