So... Here you have it- my newest and strangest piece yet. It's sort of... Well. You'll see. Please review and tell me what you think- I have yet to decide whether or not I like it.

And as always, none of this belongs to me.



It Does Not Do...


There was something wrong. He knew even as he knew he couldn't know anything- something was wrong. And he couldn't know anything, of course, because this was not his body- those were not his hands, not holding that wand, not saying those words and waving just so, with a trained precision he could never have learned.

What was he doing in someone else's body? He had to wonder, but his only words were ugly ones, saying things he couldn't possibly mean because why would he think that? And maybe he wasn't real at all, maybe he was only the voice at the back of someone's head- but oh, that wasn't him, he wasn't seeing through his eyes, because why would he be near that much blood, anyway?

This wasn't real. He was simply having a really odd nightmare. That was it. This was simply some weird dream. Because how could this hell be anything but a dream? Ron was probably trying to wake him up now, telling him he'd better hurry up or be late for Transfigurations, not- (spread in so many pieces on the floorhisfloor and why was their bloodsoredsoprettylikeWeasleyhairatnight)- not like this. This wasn't real.

This wasn't real, and he knew this wasn't real, because he had just fallen to his knees and he didn't go on his knees for anyone, not Voldemort or pain or fatigue or anything at all. He didn't cry and this man-thing he was trapped in, this strange and unfamiliar body, it was sobbing and sounded so lost so broken that he wrapped his arms around him and rocked him back in forth. Oh little boy lost, oh icicle orphan...

And where was Hermione? Surely Ron would have fetched her by now, since he wasn't waking up. Surely, surely, that wasn't her lying there, because she was neat and tidy and would never have her hair be matted down with something so like blood, and she had a head and a neck and shoulders that stuck together, like they should. That couldn't be Hermione because Hermione would have fought back, and they would have- (RapedherbledhercutherkilledherateherfleshohHermioneso sorrytheyburnandbrandandkill) -would have hurt her, and Hermione can't be hurt.

And now he knows it's not real because he doesn't kill things but he did and he knows he did and is that a body? What is he doing near a body? He can't really think anymore, it's all a blur, and why won't Ron just hurry up and wake him up? It can't be that hard- an ennervate would do it, some cold water, a quick slap and Aunt Petunia's shrill voice and rapping knuckles. He was always a light sleeper and so why was Ron waiting?

It couldn't be his body he was in because he was hurling all over the floor all over the body and it was red like blood and wasn't that nifty? His laughter scared him, but not really because it wasn't him laughing. He was nothing, nobody, the inconsequential tears of a ghost, without form or purpose, the wails of Moaning Myrtle. He was bodiless, he had to be, and so why did he have to hear that laughter? Not sane laughter, no, and whoever the man was he didn't like him at all, wanted out of this body, this strangers lair. Wanted away from Not-Ron-and-Not-Hermione-and-Not-dead-guy. He was not a murderer, and his friends were waking him up.

He hurt and he wondered at it and the laughter stopped and he wondered if the body might be his, after all. That this scene of carnage was his, and his doing, and he was trapped here in this body that was Not-his but not anybody else's, either... Why fight the truth and he hated it hated it hated himself the little murderer oh Ron oh Hermione oh Sirius I'm sorry for you all... Oh man I killed, nameless man, forgive me I have to I'm sorry it hurts... Stop laughing. Stop laughing. I'm warning you, stop laughing!

***********

He's still not awake? Hermione asked, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder.
Nah. Just let him sleep. His dreams can't kill him, after all.

~the end~