I rock to and fro on the cold stone floor. I expect that my eyes are blank if anyone cares to look. There's no one around, only the occasional scream. I stare at the grey walls. There's no colour in this world: grey walls; grey bars; grey floor; grey mattress; grey sky; grey food; grey guards. Even my skin is grey. My hair hangs in front of my face, stringy and grey. I think of the hands that used to run through a mass of silky black and I sob dryly. I have no more tears to shed.

I'm innocent INNOCENT! The word bounces around my blank mind, impacting with the grey walls of my skull. What have I done to be locked up in here? Loved, that's all. Dumbledore said that the answer to the prophecy was love. Why then, when I have found love, does he punish me for it?

It was in the summer of my fifth year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Voldemort was alive again. I had helped him back to corporal form, unwittingly. I was back at the Dursleys in the boring normal world with all its colour. I watched my Uncle Vernon's face turn red, white and porridge grey all in a few moments. Grey. I hate that word. I hate the connotations. I will never escape it, no not in an eternity. Red, now that's a nice colour. Red as freshly spilled blood is the colour of my lover's eyes. White, too, is a nice colour. White as snow is my lover's skin.

I ramble, I do it a lot. After all, what is there to do in this love-forsaken place other than think? Oh, I had forgotten. I can have fun with the guards, taunt them with love, with my lover's name. They're never any fun.

I was walking down the street in the grey twilight hours when it went black. Black as the dungeon in which I found myself upon my waking. I was chained to the wall with silver. Silver. The colour of my daggers. The colour of my lover's heart. A silver serpent. I should have gone to the serpents house. Maybe then I wouldn't be here, I would be in my lover's arms now.

My arms were held sideways, my legs held down, my torso held up. I giggle and the cracked sound frightens me as much as it attracts me. Laughter is good for the soul. Good for the soul. I like that phrase. I shout it out until someone yells to shut up. They don't understand. No one has ever understood except for my lover. He understood when I tried to cut my nose off with my silver daggers. He understood and gently explained why I shouldn't. I wanted to look like him, my hero. He said I wasn't worthy. I will never be worthy of him. He is my hero, my saviour, my god, my master. He will come for me. I know it.

Back to the story, the story of my love, of my descent into deepest, darkest night. Deepest, darkest night. I like that. After all, it was at night when my lover came to me.

The window was dark and a single star shone into the room where I was held by silver. The door opened and my lover, my enemy came in. He brought food. I was hungry but, in those days, I didn't trust my lord. I spat at him and called him names. When he touched my face I tried to bite him. He slapped me when I spat and cursed me when I bit. Afterwards, he apologised for having to hurt me, but explained that it was my fault. I had been bad and he had had to punish me. It was so logical. After all, everyone else punishes me when I'm not bad. The Dursleys, Snape, Ron, Hermione, the whole wizarding world.

Hours, days, weeks, months, years happened. The time seemed endless in that room with the window charmed permanently black except for the shining star. I stopped cursing, biting and spitting. I accepted the food when he fed me from his own hand. He changed in my eyes. I saw a beauty in the noseless, bald head. In the papery skin. In the long fingered hands that were so gentle when they stroked my face.

One night, he allowed me out of my chains. I dropped onto the ground, muscles screaming from too long in the same position. My saviour wanted a thank you for his generous gift and I gave it willingly. Later, he let me out of the room. My eyes screwed up and watered at the bright light of the morning sun. I tried to run back into my dark haven, but the robes of my saviour stopped me. I buried my face in their dense black. I like black. My saviour chuckled and allowed me the liberty. He took me to a set of rooms that were his. A set of rooms decorated in silver, black and green.

I like green. Green were the first set of robes he gave me, my own clothes rags, and muggle trash rags at that. Green are my eyes, the eyes that my lord praised. He gave me a collar of emeralds, saying they matched my eyes. My present captors stole it from me. They said it was affecting my reasoning. It wasn't, this reasoning is my own. When they realised that, they gave up and gave in. They sent me to this cold and grey hell without even my pretty green necklace to comfort me.

He would touch me whenever he came into the rooms. Stroke my face, run his hands through my hair, rest his chin on my head when I was reading. I soon sought out the pleasurable sensation. I had never been touched with meaningless affection before. My old friends didn't touch me unless in comfort because they thought it made me uncomfortable. My deceased relatives only touched me with hate in their hands, when they weren't afraid that my 'freakishness' would infect them.

I hate them. I hate the giraffe, the whale and the pig. I set their house on fire when I could. I saw them dancing in the flames and wanted to join them, but my lover held me back. I was disappointed at first, but my lover explained that he didn't want me hurt. I was warm inside at that and my own warmth danced with the fire instead. When it was over, everything was a nice black and white, except for that which was grey. Muggle trash. No wonder only greyness resulted from their 'normal' life. They were the only ones I allowed to dance with the red and orange and yellow. After all, they were family.

The rest of them died bathed in green or red. I especially liked seeing the crimson spurting out and bathing me in the colour of my lover's eyes. Green was too good for most of them. I saw some of my lover's servants use grey, but that is for the evil of the world, not for those who fight for the right. Fight for the right. That is what I was doing and those fools dared to lock me up in this grey world. Grey is evil. They are evil.

It was one evening when I was kneeling by my master's chair, looking into the flames. His hands were stroking my hair, running through the black silky mass that he refused to let me cut. I wanted to be bald. I was not worthy. I was never worthy. I will never be worthy, but one day I might be less unworthy. Maybe when I have left this grey cell. I remember what he said.

You must fight my love. They will not understand. You must fight and you must never lose faith in me. Do you understand?

Yes master, I reply. I look up at him with eagerness in my eyes and he responds, a fond smile curving his white lips.

Come to bed then child. He said. I follow.

I will always follow my Master, to hell and back. I curse myself, screaming long and loud into the night. I bash myself on the wall, the floor, the bars. I disobeyed him. I didn't fight enough. He will be disappointed. I hate it when my lover is disappointed. He doesn't do anything, no that's reserved to when I've just made a mistake. He looks at me with sorrow in his red eyes and I crumble inside. I always end up throwing myself at his feet and begging for forgiveness. He doesn't forget, but if he thinks I'm penitent enough, he allows me to choose the punishment. If I pick the correct one for my degree of guilt, he will forgive. If not, he will turn from me and throw me out of his bed for the next few days. I can't stand that.

I don't like it when my master is angry or displeased with me. I will do anything to stop it. My master captured two of the enemy's pawns. Two red-head jokers. I didn't want to kill them until I saw the disappointment in his eyes. For my punishment, I chose to torture the red-heads until there was more red, more white, more yellow. When there started to be grey, I killed them with green. When I looked back at my lover, I saw the approval and that was enough to satisfy me.

The attack came and I fought when they entered the room. I killed several. One had black skin. I killed him with green and saw the beautiful mix for a moment. Another I killed with silver. He died howling. He had yellow hair and amber eyes. I was too caught up in the satisfaction to notice the grey spell that bound me. I hate grey.

They took me to another place, a black and serious place. I screamed as memories broke my mind. The group of yellow, red and gold thought I was under spells and something called 'Stockholm' Syndrome'. I am not. They locked me in a room, but I escaped. I killed the man with the silver beard with one of my silver daggers in his back. He didn't expect me. Fool. Master will be pleased. He hated the old fool. It's almost enough to make me hate silver, but my dagger counteracts that.

They took me to a large place with fear encircling me. I shivered and remembered the green when I was young. I remembered the moment I was torn from my lover's home. I remembered the moment they took my green collar away.

I was tried. I certainly tried to tell them I was innocent until I was tired. Tried, tired, get it? When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When life gives you melons, you know you're dyslexic. When life gives you currants make wine? No, that's not it. What was it? Oh yes, what did the grape say when someone stepped on it? Nothing, it just let out a little whine. Whine, wine, you see. I laugh until my throat hurts and my stomach dry heaves. My stomach is empty. I could do with a few lemons, melons and grapes right now. The pig liked melons. It's almost enough to make me hate them, but then the pig did dance very well with the flames.

I don't know how long I've been here, immersed in grey. Metaphorically I've been in grey since they stole me from my lover's home. Literally, ever since I used silver on the head of the yellow, red and gold club. Now, I make wine while the sun shines. That's not right. It's make hay while the sun….

I hear a muffled boom which interrupts my thought processes. Shouts ring out through the grey corridors and little grey men run past. I giggle. The giggles turn into deranged cackling. My lover is here. His red eyes will drive back the grey and will take me home.

Home.

I like red. Red as freshly spilled blood is his eyes. My love is as red as a red, red rose….

A/N I hope you have enjoyed reading this. Please leave a review so that I can know what you thought. Yes, Harry is a little cracked both from Azkaban and from his stay with Voldemort. He is also suffering from Stockholm's syndrome, a facinating mental illness that I've wanted to do a story on for a while. I will also be doing one in the Alex Rider universe when I have time. This one shot just would not leave my head.