All characters belong to J.K Rowling. Not me. Got it?
There is a piece of history, both Magic and Muggle, that isn't quite right.
In ancient Slovakia, before the Great Rebellion, both Mortal and Magick alike got along in harmony. Light and Dark were balanced, and there was little chaos in the world.
All of this changed around 805 C.E. when Lord Vratislav of the Bratislava Castle united a group of Dark Princes, wishing to end the peaceful balance between the Light and Dark Magick in favor of the Dark Magick. He and His followers, known as the Dark Princes, studied this type of Magick, and placed all their records in the grand library at the Bratislava Castle for safe keeping in the territory known as Nitra.
However, those who favored the Light Magick, began to notice a disruption in the balance of Powers. Mortals deemed it as a religious sort of evil; Magick followers knew that the balance had been disrupted, and that to ensure the continuity of Magick as a whole, order must be restored.
Thus the Great Revolution commenced; Prince Mojmr of the Moravia territory, the leader of the White Princes (those who favored Light Magick), attacked the Bratislava Castle, and burned it down, along will all of its contents in its Grand Library, to ensure that such Dark practices would never be read by human eyes. Mortal text books called the act a "necessary political event." Magical historians know that this event determined the very outcome of existence, for both Mortal and Magick alike.
Unfortunately for Prince Mojmr- and this is where history becomes a lie- a select few books did make it out of the ruins completely unharmed…
His eyes itched with fatigue. After nine years confinement in his…well there wasn't really a proper name for this place was there?
It was small, that was for sure. Yet that wasn't the aggravating part. Each time he woke up he would find himself in a different environment. Some were rather pleasant (one of his preferences thus far being a sunny countryside), and some were downright terrifying (he once hung from a broken tree limb for ten hours straight to prevent from plunging down into a volcano), and he never quite knew when the scene would change. What he would give to be back in the real world, to lie down on real, soft grass, perhaps near a lake…
He wacked his head to get his thoughts back on track. Eyes itching. Burning sensation. Must stop thinking so much, thinking was dangerous, thinking was painful.
It always let to wondering, which led to reminiscing, and that inevitably led to a spiraling emotional downfall where he was always reminded of his failures.
And Merlin forbid he ever venture down that path again.
He blinked- a rather dangerous action considering the spontaneous nature of his…prison- and right before his eyes a rusty iron tray appeared. He blinked several more times to ensure the actual presence of the tray; considering he was currently in the middle of what he could only believe was the Sahara Desert, mirages were commonplace. And considering the fact that his… captor liked to play tricks on him, he couldn't always trust his eyes.
However, his stomach roared in protest at the thought of missing out on a chance for food. He made that mistake once when he spotted a roasted ham, and thought it just another figment of his imagination. One can imagine how much he beat himself up when he let the very real, very juicy meal fade away before his very eyes. That was a danger of his prison; eat when you get the chance or don't eat at all. His captor found it amusing; he found it infuriating.
He quickly got to his feet and scurried over to the tray. His mouth watered at the sight of delicately cut turkey and Swiss sandwiches on rye bread and the ice cold pitcher of Butter Beer. He picked a sandwich up between his forefinger and thumb and carefully sniffed it. Once satisfied that the sandwich wasn't tainted with anything, he took a bite. At once the creamy taste of the swiss cheese and honey smoked turkey filled his mouth, and he nearly moaned at the delectable combination of flavors.
In spite of his brief bliss, the sandwich turned to sand after a few chews. He coughed and spat the sand out, and scoured his tongue around his mouth in a vain attempt to extract the gritty mineral from in between his teeth and gums. He reached for the Butter Beer only to find that it had been replaced with a pitcher of ink. Growling in frustration, he looked to the burning sky and called out in frustration, "Starving me won't do you any good James!"
"Then do us both a favor and give me what I want," a voice called from behind him. He turned, batting the grit and sand out of his eyes, to find a black clad figure in the hazy sunlight. Despite the intense heat wave, not a drop of sweat trickled down the man's forehead. The newcomer's face wasn't red from sunburn, nor was his hair wild from lack of washing and brushing. Instead, the man was quite pale, with a handsome face and Hazelnut almond shaped eyes.
Shaped just like his grandmother's, the prisoner thought mournfully.
His guest chuckled. "Enjoying your lunch?"
The prisoner snorted in disgust. "Yes actually. Sand is one of my favorites, it goes well with a nice hearty glass of intense sunlight, don't you think?" sarcasm dripped from his voice.
"In that case I'll remind the cook to include it more into your diet," The man-James- said lightly.
The prisoner sighed. Fatigue weighed down on his limbs, and he stumbled down on the ground, sending a wave of sand rolling through the air. He closed his eyes and ran calloused fingers through his messy hair, once originally jet black but was now peppered with streaks of grey.
"James-"
"You know I do not answer to that name anymore."
Yet another sigh. "Lord Vratislav, you know I cannot give you what you want."
Lord Vratislav laughed, a cold, empty laugh that, despite the heat, sent chills shooting down the prisoner's spine.
"And you, my dear father, know that-"
"Have you finally started calling me that?" the prisoner asked coolly.
All traces of humor vanished from the Lord Vratislav's face. His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared in annoyance. "Nine years. You have been my captive for nine years. Isolated from the outside world for so long, you are now considered dead. Your family-"
"Our family," the prisoner corrected him stiffly.
The sorcerer flexed his wrist. Instantly, his captive was raised into the air by an invisible hand that wrapped around his throat. His air supply cut off, the prisoner started to wheeze, and lashed his legs out in a fruitless attempt to stand on a solid surface.
"I am dead to your family, as you are dead to me!" Lord Vratislav roared at the prisoner, throwing him against the sand. Wheezing, the prisoner staggered to his feet, massaging his throat all the while. He glared daggers at the sorcerer, his son. Merlin, if only he had his wand…
But alas, he was denied such a privilege. He had been since he was thrown into this godforsaken place and left to rot. No not rot; until he generously gave his captor the valuable bit of information he so desperately wanted. Many wizards would have given in long ago, more out of cowardice than to acquire freedom, and every single one of them would have fallen to the mercy of the man that stood in front of the prisoner right now.
But not him; he refused to give the Lord Vratislav the pleasure of knowing that he could break him. He was terrified, of that he was certain. But he refused to give his captor the satisfaction of knowing such a fact.
Green eyes flashed hatred to his captor, and black eyes glowered back just as hatefully.
"I can see that my prison has become too comfortable for you," hissed the Lord Vratislav. He raised his wand to the sky, murmuring incoherent words, and instantly the two men were thrown into a scene with a rocky terrain, broken trees, and one terrible thunderstorm. The prisoner was soaked to the bone instantly, while his captor watched with a wicked grin, completely dry.
"Enjoy Potter." With a clap of his hands the sorcerer vanished just as quickly as he came.
Harry shivered miserably in the cold, letting out a frosty breath of air. He closed his eyes.
Author's note: Hello all, and if you have made it thus far without clicking the back button, a hearty thanks is necessary.
Reviews are welcome! I accept any kind of criticism, though if you're just going to flame me, all you'll be burning are marshnmallows for my s'mores.