This was written for round 13 of the Quidditch League Challenge.

I chose three prompts: silver, nightmare, and truth

Word Count: 1,061

"The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips."
~Firenze, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

The scraping of cold metal over hard stone is what tears her into wakefulness. She's grateful for it because her dreams have surpassed nightmare and are their own genre of terror. She never knows if she is dreaming until waking. Here, in the dark cell high in the south wing of the lone tower reserved for the convicts of only the most despicable crimes, she is surrounded by darkness and despair. But this is reality; she knows this place, knows the truth of the matter. In her dreams, she is trapped in a place of guilt and shame, voices with hidden faces whispering nasty things in her ear. Those states of consciousness were riddled with twisted truths or not truths at all. She feared them and hated them because she isn't weak; no, no, she isn't weak. She was taught better.

She gets up onto thin, pale legs, knobby knees clinking against each other as she stumbles. The black stone is cold against the soles of her feet – or, at least, it would be if she had any feeling in them. As it is, all she feels is the tiny pin-pricks that accompany pulling one's limbs out of a state of numbness. Each step is a command for her feet to come back into feeling, into reality, and they protest loudly. She welcomes the discomfort; it helps her feel alive, sane – real.

She begins her tour around the dank room. One hand drags across the wall, fingertips pressing firmly into the bricks. With the protective nails already worn down to nubs, they can nip pleasantly at the soft pads. She passes by the tiny window, the place where she keeps tally of the passing days. She frowns, wondering if she put a mark for today, if it was in fact still today. Is it morning? Or did the tray of food still sitting by the door announce the coming of night? She counts out 143: 143 marks for 143 days. That means four months, three weeks, and two days. How much of her sentence does she have left? What was a lifetime minus four months, three weeks, and two days?

Round and round she goes, hand pressing into the wall, her skin catching on the jagged corners. It keeps her steady, the wall and the pain, anchoring her to reality. Her pale skin seems almost luminous in the contrasting darkness of her surroundings. The bony white hand claws against the sturdy brick as a wail of woe breaks into the silence, and she freezes. The man across from her offers up another strangled cry, followed by a weaker one, the first notes of a song of despair. She grits her teeth, refusing to join in, refusing to surrender to the despondency. Not weak, not weak, not weak…

Soon a chorus of moans has risen. The temperature in the wing drops, and she knows what is happening. She grips the brick wall even harder, barely registering the stinging in her palm, the beads of perspiration under her arm, the red liquid crawling across her wrist. She doesn't want to give in, doesn't want to relinquish her feeble hold on reality. Because this is reality – this right here, and as terrible as it is, it is the truth, and she doesn't want to slip into a hazy trance. But it's cold now, too cold, and the hopelessness she feels is so strong it is causing her physical pain. So she slides down to the ground, balanced on her haunches like an animal, arms wrapping over her ears and around her head protectively, trying to block out the wails of human misery and the excited hiss of something not altogether human.

Hours later, she lifts her head, eyelids peeling back from tired eyes. Her muscles are sore and her throat is parched, so she makes her way to the door of her cell, where there should be a tray of mulled food and some water waiting for her. Someone must have already cleared out the untouched food all that is there is a bucket of water. She dips her hand in, cupping some of the clear liquid and bringing it to her lips. It's cool and soothing down her throat, and soon it's passing down her throat, over her face, and across her chest. She frowns at the long cut running from the base of her palm to her pinkie, wondering how that happened; but she feels no pain so just brushed the thin red liquid on her shirt and lets it fall from her mind.

Suddenly, something catches her eye. There is something silver and shiny glistening in the window. She frowns because the windows did not have a glass pane to keep the chill out last night (or was it last week? Last month?). She takes a few steps toward it, feet falling quietly onto the stone floor, fingertips brushing off the wall as her hand falls to her side.

It's her reflection, she realizes when she is directly before it. She can recognize the dark hair, pale skin, and big eyes anywhere. She's a bit skinner than she remembers, perhaps, but it is her. Only, something is wrong with her face: on her right cheek is a silver streak, light bouncing off of it. She raises a hand to wipe it off, then looks down at the substance. It is slightly sticky and rather thick. It globs together like blood, though it sparkles on her fingertips. She's disgusted for some reason, though she cannot figure out why. She thinks she does not know what this is but something seems familiar about it.

She looks back up and chokes back a scream. It is still smeared on her face. Frantically, she drags her hand, then her nails across her cheek, nose, forehead but it is smearing everywhere. It's all over her mouth, coating her hands, dripping from her fingers. It's like blood – glistening, silver blood. And it's as beautiful as it is horrifying, and that makes her scream even more.

It takes six Dementors to subdue her. All that hopelessness, all sorrow and despair finally pushes her into a state of unconsciousness. When the images finally come to her, she sees a gleaming silver unicorn, lying on its side, sticky with the same silver blood she remembers frantically wiping off her hands.

This was supposed to be much longer but as I am adding it to my multi-chapter story, I figured this can be a bit shorter. Hope it is not too trippy. Feel free to comment or PM me with questions if you do not get it =]