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Dementia by CelticKisses

Format: One-shot
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 1,982

Rating: 12+
Warnings: Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme

Genres: Horror/Dark, Mystery, Angst
Characters: OtherCanon

First Published: 03/15/2007
Last Chapter: 07/15/2007
Last Updated: 07/15/2007

{Dobby Awards Winner| Best Plot Twist} Beta: Abhorsen || Dedicate: Mel

Dementia. Noun. Insanity; impairment of cognitive and intellectual function. 

She would not trade sides. She would not betray the people who had raised her; made her who she was. She had said so adamantly on the first day they had brought her to this disgusting room and closed the door on her. They may have broken the fight inside of her; but she would die before she became one of them.

Chapter 1: Dementia
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Author's note:
Thank you to Abhorsen and scarlet for their assistance with this mind boggling tale. scarletheartedlioness, (Mel) this one's for you my love.


The room was cold. Not the kind of cold that made your teeth chatter together; the kind that seeped through your veins into the very core of your heart; seizing up the throbbing muscle in the midst of its drumming. It was a chill that weighed on the mind and the soul; causing your limbs to feel heavy and your mind to fog over with a thick white fog.

The room was dark. Not the kind of dark where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, but the kind of dark that branched from the inner recesses of your soul. It was dark made up by your own fears and crushed dreams as much as it was made of the absence of light.

There were no bars. There was no slotted window in the center of the door for her jailor to peek through. In fact, it wasn’t even a jail cell. It was just an old, dusty, spare bedroom that had been left to the mice and visions of past days. It had probably been a magnificent room at one point in time, but now it was only a dull echo. The silver in the drapery and bed spread had lost its sheen and the paint etched into the woodworking of the walls may, at one point, have been gold, but now held nothing but a brown tint. The worst part of all this was that she didn’t even notice any of that. She sat on the center of the bed every day, her back towards the door and her eyes towards the window across the room. The window so caked with dirt and grime that it was hardly even transparent anymore.

Once a day the door would open and a disembodied hand would slide through the opening and leave a black tray on the ground with a steaming liquid in the depths of a clay bowl and a goblet of water. Day after day passed and she did not touch the food, but every other day she would drink the goblet of water and leave the empty cup upside-down on the black tray. Sometimes she’d even stick the cup’s stem into the deep clay bowl full of the unidentifiable substance. She hoped someday they would get the idea and just stop bringing it in so she could get on with her misery undisturbed.

She had had two visitors since the day she had been closed in this room. The first had been the day after she had been locked in. Her nails were shredded to the pads of her fingertips from clawing at the door to get out and her hair had been pulled back in a tight ponytail, a few wisps floating astray around her face, and the man had scowled at her. She had sat on the edge of the bed and listened to his proposition with a closed mind. She refused to join the ranks of those she was so adamantly against. She refused to turn her back on what she knew was right. She had lunged at the man and wizards had rushed into the room immediately, throwing her onto the bed and it was there she had stayed until this very moment, when her second visitor since her captivity commenced strode into the room.

She had never liked him. He was a cocky teenage boy who thought that he was important. She’d always hated him; always would, and no time locked away in this place of his could change that.

As she heard the door squeak open on it’s rusty hinges she didn’t even glance over her shoulder to see who was intruding upon her solitude. Whoever they were, they would not change anything she was doing. She would not trade sides. She would not betray the people who had raised her and made her who she was. She had said so adamantly on the first day they had brought her to this disgusting room and closed the door on her. They may have broken the fight inside of her; but she would die before she became one of them.

“You’re so stubborn,” he said with a small laugh. How long could she remain obstinately silent?

He thought they wouldn’t come for her. She couldn’t wait for the moment that horrid grin was wiped off his all too cocky face.

“You play this role of who you think you should be.” He was making his way around the bed, his fingers trailing across the faded quilt as he went. “But,” he crossed his arms as he reached the wall next to her window and leaned against it. “You are fully aware that I know who you really are.”

She turned her eyes slowly from the unreflective glass and met his own, swallowing the bubble of hysterical laughter that rose within her. Was he close enough to her face to see it? She hadn’t been paying attention. He had come far too close.

“You cry,” he lent forward and whispered it as if it were a secret between the two of them. It was as if those words were the justification of everything that had happened to her at their hands. He smiled slightly as he straightened back up and she turned her eyes back to the blackened window. He thought he had some power over her just because he was winning the war. As soon as they came for her, all that would change. The right people would finally take control back.

He shook his head and turned his intense scrutiny on the room around her. “But,” he wondered aloud. “Though you've perhaps discovered this truth, what will you do with no one left to save you?”

Her fists clenched around the blanket at her sides; the material scrunching up tightly in her grip. She was screaming internally at herself. Don’t let him bait you like this. You know you’re better. You know he has no morals and no sense of duty. You know that. All you have to do is bide your time. They will come for you soon.

“You can’t escape,” he said with a grim smile. He followed her eyes to the window she was so steadily staring at.

She cast her eyes to the side, allowing them to fall upon the large picture that hung over the bed frame. He moved closer and she recoiled.

“You think I haven't figured it all out?” he said. “This is your reality now,” his voice was low, barely even a whisper. As if he felt sorry for her. For her! It was not she that was damned for what she was doing. It was he! It was he that was at fault. It was he that had ensnared her in this horrid trap and cast her into this darkness. It was he! He suddenly was far too close and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “You find yourself in this room forced to face your reflection and you don't like what you see,” he ground out. He was goading her. He was trying to get her to say something, but she bit her tongue. He would not. She was the wronged one. She was innocent and he could do nothing to hurt her anymore than she already was. She was free from his pain.

He moved across the room, stopping to analyze the dust covered items on the lady’s dresser at the foot of the bed. He picked up a bottle that still had a small puddle of liquid pooled at it’s base. “You're so stubborn,” he mused. “Talk to me.” She hated him so deeply at this moment she could taste it. They would come for her. “You aren't going anywhere,” he set the bottle down with a very final click and turned back to her. “You might as well.” He was stepping closer to the bed. “I know. I know you’re afraid.” His hand reached out towards her; welcoming. He wanted her to take it. She almost laughed. He thought he was in a position to offer her redemption? After all that he had done? “But the truth really is- you don’t want to leave here,” he said softly. She slowly met his eyes and found herself squirming inwardly at the intense gaze. She almost wanted to believe that pleading look. Almost. She recoiled immediately, breaking free from his spell and jumping off the bed. She stood in the center of the room, righteous anger dripping off her.

“No!” she screamed at him. This was all his fault. This doubt. This uncertainty in her own cause. It was he. “How dare you! You don't know me! You could never understand!” She didn’t want to be on this side. His side. Their side. She wanted to be home with her family. With her friends. With the people she could trust and believe in. She wanted out of this room and this solitude. She wanted out of this silence. She never wanted to see that window again. “You sit here whispering these lies to me. Whispering,” she clamped her hands over her ears. Her knees gave out from beneath her and they cried in protest as the ground bit into them. Her hands slid off her ears and down her neck; over her sides and finally pounded into the wood floor in clenched fists.

He knelt next to her. He was a predator who smelled an easy kill. He knew she was cornered. He knew she was breaking. “What now?” he asked, “What will you do now that you see you are truly and utterly alone? Now that you see who you are? Where you come from? Who will save you?”

They weren’t coming.

He took her hands and pulled them from her face.

The savior, they called him.

His eyes were sad. She could feel her walls breaking. They weren’t coming for her. They were all gone. “You aren't leaving.”

She could feel hot tears coursing down her cheeks. It was like breaking the surface of a lake after being swept under by the current for too long. Her lungs were screaming. Her muscles were screaming. Her mind was screaming.

“You can't keep rejecting us,” he took her arms and forced her to look at him.

The savior, they called him.

He pulled her to her feet and led her back to the faded bed. It sank uncomfortably under her as she sat. His eyes weren’t cold. They never had been. They weren’t coming for her. They were all dead. This wasn’t the wrong side; it was the good side. The right side. The side the Boy Who Lived had pushed to the top. The side that had killed her family. The side that had forced her broken mind to crumble within it’s self and push the world away. The side that had caused her to assume this position on this bed, behind a door they didn’t even lock. In a room they left food in because she wouldn’t come out and get it. In front of a window she herself had smeared with the dust from the furniture around her to block the world out. It was not they that kept her. It was not he. It was she. She was a prisoner of her own mind.

“You don’t want to escape, Pansy,” Harry sighed as he left the black haired girl in the same spot he had found her, lost within the empty recesses of her own mind.

And he was right.