A/N- This is potatofanaticwriter3's story. She emailed it to me a long time ago, with no real point behind it. (It was 3 in the morning.) But I felt like posting it because SHE'S A GOOD WRITER and she won't post anything. So here's to getting her to post. Go PM her and bother her or something. Tell her I sent you. :D

I don't think we're continuing this. It doesn't have a real point or plot. That's that.

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It was chilling in the dungeon. The bitter cold air was sweeping through the halls in massive gusts. The smell of death lingered in the cells and was carried throughout the whole dungeon. It was a horrible place to be if you had done something wrong, terribly wrong.

In a few moments time the sound of clanking chains and shuffling feet could be heard, as the prisoners come back from their torturing. Every one of them had tangled, matted hair, and dirt covering their bodies. They looked limp, and lifeless. The prisoners only carried a few things everywhere they went: chains, morbid expressions, and pleading eyes. Today was different though. A prisoner is not like the others. He seems to be lacking something everyone else has: a gloomy countenance. Instead, he has twinkling eyes and a sinister smile...as if he was plotting something.

Every prisoner has tried at least once what this man wants to achieve, but it is extremely difficult. Why? Because this, is Azkaban.