The young man had no idea where the thing came from. All he knew was that it had been there in the morning when he woke up—when barred shafts of golden sunlight had extended their fingers into his cold, stoic nightmare world. He had turned over on his cot, brushing his dusty hair out of his eyes and squinting into the sun, and seen a butterfly sitting on his bedside table.

He didn’t quite believe or even understand what he saw at first—this pure little creature, untainted by death or hate, shone as a solitary flower in this monochromatic hell. Its wings, iridescent and rainbow-coloured, were opening and closing almost lazily. The young man couldn’t remember a time when he had known that kind of leisure, that kind of innocence. He couldn’t stop watching it. And so he lay, robes rumpled, eyes wide, watching the butterfly as though hypnotised by its beauty.

An antenna twitched, and the butterfly eyed him curiously. It was not frightened of him—it was one of the only living creatures he’d encountered in years that wasn’t at least made nervous by his presence. It was an odd feeling, the young man mused, knowing that this beautiful little animal knew nothing about his past, knew nothing about why he was here. All it knew was that he existed, and it was unafraid.

A flash of light returned to his deadened eyes. He smiled gently at the butterfly—a gesture he had not procured in years—and extended a trembling hand toward it. His hand was, like everything else in this foul place, dusty—the guards allowed people to bathe if they still knew how, but the cells were so full of dust and cobwebs that bathing did very little good. That shaking problem in his hands was a side effect of too many long years surrounded by the very embodiments of fear—it was enough to drive anyone head-on into a neurological disorder. At first the young man worried that the dust and the quivering of his fingers might scare the butterfly off, but it trusted him, somehow. It fluttered over and landed in his palm, still surveying him, still completely unafraid of him. Amazing.

"Hello," the young man said awkwardly. His voice was raspy and rough, for it had been years since he’d spoken—the smooth tenor of his younger days was entirely forgotten. The butterfly locked him in a slow gaze, still opening and closing its wings. The young man took that as a returned greeting. "My name is Sirius Black," he informed the butterfly, trying to keep his hand steady for his new friend’s sake. "What’s yours?"

The butterfly’s wings rustled, and the young man listened closely. "Amity?" he said curiously, and the butterfly seemed to concur. "That’s a very nice name, Amity. And you’re a very nice butterfly to come in here and visit me like this."

The woman in the cell across the way was giving the young man a rather stunned look through the bars, but he ignored her—it was stupid of her to listen in on a private conversation like that anyway. He continued to smile wistfully down at the butterfly. Amity uncurled her proboscis and let it graze his palm—his sad smile widened a tiny bit at what he took to be a friendly gesture. "Thank you, Amity—I’d give you a kiss too but you’re far too small and I don’t want to hurt your wings." He lay back on the cot, letting his head fall against the thin pillow. The butterfly fluttered from his hand and landed between his eyes, and the young man gazed up at the ceiling, his companion’s rainbow wings coming into view periodically.

"It does get lonely here," the young man sighed heavily. "I’m the only person here who’s not completely mad, even though some people think I am. But you know I’m perfectly sane, don’t you, Amity?" The butterfly flapped her wings energetically for a few moments, and the young man smiled softly. "I knew you’d understand." He was silent for a moment, his face going grave once more. "There are so many people I miss... I miss my best friend Remus the most... But chances are he thinks I’m a murderer and a traitor. The whole world does."

The butterfly’s proboscis grazed the bridge of his nose in a comforting way. God, it had been a long time since he’d been touched by something so alive, so gentle. The feeling was Elysium.

"But—can I tell you a secret, Amity?" He hesitated a moment, and the butterfly seemed to prompt him. "I’m innocent. And nothing these horrors can do will convince me otherwise." Amity flew down onto his stomach, turning around and continuing to look him in the face. The young man managed a wan smile. "It’s all that’s keeping me sane, Amity. Imagine."

His rainbow-garbed visitor flicked an antenna in response.

By nightfall the young man had talked himself into a hoarse, breathless whisper. He couldn’t have stopped talking if he’d tried, though—the screaming was just starting up, and his luminous little companion seemed a bit perturbed. "They’re always like this at night," he explained to her soothingly. "Don’t worry, Amity, you’ll get used to it. I know, I know, it’s horrible." His eyes were distraught as well, but he tried to stay strong, for the butterfly’s sake. "I did it at night for the first year I was here. I called for Remus and Lily and James for hours on end until I finally just collapsed from exhaustion."

The iron doors to the high security sector suddenly screeched open. Amity flew up and hovered in the air frantically, and the young man stood up, striding over to the bars and looking out apprehensively. He saw two twelve-foot guards marching a young woman along the hall, with another guard standing behind. There was a freakish, entranced look on the girl’s face, and her eyes were closed tightly. "To be or not to be," she was reciting, "that is the question—whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing—"

"—End them," the young man murmured, watching the girl go. "That’s Shakespeare, you know, Amity. I used to love it. I ought to tell the story of Hamlet to you sometime—"

The last guard turned a faceless head in the direction of the young man’s cell. It was not uncommon for prisoners to talk to themselves, but the young man realised that the guard must have sensed the new entity.

The door to the cell slid open—overcome with painful cold, the young man staggered back, but Amity continued to hover, examining the guard curiously. The young man watched helplessly as the guard’s scabby hand snatched the butterfly out of the air.

He could hear the girl still talking off in the distance. "...for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come once we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause..."

There was a soft pattering sound as the guard brushed the powdered remains of the butterfly onto the cell floor.

Author's Note:

A rather sick portrayal of isolation and madness, packed with symbolism. So naturally I actually rather like it.