Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The slow, steady beat did wonders to distort the perception of time for its sole listener.
The occupant of the deepest, darkest cell in the prison shifted as he was forced to listen to the reluctant stream of water and the occasional squeak from his vermin cellmates. The occupant was the newest addition to the lowest level of Azkaban; the level reserved for traitors.
Dull green eyes looked passively at the rat sniffing the plate of stale bread. He made no move to prevent the consumption of his bread as it was carted off to feed the hordes of vermin infesting the prison.
Despite the symphony produced by the water, the rats, and the rattle of the chain whenever he bothered to move, he was unnerved by the deafening silence. It was a form of punishment, he knew, having heard of this level during his training days. He never believed he would ever be in this sort of position.
How the mighty have fallen indeed, he thought bitterly, when the man you love doesn't trust you anymore. His heart throbbed painfully at the thought. He was still hurt and angry over the event that led to his imprisonment and felt betrayal to the most painful degree towards the man that sent him here. Lord Voldemort.
He once had the same goal as his lord did, as any person who loved someone dearly would change to follow the one they love, into the battlefield, to support him in any endeavor his lord chose to pursue. He desperately clutched the innocent object lying on his chest. It was a gold locket, in the shape of a heart. Its defining feature was a ruby, encrusted in the center of the locket. Inside laid a lock of hair that belonged to Lord Voldemort. The inscription on the otherside read, Mine. Forever.
As he traced the engraved letters, he began to cry. What was the price one paid to love another?