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It has been too long since I’ve seen the sun, so dazzling and promising of a new day. The coldness in this cell seems to have consumed every ounce of my existence replacing it with a black and white shell of the fantastic colors I once held true and dear. Does that even make any sense?

Perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps I’m just crazy. Well, isn’t that the story of my life? It is, even if you don’t know it. Even I barely remember, it seems so distant I might believe it was somebody else’s life if you told me, but I do know that there was a time before this cell. I remember how the sky smelled. I remember laughing and crying and feeling despair and happiness but everything is so jumbled, like a strange puzzle scattered among the ocean and drifting away from each other.
Every night they have tortured me in this crude cell until I have forgotten my own name. It’s almost always the same questions, every once in a while a different one will be asked. All of the questions have one thing in common: I don’t know the answer.

The people they ask about, the secrets they want me to spill, the knowledge they hope to capture; all of it is nothing but a bunch of strange syllables and sounds. It’s agonizing not knowing anything anymore.

Something deep inside me tells me that even if I had the knowledge of the stupid and pointless things they ask, I also have the wisdom not to answer them, for they are the venom in everything beautiful and the black hole among the bright stars that I have not laid eyes upon for quite some time.

But the strangest thing is happening right now; there are shrill and bone-chilling screams that most definitely are not my own and a lot of shuffling above my prison ceiling. The screams are foreign to me; it has been so long since I’ve heard screams that weren’t ripping through my throat, making it raw and swollen and weakening with each note; a crescendo if you will, that never seems to stop. Though I know at least some of the screams I hear are coming from my tortures’ vile and evil mouths, I cannot bear to listen. Even as my hatred seeps from every sweat-soaked pore, I get no satisfaction from their screams, though they sure get pleasure from mine. I don’t understand how they can enjoy such a sound. What strange beings Death Eaters are.

The door is creaking open and pale hands deliver a bowl filled with strange swirly liquid with a note attached to it. The fingernails are jagged and slightly yellow tinged and the skin is kind of pulled over the bones. I cannot help but feel those hands are somehow familiar. Not necessarily a good familiar or even bad, just…familiar. Crazy? You would be too.

“This is a penseive, if you can’t remember the name of it. In its depths you may place your memories inside. Do you remember anything? You know not your name but perhaps you’d be able to remember if you tried. It will be a while before you are found. There has been an intrusion and the Order of the Phoenix has invaded. They will not find you, however. You will soon die. I thought you’d prefer to die knowing your cause and who you are. Good luck, Dorcas Meadowes”

Dorcas Meadowes. That’s… I remember my name. How strange. But who’s the Order of the Phoenix. It reminds me of a pizza delivery place.

Pizza………god it’s been so long since I’ve had it, or decent food at all.

Eating it with…..I don’t remember. I had friends though, I am sure of it. And we ate pizza with all the grease and cheese and pepperoni and vegetables. And there was that time that I argued about pineapples with…someone.

A face comes to mind. Gray eyes and a nice chin with black hair down a little past the ears……bad puns…..pad buns……..Pad……Oh god, it’s right there at the tip of my tongue….

And a wolf. Something about a rabbit and fur. A joke turned serious.
Sirius Black, padfoot, pineapples. And Remus Lupin, a werewolf and my love.

The Order of the Phoenix is not a pizza delivery place. Far from it. Ridiculously far.

James, Peter, Gideon and Fabian, Lily, Marlene.

How could I forget? How do I remember? I feel seriously fucked in the head.

The Order of the Phoenix was an oath that one would see through to death for a better world. I was a part of it, and my friends were too.

I do not know if I should be overjoyed that I have regained my memory, or terrified. They will find me, one way or another. The Death Eaters I mean. When they do, I will not see another day.

Of this, I am strangely (and calmly) sure.

Now, if you would be so kind as to journey with me into this penseive to the depths of my slightly deranged mind, my story shall unravel. Quickly now, I fear don’t have much time.

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