The other prisoners of Dungeon 52 look stunned to see me show up in the refectory for breakfast the next day. I have been insisting on Edgar that he take me to the kitchen with the elves, but he says breakfast is mandatory, because they always check on us in the mornings during breakfast. He says he can't just bring me food, as they're not allowed to do so. In the end, I have no other choice but to trail behind him. The stares they all give me are making me more and more uncomfortable, as if there is the word "Murderer" attached at the back of my head, as if they haven't done anything crooked to land themselves here.

Why are they not staring at Edgar, who looks as young as me? He looks no more than eighteen. Has he been here that long that they're used to his presence? But soon, I notice that they have some articles spread out before them as they look at me. I know at once what they're reading, why they're looking at me as if I am some grand example of the flaw in humanity. So I keep my head down, following Edgar's footsteps as he walks around the refectory to find an empty table.

The place is as dark as everywhere else around the prison. Long, wooden tables have been set out in rows in the hall, where elves carry food and drinks - make them levitate, to say the correct term - and place them neatly on the table. There are two doors situated at either end of the hall, each guarded by a pair of trolls. There are no wizards in charge to watch us, but I am not going to take too lightly on this.

Edgar and I eat in silence, interacting only when I need some sugar or he needs the little fork beside me. There is nothing to talk about anyway. Every now and then, I notice how his eyes wander around the hall, just looking at the others, and soon they land on me for a second before moving on. Again, I feel that guilt inside me. Because, if I'm not mistaken, he might as well be scared of me. As a matter of fact, people easily get intimidated by me, so I'm not really surprised. Now, for some people, they enjoy that little power of being feared of, as if they can boss around anyone when they feel like it. But it makes them have followers instead of friends. It makes their lives lonely, even though they have people behind their back.

I, for one, have none.

It takes only half of an hour before the doors open and a pair of wizards walk in. They make a brief stop while we all look at them. Soon, their eyes land on me and start heading in my direction. "Raine Akers?" one of them addresses me.

I nod.

"Cerdik Armen has arrived," he continues, meaning the chief warlock. "He will have to discuss you about your sentence."

Again, I nod. I then stand up and follow them out. But not before I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see Edgar looking at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

Armen is waiting for me in the same, dank courtroom. He has his fingers interlocked, resting them on the table, at which the same thick decree book lay open to the farthest page. He is wearing silvery-blue robes today, which matches his grey hair that is now tied behind his head, while his round spectacles lay perched on his crooked nose. He nods at me to sit down as soon as I am admitted into the room. Without a word, I take a ginger step towards the chair before him, with the same, rusty metal table separating us. It doesn't take me long to notice that my wand is resting at the centre of the book, just lying in the small crook that divides the pages, as if he has used it as a bookmark. If only I could grab it.

But I don't make such a move. I sit on the chair, facing him, like he has motioned me to, and nothing else. He waits for me to settle comfortably, before asking, "Eaten?"

I nod.

"Slept well?"

I nod. A lie, of course.

"Now, your sentence," he shuffles in his seat, leaning forwards on the table. "You already know, of course, that your wand is going to be confiscated-"

"I thought you already had,"

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, "Officially confiscated, and will need to be ... ah, obliterated."

"Just say you're snapping it in half," I say, deadpan. "You'll never know how bright a person is, even for an offender."

He scowls slightly at my remark. "Your sentence, Mr Akers," he proceeds. "You will serve thirty years in prison-"

"That's not enough,"

"- and will have to do the heavy tasks around,"

"So, no excuses even for an underage wizard?"

Again, he scowls. I feel the tiny smirk forming on my lips.

He continues talking. I don't do much, rather than nodding and pretending I'm grasping all the systems and regulations he is stating, laws that I must abide. This takes no more than an hour, before I am escorted out of the courtroom - this time as an official detainee; a new status I'm holding. Sixteen and already serving thirty years in prison. I didn't even spare a glance at my wand before I left. He even tells me I will not be allowed to own one once I am released.

If Edgar is pretending as if he hasn't been anticipating me, then he is a horrible actor. I can see just the way his head shoots up as the lock gives a clank and the same troll opens it for me. Once inside, and the trolls have locked me in, I go straight to the sink to wash my hands. I honestly don't know why I do that; I guess I just feel like it. Besides, I am not properly hygienic since yesterday. So I round on Edgar, who is reading the newspaper he has brought along.

"Do you shower here?" I ask.

His eyes slowly travel up to meet mine, and I see what he's been reading.

"Give me that," I say, my voice deeper than I'd intended.

"They let us out if you need it badly - only for thirty minutes," he explains.

"Give me that," I repeat, my hand outstretched.

He doesn't say anything. In fact, he looks more nervous. Before I do something that I might regret again, I stride up in his direction and wrench the papers from his hands. I smooth the article out before me. And of course I've been right at presuming what they've been reading this morning.

SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD GAOLED FOR MASS FAMILY MURDER

It's not a long one. But I proceed to read down the headline:

NEWHAM - A boy has been found culpable for committing a mass murder on Tuesday morning, 27th October. It is believed that the whole family has died under his hands, right around morning. Accordingly, there is no member of the family left to make reports about the tragedy than two witnesses who claimed to have heard a commotion going in the house of the subject discussed.

"I always heard them having a row in the mornings - always him and his mum," witness, Eden Tristan, 35, explained. "Thought it was a normal one; always around at seven on school mornings. We're all used to their hot-tempered son. But none of us expected the whole house to explode just like that, leaving him to stand alone. My friend made a report at that instance. I'd expected him to run to school or something, but he stayed where he was, just staring at the mess he'd caused until the officials arrived."

"He's an odd one, he is," witness, Gunnar Walsh, 41, added. "Always moody, even as a kid. Oddly enough, my daughter used to fancy him. But she stopped once the news spread what he'd done to his whole family. None of us really see him the same. I personally think that he's got a bit of a mental problem - it can't be a phase, can it? Honestly speaking, I think I agree with the folks that he needs to be served a life-sentence in jail. Can you believe a boy killing his own family?"

Raine Akers, 16, is now serving a thirty-year sentence in Dewstead Penal Unit, as mentioned by High Chief Warlock, Cerdik Armen, just yesterday evening in the conference room of Department of Magical Laws. The bodies of the four members of his family have been found in the ruins of the house. The locals of Newham will be attending their funeral on this Sunday, 1st November, which is held by the members of Voleteer.

All anger that I am supposed to be feel is extinguished. Instead, I feel empty. I feel dead. Reading this makes me realize of the terrible, unforgivable, ghastly thing that I've done just yesterday. It isn't that I was deprived of any emotions; I was actually still in a daze from the whole family catastrophe. A tragedy that I caused, all because of my inability to control my own temper. All because of a stupid spill of soup and my sisters bickering with my father. I'd lost it, then.

A tear rolls down my cheeks. The piece of article shakes in my hands, and I crumple it up. I slide down the wall and bury my head in my hands, not wanting Edgar to see my face. Another tear rolls down, wetting my palms. I grit my teeth and scream. Scream until my throat goes raw. Scream until my cheeks are drenched and sticky from my tears. Scream until I'm deprived of any emotions. Because they're all finally sinking into me. Because they're all yelling in my head. Because I have killed my parents and my two sisters.

I'm still shaking. But not from rage. I'm shaking because I'm crying. I'm crying so hard that I let out awkward, involuntary chokes when I inhale. And I've never cried for maybe thirteen years. But here I am, back to being small and vulnerable, locked in a prison cell with a stranger, wrapped in my own emotions, just letting it all out. Because I'm sick of being myself. I'm sick of being Grumpy Little Raine. I'm sick of people actually relating my name to the weather, because it all damn fit. That was why I snapped at Edgar yesterday for thinking I was talking about the rain. Sick, sick, sick.

I'm too wrapped up in my own emotions that I don't even flinch or react or even throw a fit when I feel a warm arm wrap around my shoulder. In fact, I let myself settle in this warm embrace, because it feels good, as if things are actually okay. Clearly, they're not okay. But again, I'm at my most vulnerable that I let myself lean into Edgar (who smells of mint, so he must've taken a shower earlier). He doesn't say anything, just kinds of rocks my slowly back and forth. At this, I fall asleep.

And wake up a few hours later when the cell is lit by the sunlight streaming through the small hole for a window, indicating that it is afternoon. It's not really that bright. And it's still cold, yet I feel warm. I have dozed off - clearly - in Edgar's arm. I haven't moved from my position yet, and nor does him. He has apparently dozed off as well, but still has one arm wrapped tightly around me, as if he's afraid I might break again in my sleep. And I feel that little thing again, as if I will be all right even though things are at its worst.

Edgar stirs beside me. I move a little so he can stretch his arms, since we are in a sitting position. I glance at him, my tears dry and crusty on my cheeks, feeling better just by a little bit. "Hungry?" is the first thing he say to me, as if I hadn't bawled my eyes out earlier, as if he hadn't looked nervous at knowing my background.

Still too numb to speak, I merely nod in reply.