Just an idea I had, tell me if you like it! I also do NOT own Harry Potter, no matter how much I wish to.

How could they betray her this way? How could they just look at her and see nothing but a murderer, a cruel killer, instead of the girl who had almost died for them all? Did they not know her at all? How could they not believe in her innocence?

She had struggled and screamed for their help, cries of "I didn't do it, you have to believe me!" escaping her lips, trying desperately to make them see, to make them believe; they had merely turned away, eyes filled with two parts sorrow and fury.

And in the hell that was Azkaban, she remembered that day perfectly, was forced to relive it and all her worst memories; they had known that hers were terrible, and now she suppose that they thought it would be the perfect revenge, to let her be tortured into insanity, to not let her even have the sanctuary of her mind. The Dementors especially saw to that.

"You are hereby charged for the murders of Percy Weasley and muggles Dan and Emma Granger; you are sentenced to life in Azkaban."

"Veratiserum!" she found herself screaming, as the aurors grabbed her arms. "Where is it? Test me, I'm telling the truth!" She struggled furiously, casting desperate eyes to the stands. "Ron, Harry, Hermione! I didn't do it, you have to believe me-" She managed to wriggle free and bolted forward, but was struck down; gray eyes met brown, and she had one last plea. "Hermione, please—I would never, I'd never kill them—"

Hermione Granger stared at her with tear filled eyes but did not speak, merely watched as she continued to scream, "HERMIONE! NO, LET ME GO—LET ME G—"

She was hit in the back with a stunner and knew no more.

That was only a year or more ago, and one would think that it wouldn't affect her as badly as it did; after all, she was only sixteen, what horrors could she have already encountered?

The answer was many. Many horrors and many things she had seen that were driving her to the brink of insanity as she curled up in the corner of her cell, arms wrapped around her knees and a ratty blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

It was highly ironic that they had placed her in his cell, he who had died right before she was placed in this hell, and he who would have returned himself if only to spare her the pain.

She shivered as a dementor passed by, wishing more than ever that she could cast her patronus; the first few weeks in, she actually had, until the food given to her dwindled and what little she was given made her so sick that she vomited it straight back up.

She was too weak to cast anything wandlessly now, too weak to even really stand, which was why she never moved from her spot.

Her tortured moan echoed through the halls as more dementors hovered at her cell and caused her to be sucked into her mind.

"You worthless little brat!" yelled her foster father drunkenly, throwing his bottle at her. As she ducked and it narrowly missed her ear, she wondered which number he was; fifth? Tenth? She had been in so many homes she had lost count. "Get over here! I know you didn't finish the work I told you to do!"

How could she have, when she was only nine years old and the house was no more than a run down shack that always reeked of alcohol and various drugs that he and his friends brought in? It was filthy, hideous, and no amount of cleaning could ever make it even partway decent.

The tall man continued to shout slurred obscenities as he staggered toward her, fist raised, and just before she had time to dive out of the way, she felt a hand clamp over her mouth and an arm wrap around her from behind; she was vaguely aware of a body pressed against hers.

"Get her," snarled a cruel voice, and she knew it must be the man's whorish girlfriend that constantly came around; she was the reason the girl learned to cover her ears at night and not to investigate why there were strange noises coming from the room next door.

The man struck her in the face and the woman released her, letting her slump to the ground and cower, hands coming up to cover her face; it was no use, because blow after blow was being rained down upon her, and she was powerless.

She gritted her teeth, arms tightening around her knees as she ducked her head.

She didn't know where she was when she woke up; she only knew that she was hurting terribly everywhere, and that wherever she was, it was freezing.

Shivering, she curled in on herself with a whimper, and she could smell the blood on her clothing, not to mention the stench of garbage was nearly overwhelming. As her eyes adjusted, she could just barely make out that she was in a dumpster, and a small one at that; she feebly attempted to push up on the lid, to no avail.

She was too weak, and could hear the rain pounding down loudly; why was she always finding herself in these positions? Her foster father had probably thought he killed her and wanted to get rid of her body as quickly as possible.

He had never held any love for her-none of them did. Not one person she had been placed with had been caring for her out of kindness; no, they only wanted the check that she came with for their own personal gain.

All she wanted was for someone to love her.

Whimpering again, she closed her eyes and succumbed to the darkness.

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When she awoke, she found herself laying on a bed, in an extremely bright white room.

Was she dead? Had one of the foster people finally killed her? Had her body been crushed in the dumpster by a garbage truck, crushing her into a bloody mess?

"Good, you're awake," spoke an unfamiliar voice, a man. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out the man standing over her, wearing a white coat. "You were out for a while, young lady." He reached out toward her, and she flinched. "It's alright, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm your doctor. Do you know how you got here?" Slowly, as she watched him through cautious gray eyes, she shook her head. The doctor sat in the chair beside her bed. "Someone found you in a dumpster while they were taking out their garbage and called an ambulance for you; you're at the hospital. Can you tell us what happened?"

Just as she was opening her mouth to speak, he walked in, and at the sight of her foster father, she went berserk, leaping off the bed and sprinting for the door,only to find it blocked by a nurse.

"It's alright," soothed the doctor. "Your father told us how there's been trouble at home with money and how you must have went looking for food. He's here to take you home now."

As her foster father advanced, the memory evaporated.

She heard the click outside her cell and glanced up, cautiously untucking her head from between her knees.

"Come on," spoke the familiar voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, holding open the door. "You've been cleared of all charges." So, she crawled to the very edge of the cell and gripped the bars, forcing herself to stand weakly, legs trembling. Kingley reached out a hand, looking mildly concerned.

"No," she snapped hoarsely. "Don't touch me."

He silently took a step back, hands raised in surrender as she carefully took her first step outside her cell for a year.

She felt a small surge of strength; there was no way he was going to see her as weak.

None of them would.

Carina Black was finally free, and she was going to make them regret this.