The Prisoner in Azkaban: Year Nine (Harry Potter)
Title: The Prisoner in Azkaban
Chapter: Year Nine
Word Count: 1,697
Year Eight
A perfect, happy, and absolutely beautiful day. They all were, and that’s what was so great about it. About everything. The distant unhappiness was buried and he couldn’t tap into it or worry about it. Guilt, loneliness, pain didn’t exist like this. There were more important things.
For example, there was the way colors brightened everything up so that, sometimes, he had to close his eyes because it was confusing. He wasn’t supposed to see colors like this but he could still remember them and the things he could sense filled in the colors. The sun was bright yellow and the sky was a perfect uninterrupted shade of blue. He knew this because he could feel the warmth and a nice, soft breeze. The entire field was bright green with healthy grass; he could smell how fresh it was, down to the bits of moisture still clinging to it. The earth underneath it was soft, brown he thought, but that wasn’t as sure as the rest of it. Dirt wasn’t as committed to memory. He didn’t need to remember the parts that weren’t beautiful.
Soon he would be able to imagine he could see flowers. He had already spent days remembering colors for them, they would be purple and pink and all very bright. It would be like everything else, he could make them appear if he spent enough time thinking about them. And there wasn’t much else to think about. That was nice. Flowers are nice and were much nicer to think about than the things he’d left behind. Black and grey and dead for so many years and suddenly colors. He only wished he’d discovered it sooner.
The best part was the others. They were the first thing he made happen, even before he’d made everything beautiful. He’d thought he was alone but he was wrong because there they were and they were all so nice. They came to play with him in the field and they smiled and touched things because they were alive.
Padfoot barked contentedly as he saw the man approaching him with a stick, perfect for playing and he already knew that’s what the man would use it for. He knew the face and it was wrapped up with so much warmth and adoration that Padfoot was sure the man was his master, even though he never quite treated him like a pet. It was friendly somehow, too. Padfoot liked that. His master was young but not young enough to be a boy. He had wild black hair that Padfoot liked because it felt familiar even though it looked somewhat ridiculous. At least that’s what she told him. He had a woman that always came with him. She was pretty and she would roll her eyes at Padfoot but sometimes she would forget herself and pet him right in between the ears and it felt perfect. And they had a baby who Padfoot always wanted to play with, but he couldn’t because the baby was scared of him because he was big and his teeth were sharp. Padfoot forgot that sometimes and would try to play with the boy, but his master never got too upset.
They came to play with him for hours and hours and Padfoot never got tired because it was all a dream anyway and he couldn’t get tired in a dream. Neither could they. The master would play fetch with him for hours and he never had to work, or eat, or do anything important. They would stay with Padfoot for as long as he needed them to be there because if they left, he would get worried that they had gone somewhere they couldn’t come back from. He didn’t like feeling that way, so they weren’t ever gone long enough to let him. He thought that was very thoughtful of them, but then, they were all very nice.
He had another friend, too, but he wasn’t around as much as the others. That didn’t bother Padfoot as much as it should have, because when he was around it was perfect. They were perfect. Together. They were the same. They played the same games. They spoke the same language. It was different from the others because Padfoot Loved them, and they Loved him but they didn’t understand him, not even his master, not even when he tried. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t. The wolf could. He anticipated Padfoot’s actions and he knew exactly what to do and how could Padfoot ever remember how sad he was as a human when they were tumbling about biting and licking and howling carelessly?
They only played at night; there weren’t colors and smiles like there were with the others. It was back to black and grey but he didn’t mind anymore because even though it was sadder it was easier and so much more natural. The wolf was big and he didn’t have to be careful with him. They were both very fragile in other ways, but they couldn’t hurt each other physically. Padfoot knew he wasn’t supposed to play with the larger grey dog because he was supposed to be dangerous but he didn’t care. He needed Padfoot and Padfoot needed the wolf and they clung to each other whether it was right or not.
In all honesty, Padfoot was scared. Everything was so perfect, so lovely that he was sure it couldn’t be real. That’s why, during the day he stayed in the meadow, played with the smiling faces in the colorful glow. He wasn’t scared for himself but he was sure there was something, in the forest maybe, and that if he went there, it would hurt his family. The wolf took all of that away, made the night time safer than the day time, even. He survived and that meant Padfoot didn’t have to worry about keeping him safe, didn’t have to panic that he would fail him. Side by side they would go into that forest and it wasn’t really scary at all anymore. Padfoot tried to remember this in the morning so that he wouldn’t be as scared but he couldn’t-not when the wolf left him alone. And he wondered, too, what he had done to the wolf that made him want to leave him every day. But then he would forget that and be perfectly happy again, because forgetting was the entire point.
______________________________________________________________________________
It didn’t take this long to figure it out but it took me this long to let it happen. I knew. I knew from day one. If I become the dog, they can’t tell I’m here and they can’t hurt me anymore. It was nice, always so nice but I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. I used to change only when I really, really needed to get away from them. Now I have to, I have to all the time. I don’t like what happens if I don’t. It doesn’t keep me any saner. It’s still…it’s crazy in a different way. Worse? A worse way? This way is brilliant. I’m always happy, now. No, not now. I did that stupid thing again. Where I panic because sometimes I can’t remember how to switch back. So I do it, just to prove I can. But I don’t want to switch back. It would be best if I did forget. If. The dog, I could be the dog always and the dog is so happy. I don’t know why I do it.
Sometimes it’s because someone is coming. A person. A real person who thinks and feels. They don’t happen very often because most people are crazy like me, or they’re those things. I dream about people sometimes and I miss being around them. The people who come by are like the ones in the dreams, but not as friendly. They look at me like I’m a monster, which I don’t think I am. But I don’t know. The cloaked things are monsters and I’m not one of them. I’m a dog and I’m friendly and happy, except for when they come by and I have to pretend to be a monster because they would do something if they knew about the dog, I don’t remember what. I just know I can’t let it happen. I don’t like them, but they gave me what I needed to imagine the nice ones. I made them up and they’re the best things I have. I like playing, they play with me. It’s fun to have a master who will think for you and say nice things because when I used to try to think for myself, it wasn’t nice. It hurt. But he wouldn’t hurt me because I’m his dog and he Loves me and we’re friends and I get to play with the other dog when I’m like that, too, and it’s nothing like being stuck in this tiny room feeling much more than anybody should be allowed to feel. Like now, I’m in the room now. I changed back. I didn’t mean to. And I can feel those things and they’re hurting me again and making me ask hard questions that I don’t like and I feel guilty but I don’t know what I did or how to fix it. They make me so scared that I can’t change back and I can’t hide because there’s nowhere to go.
And I remember that once, I knew someone who had this same problem, only he didn’t know how to stop himself from changing into the dog. And that doesn’t make any sense because why wouldn’t he want to be? It must have been me because I know I tried to stop it once. I tried to stay like this even though this hurt because I thought I could remember things that I don’t really think happened and those things meant so much to me but I forgot them anyway. I would give anything to not know how to make the dog go away. I can’t remember how to become him when those things have my mind. It’s so much nicer there. I just want to go back and forget this.
Year Ten
Chapter: Year Nine
Word Count: 1,697
Year Eight
A perfect, happy, and absolutely beautiful day. They all were, and that’s what was so great about it. About everything. The distant unhappiness was buried and he couldn’t tap into it or worry about it. Guilt, loneliness, pain didn’t exist like this. There were more important things.
For example, there was the way colors brightened everything up so that, sometimes, he had to close his eyes because it was confusing. He wasn’t supposed to see colors like this but he could still remember them and the things he could sense filled in the colors. The sun was bright yellow and the sky was a perfect uninterrupted shade of blue. He knew this because he could feel the warmth and a nice, soft breeze. The entire field was bright green with healthy grass; he could smell how fresh it was, down to the bits of moisture still clinging to it. The earth underneath it was soft, brown he thought, but that wasn’t as sure as the rest of it. Dirt wasn’t as committed to memory. He didn’t need to remember the parts that weren’t beautiful.
Soon he would be able to imagine he could see flowers. He had already spent days remembering colors for them, they would be purple and pink and all very bright. It would be like everything else, he could make them appear if he spent enough time thinking about them. And there wasn’t much else to think about. That was nice. Flowers are nice and were much nicer to think about than the things he’d left behind. Black and grey and dead for so many years and suddenly colors. He only wished he’d discovered it sooner.
The best part was the others. They were the first thing he made happen, even before he’d made everything beautiful. He’d thought he was alone but he was wrong because there they were and they were all so nice. They came to play with him in the field and they smiled and touched things because they were alive.
Padfoot barked contentedly as he saw the man approaching him with a stick, perfect for playing and he already knew that’s what the man would use it for. He knew the face and it was wrapped up with so much warmth and adoration that Padfoot was sure the man was his master, even though he never quite treated him like a pet. It was friendly somehow, too. Padfoot liked that. His master was young but not young enough to be a boy. He had wild black hair that Padfoot liked because it felt familiar even though it looked somewhat ridiculous. At least that’s what she told him. He had a woman that always came with him. She was pretty and she would roll her eyes at Padfoot but sometimes she would forget herself and pet him right in between the ears and it felt perfect. And they had a baby who Padfoot always wanted to play with, but he couldn’t because the baby was scared of him because he was big and his teeth were sharp. Padfoot forgot that sometimes and would try to play with the boy, but his master never got too upset.
They came to play with him for hours and hours and Padfoot never got tired because it was all a dream anyway and he couldn’t get tired in a dream. Neither could they. The master would play fetch with him for hours and he never had to work, or eat, or do anything important. They would stay with Padfoot for as long as he needed them to be there because if they left, he would get worried that they had gone somewhere they couldn’t come back from. He didn’t like feeling that way, so they weren’t ever gone long enough to let him. He thought that was very thoughtful of them, but then, they were all very nice.
He had another friend, too, but he wasn’t around as much as the others. That didn’t bother Padfoot as much as it should have, because when he was around it was perfect. They were perfect. Together. They were the same. They played the same games. They spoke the same language. It was different from the others because Padfoot Loved them, and they Loved him but they didn’t understand him, not even his master, not even when he tried. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t. The wolf could. He anticipated Padfoot’s actions and he knew exactly what to do and how could Padfoot ever remember how sad he was as a human when they were tumbling about biting and licking and howling carelessly?
They only played at night; there weren’t colors and smiles like there were with the others. It was back to black and grey but he didn’t mind anymore because even though it was sadder it was easier and so much more natural. The wolf was big and he didn’t have to be careful with him. They were both very fragile in other ways, but they couldn’t hurt each other physically. Padfoot knew he wasn’t supposed to play with the larger grey dog because he was supposed to be dangerous but he didn’t care. He needed Padfoot and Padfoot needed the wolf and they clung to each other whether it was right or not.
In all honesty, Padfoot was scared. Everything was so perfect, so lovely that he was sure it couldn’t be real. That’s why, during the day he stayed in the meadow, played with the smiling faces in the colorful glow. He wasn’t scared for himself but he was sure there was something, in the forest maybe, and that if he went there, it would hurt his family. The wolf took all of that away, made the night time safer than the day time, even. He survived and that meant Padfoot didn’t have to worry about keeping him safe, didn’t have to panic that he would fail him. Side by side they would go into that forest and it wasn’t really scary at all anymore. Padfoot tried to remember this in the morning so that he wouldn’t be as scared but he couldn’t-not when the wolf left him alone. And he wondered, too, what he had done to the wolf that made him want to leave him every day. But then he would forget that and be perfectly happy again, because forgetting was the entire point.
______________________________________________________________________________
It didn’t take this long to figure it out but it took me this long to let it happen. I knew. I knew from day one. If I become the dog, they can’t tell I’m here and they can’t hurt me anymore. It was nice, always so nice but I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. I used to change only when I really, really needed to get away from them. Now I have to, I have to all the time. I don’t like what happens if I don’t. It doesn’t keep me any saner. It’s still…it’s crazy in a different way. Worse? A worse way? This way is brilliant. I’m always happy, now. No, not now. I did that stupid thing again. Where I panic because sometimes I can’t remember how to switch back. So I do it, just to prove I can. But I don’t want to switch back. It would be best if I did forget. If. The dog, I could be the dog always and the dog is so happy. I don’t know why I do it.
Sometimes it’s because someone is coming. A person. A real person who thinks and feels. They don’t happen very often because most people are crazy like me, or they’re those things. I dream about people sometimes and I miss being around them. The people who come by are like the ones in the dreams, but not as friendly. They look at me like I’m a monster, which I don’t think I am. But I don’t know. The cloaked things are monsters and I’m not one of them. I’m a dog and I’m friendly and happy, except for when they come by and I have to pretend to be a monster because they would do something if they knew about the dog, I don’t remember what. I just know I can’t let it happen. I don’t like them, but they gave me what I needed to imagine the nice ones. I made them up and they’re the best things I have. I like playing, they play with me. It’s fun to have a master who will think for you and say nice things because when I used to try to think for myself, it wasn’t nice. It hurt. But he wouldn’t hurt me because I’m his dog and he Loves me and we’re friends and I get to play with the other dog when I’m like that, too, and it’s nothing like being stuck in this tiny room feeling much more than anybody should be allowed to feel. Like now, I’m in the room now. I changed back. I didn’t mean to. And I can feel those things and they’re hurting me again and making me ask hard questions that I don’t like and I feel guilty but I don’t know what I did or how to fix it. They make me so scared that I can’t change back and I can’t hide because there’s nowhere to go.
And I remember that once, I knew someone who had this same problem, only he didn’t know how to stop himself from changing into the dog. And that doesn’t make any sense because why wouldn’t he want to be? It must have been me because I know I tried to stop it once. I tried to stay like this even though this hurt because I thought I could remember things that I don’t really think happened and those things meant so much to me but I forgot them anyway. I would give anything to not know how to make the dog go away. I can’t remember how to become him when those things have my mind. It’s so much nicer there. I just want to go back and forget this.
Year Ten