Entry One:
It grows cold outside. I can feel it at night. My cell is stone, and stone holds no warmth. Not that there’s any out here, in the middle of the ocean, far, far north from any civilization. We get but one thin blanket each to cover our equally thin bodies. The rain comes through the bars on my window, splattering my paper and me. It, too, is cold.
Why they gave me of all people a quill, which is a weapon if need be, I don’t know. But I won’t say no to normal things. They gave me parchment, too, though I don’t know what will become of it if the rain keeps on getting at it…better move away from the window…
Entry Two:
My neighbor, Luke Banderol, went away a few minutes ago. The Dementors took him. They are truly horrible monsters, those hooded creeps. They suck the happiness right out of you. Luke will surely get the Kiss. He’ll be a soulless shell in a few hours.
“Muriel,” he told me before they took him. “Keep my girls safe for me, will you?” He handed me his ‘girls’”a graying photo of two little girls. I know for a fact that the old man’s daughters are long dead. He killed them; he told me himself.
Entry Three:
My black hair is turning gray; I didn’t think I had spent so much time here. Surely I’d be crazy…am I crazy? No one could stay sane in this place, not with twenty years worth of this hellhole. I’m a mere thirty-five years old, with a husband, and kids. My little Johnnie…he’ll be starting his first year at Hogwarts in a few months, as Kaleb did before him. How I miss them. The last I heard, Kaleb was prefect and Lawrence, my hubbie, was moving up the Ministry ladder…
Entry Four:
The food here is horrid. Gruel and stale bread. Yum. How I miss cooking in my kitchen at home…I used to make cookies and cake and pies and tarts…I remember my little boys running in to taste my peanut butter cookies, fresh from the oven.
I stroke Luke’s girls for comfort, to make the pain go away. I named the brown haired one Sally; she’s smiling, and her eyes are bright and questioning. The blond is Kami; she’s frowning, and looks very unhappy. Maybe she had a strong bond with her father, and hated to see him leave. Or maybe she hated to be the result of spirits taking over his body.
Entry Five:
Another of my neighbors, young Draco Malfoy, just came back from a meeting with the Wizengamot. His father is a Death Eater, in a cell down the row. Draco, too, is a Death Eater, and the Wizengamot have most likely sentenced him to the Kiss, but only after a few years of slowly dying so he can no longer resist the calm it brings. I wonder how it feels to have no soul…
Draco screams sometimes at night, waking from a bad dream. I sing to him to calm him, not that my voice is anywhere near the crystal it once was, but it works. He reminds me of Kaleb”proud, uptight, and every bit the Pureblood he truly is.
I rub Sally again, sniffing back the tears. “Are you crying?” comes the disdainful voice of Draco.
“No,” I calmly answer. “I’ve got a cold.” A plausible excuse if I ever told one.
“Here.” His blanket is shoved through a hole in the wall; when I refuse it, he says, “Take it. I don’t mind the cold.” Hesitantly I pull the blanket through and wrap myself in it, thinking all the while: Why is the son of Lucius being so nice?
“Draco?” I call.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Entry Six:
I don’t know what to write about…every few months I put down my thoughts, feelings, and happenings of Azkaban. But I never asked myself what I’d do if I had no more of those thoughts, no more of those feelings.
A couple of Aurors were introduced to the prison today. There was a redhead, a Weasley if I ever saw one, and the boy. Harry Potter was leading them through, saying things like “These are the witches and wizards who have been caught and sentenced” and “This is where you’ll send the Dark wizards you catch”. When he came to me, he said nothing, but kept walking. The redhead, though, stopped.
“How does it feel,” she asked in a small voice, “to be a criminal?”
I raised an eyebrow at the question. “Why do you want to know? It’s not like you’ll ever end up here.” Or want to.
“Ginny!”
“I’m coming, Harry!” The redhead slipped a letter through the bars. “I’ll be back for your reply,” she whispered, and ran.
Entry Seven:
That letter was very interesting. Here, I’ll copy it:
Dear Muriel,
How are you, cousin? I can’t believe you’re still here”it’s fairly easy, and with you being a fox, it shouldn’t be that hard.
Anyway, to my point. I can get you out, if you want. It won’t be hard, now that I’m free. Your choice.
I hope you’re all right. Don’t worry about me”everything’s working out fine, now that we’re fixing up mum’s place. My godson, Harry, he’s helping me make the house look real nice and habitable again. (not that it ever was, but still.)
Ginny, the redheaded Weasley who gave this to you, will be coming back soon for your reply. Remember, your time is running out. Please consider it, Muriel.
It is unsigned. I shake by head at my cousin’s attempts. I don’t want to leave. This is the fifth such letter he has sent to me; my time is almost up, anyways. I do not wish to leave, and he knows that.
Entry Eight:
I fear this is my last talk with you. The Wizengamot, today, also sentenced me to the Kiss after ten years here. The next ten will be spent without a soul.
But I’m not sad. More likely, I’m regretful. I haven’t seen my children in five years, my husband in seven. I lost ten years of my life because I followed His bidding. You know who He is, don’t you? The most powerful wizard of the age, one who was killed by a mere boy. I laugh in his face now, knowing I escaped the fate he did, just by a hair.
Voldemort.
The name strikes fear, just like He wanted it to. But not in me, not anymore. I’ve moved on. I have no heart, no life, not anymore. I won’t say goodbye to normal things, but I will say hello to strange things. For what would a Black do, without strange things to keep her entertained?
Muriel Anita Black