The grime on his face was a matted mixture of blood, sweat, two weeks worth
of dirt, and cum.
Every now and then, Harry would briefly feel a fleeting breeze - as if somewhere
in the darkness a door had opened. And then it was gone, the door shut again.
Locked again. The air still and heavy again, in the dark and dank hole they
had him chained in. Two weeks, give or take - Harry was sure he had lost count
of a couple days.
Whenever he felt the fleeting breeze he also felt the fleeting hope. Thank Merlin
it was smaller and smaller, someday soon maybe it would just shrivel up, die,
and let Harry get on with this insanity in peace. The fleeting hope that perhaps,
any time soon, the door would open and it would be Dumbledore, and Sirius, and
the Order come to rescue him.
For one thing, Sirius was dead. He had seen it with his own eyes.
For another thing, nobody was going to rescue him any time soon. For all Harry
knew, somewhere up above this hellish hole, Voldemort had already won.
Truth was, after two weeks, Harry didn't really care anymore who won or who lost. The whole bloody battle was stupid and childish anyway. Voldemort, Dumbledore; half-blood, pure. Who cared really?
The fleeting breeze came. And left. The door had opened - Harry had briefly
hoped- the door had closed.
And the darkness slid around a body moving smoothly toward him. Harry didn't
even struggle anymore. Not after he had broken his wrist during the first couple
days. They hadn't even lifted a wand to do anything about it. Harry didn't struggle,
didn't even make a sound.
Just limply hung there suffocating in the dark, as Lucius Malfoy came- and came-
and then left again.
Half-blood, pure... who cared, really.