Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, I would give you Harry Potter and its characters, but it's not mine to give.
Edit: 29/7/17.
I can vaguely hear a voice calling my name as I am pushed- manhandled- into a room.
Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Draconis Lucius Malfoy.
White walls. A chair. A magic-proof door.
Tinted glass so they can see me. Merlin, damn.
Three guards. One behind me. Two at the door. Three wand touch-repelling charms.
No escape planned for today.
The sound moves in and out of my eardrums, withering away as I strain to hear it, and returning full-fledged when I let it go. My eyes remain blind as the rough blind-fold chafes at my skin, my nose frozen as the noise thunders in my ears.
As the ringing in my ears abates, I hear more clearly and realize I am to be interrogated.
Again. After nearly two years.
Two years of alone-ness. Alone-ness. Not loneliness. Never that.
Clearly noticing my regained wits, I am not allowed a moment to myself before I am bombarded with questions. Seeing no harm, at least no further harm-'What more can they do?-in answering their questions, I resign myself to it. Quite.
Who are you?
Voice hoarse from months of un-use, the first thought I can voice is-
I was death once.
Doesn't it creep up from the corners of your soul and keep you up at night?
It does not bother me anymore.
Do you give any allowance for life and love, in your heart, cruel though it may be?
Love, life and death are synonymous for me. Aren't they the same, albeit in different ways?
You die when death comes to you.
You die every time you peek to see whether death lies in wait for you in the corners and narrow alleys.
You die a thousand and one deaths when you feel love fizzle out, slip through your fingers.
But death? Do not belittle it, for it reigns over all of mankind, never to die, lurk or leave.
You are delusional if you think death has summoned you to bring that fated end for others. There is certainly no justification for taking other's lives, seeing it leeching out of their bodies, and deriving a perverse pleasure doing so. Such work is best left to fate. Don't you have any shred of conscience that prickles you for all the wrong you have wrought? Don't you have any conscience, that nags at you to try and right the crimes you have committed, or at least, apologize?
No.
No?
No. How is fate any better? Does it have that 'consent' you speak of from death for the purpose of pulling lives out of men, 'consent' I haven't procured? It is just as me, perhaps more fickle. A bringer of justice, unknown, not understood by mere mortals. Death is not direct, but it comes for you. Just as divine intervention, it reaches you in different forms, but the one that drags you away, unwilling, or maybe not, is the way you least suspect. It betrays that fragile trust you placed in it to not pull you away. Is it not as guilty as I am then?
What is your valued opinion on core values then? Surely, it is a fictional idea to you, far away from your reach, never to spare a thought for. You have no virtue to speak of, no habit someone might wish to emulate, no skill to unveil when questioned about yourself. Well?
Core values have no shelf life. First is always integrity, but I do believe you will beg to differ with me on my interpretation of moral principles. You are absolutely right when you say I do not spare a thought for them. If you have to strive to inculcate those 'values', then they did not belong to you, to begin with, and in the utter end, you will be left with only that which you had in the beginning of time. Then, why, must you delude and strain yourself, only to have your heart cut open in your last moments, wide open for all to see, as they notice the lie upon lie, to conceal all that you never were and never will be? Is it not prudent to stay as you are, redundant to be what you are not? To be or not to be, is not the question. The question is, who to be?
I guess by now you should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone-you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence? Or have you ever lost anyone you love at all? Forgive me; I'm sure you do not believe love worthy of you.
If you have a brother and he dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a brother, even when the other half of the equation is gone? There is no hole, for no one has vacated that place. It is always full- full of emotions, feelings and yourself. For when somebody is a part of you, you surrender a part of yourself to them. Numbing the pain of the edges of your unfinished mosaic for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. Then again, anyone who has lost something they thought was theirs forever finally comes to realise that nothing really belongs to them. And when that someone leaves the world, you start to gather the pieces of you that they left behind, trying to fit them into the puzzle that has become your life. It is better that they leave, for it is truly then that you discover yourself.
You wish for people close to you to die? I definitely don't feel welcome in your inner circle. Isn't it so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone?
You aren't invited in anyhow. It is also much brighter after the tunnel of darkness, where your eyes smart at the mere memory of sight, but then, you have to blink at the intensity of light out of the gloom.
Do you have a contrary answer to every question I ask?
I do.
What would you like on your tombstone when you die?
Before I die, I'd like to clarify that I have wished for death to ferry me across the land of the living by anything except my own hand. But in all its glory and my cursed luck, I shall perhaps have to swim across that river when I reach it, using not only my hands but also my legs.
Unfortunately, that is the best joke you have made so far and I have not been tempted to laugh. You haven't answered my question yet though.
I would have if you had not ungraciously interrupted. Anyway, I'm hard-pressed to say, I've been dying to say, 'come sit by the fire and I'll tell you a heart-chilling tale.' Hear this once, for I shall not say it again. I give you the responsibility of having this written on my tombstone; if you ever remember this conversation and the person you spoke so candidly with. Even if the person didn't.
And, in the end, this one was the last person left standing.
Indeed? I'm honoured to be asked such a favour and thankful to you.
I'm not.
And I rise, signifying the end of the last conversation I intend to have.
Certainly the last stimulating one.
Nearing the door, I take a huge breath, feeling the stale air of the interrogation room, though much fresher than the air I am accustomed to breathing in my small, filthy, low-ceilinged cell, complete with a jute cot and a thin blanket. Nothing else for the prisoner.
I abruptly stop, letting the guard bump into my back, his nose red from the frigid air, and now more so from the hit to my bones.
Turning my head just a little bit, I hear the faint sound of footsteps halt, waiting to hear my last words. Satisfied I have made an impression, I let a wry smile curve my lips, tinged with cruelty and I am sure the little reporter has seen it, from the tilt of my head and the gasp that escapes her lips.
Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of what she has waited for, I open the door and walk out, letting the guards lead me to my cell, taking a 'little' fall on the way- a broken nose and a few bruised ribs- from the revenge my 'guard' planned out.
I wince as I am thrown unceremoniously into the cell, my ribs taking the brunt of the impact. The iron bars close with an ominous click, no doubt from the many charms placed. Surely they are not dumb enough to not notice more than a few charms missing?
Well, dumb.
They have no idea as to the extent of my skills and they do not realize that the man who bruised my ribs will not have ribs inside him in a few months. Or a few days.
Any ribs. They will be sticking neatly out of his chest, for I do not consider myself a messy killer. A neat, ceremonious one, maybe. I might even leave a conjured flower woven into those ribs as a thank you for taking care of me. As I might have mentioned before, I can be merciful too.
Only when I am finally alone in my cell do I let a full smirk stretch my lips, utterly content with my work of the day as I wordlessly -wandlessly- heal my ribs. They will not be sending a nurse to heal my wounds and I do not expect them to. The knock-up certainly wasn't sanctioned by the Ministry but there is no doubt it will be approved of and the guards commended on a job well done.
But this will be the last I will think-or see- of my captivity for days.
Maybe months. Maybe years.
One can hope.
And I do have a promise to fulfil.
Hermione Jean Granger.
Her blood ran cold.
She was cornered on the edge of a hundred-foot cliff overlooking the sea as the salt wind buffeted her.
Under her feet, the weather had slicked the rocks, making her perch on the cliff side all the more perilous.
Behind her, the sea stretched to the horizon.
In front of her, hundreds of snakes slowly slithered forward, pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"Stay back!" she screamed, choking on a sob.
They halted their steady advance and stopped about ten feet away.
"These cliffs are unstable. It's not safe." Her inner voice cautioned.
"Safe?" she echoed miserably. "I don't know what that word means anymore."
At that moment, a loud crack split the air.
She started to rush forward but was too late. Before the shriek even left her lips, she fell- fell as the ledge crumbled under her weight.
She jolted upright.
Her heart slammed as the seconds dripped off the tip of her nose like the drops of rain had.
She could still vividly see –in her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, in that second of intense panic- that a hundred feet below, the sea yawned, waiting to swallow her.
This nightmare replayed with startling regularity, almost every other night.
She wishes never to dream again. If only dreams came true.
A/N: Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter... Review, please!