Yeah, I don't own Harry Potter. You know the drill.
Also, this is loosley based on a chapter of Lies by Molly Morrison. In fact, if it were any looser, it would probably fall off. If you're reading this, Molly, I hope you don't mind.
I'm not at my best when left to my own devices.
My own devices aren't in the best of shape.
My own devices don't work
-Barnaby Legg and Jim McCarthy.
No no no please. No. I'll do anything, I'll say what you want me to say. I'll think what you want me to think, please, leave me be. No more potions to calm me, no more soothing draughts, please, you're paralysing me, crippling me. Please, sweet Jesus, no.
I know it's for my own good but I can't take it anymore, and I'm begging, please God no don't make me drink it, I know you're my friend and I know you're helping but I can't drink it oh sweet Jesus don't touch me please NO PLEASE GOD DON'T MAKE ME DRINK IT NO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
you have me so drugged up I can't... I can't... think...
You force into me these concoctions of magic. You say they are to stop me getting overexcited. How can I get excited? The only reason you 'rescued' me is because I nearly killed the Dursleys, wrapped up in grief and their taunting words. You dragged me here, forced me here. And now you don't know what to do with me, and so you freeze me with lethargy potions until you have decided what to do. And every day, just so the doses overlap and I can only beg with you, plead with you to not give me more, you force fresh poison into me. You are breaking - or have broken me; I cannot remember another time, not even at the Dursleys, where I begged somebody to stop, where I would have fully given up my right to think and my beliefs just so I could be left as myself. You force liquids into me that drain my energy and leave me too tired to sleep so I have to while away the hours thinking at a crawling pace, where I can re-live memories I never wanted to see again.
While you all sit downstairs in this mansion of black memories I live my life again up here. Because you want to put me on hold until you know what to do with me, where to put me, I can't evolve from my past. I can't move on from my anger. I can only stew in it, like I would a dark, snarling swamp. I sit in fetid darkness, in stagnant memories and old reminisces. I need time, I know this, to move on. I need to move on, but for the sake of efficiency you keep me locked in my own body... my own mind.
Sometimes you coerce me to take it with Remus; as a friend, as a brother, he says, but I see that he honestly thinks it helps me and I pity him. But I still beg. I cannot take much more of this... this living nightmare. I cannot.
Sometimes, Hermione comes up with it, but I beg for her as well and she flees, and then someone else comes and does it instead.
Ron never comes. I can't think why.
Sometimes, even Snape, when you think brute force is needed. I look at him and I remember past emotions. I remember the hatred and the desperation that has replaced it. I remember the loathing and the disparity that has usurped that. All I feel now is a desperate urge to not have any more chemicals in my body. The lethargy that drains me has eaten away my resolve and my inhibitions and my pride, and all I can think is no not more. And so I beg for him as well.
Oh, what must he think of me?
I do believe that he enjoys it, but I'm not sure. I can't read people any more. I'm too concerned with what they're trying to force-feed me, and how much I don't want to take it. I dredge this interpretation of him from old memories. That's all I've got left now. I can't know people any more, I can't understand them. I take everything at face value.All I can do is lie in solitary pain and pray for some kind of release.
Because I think I can hear Death knocking at the door. And his grin is not fearsome, nor the vacuum black of his eyes; he comes shrouded in peace of black robe, of calmness (not potion-induced tranquillity but genuine release), and of rest. And when he swings his scythe (be it sooner or later) I will be thankful.
But for now I live in Hell.
Wait... it has been twenty three and three-quarter hours... and I can feel the last dose wearing off slightly. I have more control over my limbs; the resolution of my vision has cleared slightly... but only because I can lift my eyelids more. Once again, I catch the tail-end of hope that this is all over.
The door opens... this time it's Snape.
Well. Time for my daily performance. The last to receive it was Remus. Who knows. Maybe I can improve.
Please, no. Not again.
You know I can't take any more it's killing me. It's true.
God please don't do this, no more, no more, I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't rest...
No no no, you don't know, you don't understand, it doesn't let me sleep.
Please, I'll be good, I'll do anything, I'll give up, I'll carry on, I'll kill anyone you like if you don't give me any more. I promise I promise. Please. No, please, listen to me! Don't touch me NO! I'LL DO ANYTHING! ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO DO! I'LL BETRAY ANYONE YOU WANT, I'LL HAND MYSELF OVER, I'LL CONFESS TO ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO, I'LL DO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO ANYTHING ANYTHING GOD MERLIN NO
Like I said, I have no pride left. Still, the judges are holding up at least a couple of grudging eights for this one.
As per usual, my feeder has to hold me down as I try to struggle weakly away from the glass vial. Once more I am too lethargic to fight properly but I have to try. Show them that this is not what I want.
My eyes are fuzzy because the glasses are gone; my focus has disappeared, turning sharp shadows into blurry monsters. But this close I can see his face, and obsidian eyes are about as readable as ancient Egyptian to me. He shows no emotion and somewhere, in this antebrain, I think I know that he is trying to conceal emotion from me. Anger? Madness? Sadness? Whatever it is, I don't care. All I care about is the potion sliding down my throat and hitting my stomach in a sickly-sweet bloom of artificial calm.
It's strange because when I'm conscious and they're trying to make me take it, I mean it. I'd confess to every one of Voldemort's crimes. I'd claim to be the Antichrist, I'd claim to have shot JFK. I'd claim to own completely the colour yellow. I'd make up stories about Ron and turn him in, if that's what they wanted. I'd do anything, just to not have another batch of potion poured down my throat.
Anything.
Please... no... kill me... please... anything. Please.
Ah... he's stopped at the doorway. My last few moments of coherence seemed to have startled him. It's funny, because only way back in my brain can I be sarcastic and cynical. The rest of me is still begging.
Anything. Death. Anything.
That's it. I'm out of energy.
Can you see how broken they have me? I'm reduced to a handful of pleading whimpers. Once I took the potion without complaint but it's all too much now. I can't even have sleep. I don't know how long I've been like this but it feels like eternity. Too long.
He's still stood at the doorway. Through half-closed lids I can watch him in my silenced misery.
It's impossible to tell what he's thinking, even with my people skills as lost as they are, but I believe I detect surprise for a moment. Perhaps he doesn't really think that the Boy-Who-is-Still-Regrettably-Living could beg for death, beg his most hated acquaintance to kill him, take his life in warm blood.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
The door opens, closes, and I'm left to my own devices.
I'm not at my best when I'm left to my own devices.
My own devices aren't in the best of shape.
My own devices don't work.
So I carry on dragging my consciousness through the shards of broken glass, through fragments of blistered memories and scalded pictures. Through a brain chocked and clogged with memories. Through immobile and unmoving limbs, through a heart that circulates poison paralysis potion but won't kill me. Through eyes that can't shut and won't open. Through fingertips that quiver with effort and exhaustion. Through lungs that breath hot, dry air. Through a cool, fevered brow.
And the shards of light memories and happy times dance just of out reach, but I watch them twinkle.
No. Please.
No-one's here to hear it, but there was no voice anyway.
They won't let me die, and I hate them for it.
Shards of dark. Shards of life.
Shards of silver.
Shards.