The Prisoner
Disclaimer – I don't own anything to do with Harry Potter.
A/N – This story is actually based on one I wrote for my English 'O' Grade exam far too many years ago. I never did get a copy of it back, but I do remember it since I recall my teacher at the time saying it had received some compliments from the person who had marked it. I've re-written it for the Harry Potter universe since I simply couldn't get it out of my head tonight for some reason.
It has only roughly been proof-read by myself, so if you spot any spelling mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them.
The prisoner lay shivering under a threadbare blanket in the cold cell. The cell itself was only six foot by six foot, with only the cast iron bed frame which was bolted to the ground and a bucket for the prisoners waste to go into within it. A small, barred opening, high up in one wall constituted a window was the only source of light and the doorway consisted of closely spaced iron bars through which even the smallest of adults would be unable to squeeze their head through.
All in all, most of the western world would consider the cell to be barbaric, cruel and unfit for even the worst of criminal offenders to be condemned to. Unfortunately for the prisoner, he had been condemned by the Ministry of Magic of Britain, and their definition of cruel and barbaric would have caused the likes of Vlad the Impaler, Ivan the Terrible, Stalin and Hitler to decide they had gone a bit too far.
The reason all four of the above would have thought so, wasn't the cell the prisoner was in. After all, all four of them had used similar, or worse, accommodation for their prisoners. No. The reason was the prison guards. Not the human ones, for they were few in number and spent the majority of their time as far away from the prisoners and the true guards as they possibly could. The true guards though, were horrific. They drained those in their vicinity of happiness and hope, removing even their ability or desire to try and escape. They also had a habit of taking any opportunity they could get to remove the soul of any person they could physically catch. These guards are of course, the Dementors. Foul, loathsome creatures, nominally in the service of and under the control of the Ministry of Magic.
If the prisoner had been awake, he would have been aware of an extra bite to chill in the morning air from the Dementors this morning. They were excited. The word had been passed that today, one of their number would be allowed to take a soul and they were currently discussing and arguing amongst themselves as to who would be the fortunate one to be allowed to dine.
The prisoner slept on, aware somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind that this was his last morning in this world. He no longer knew, or cared what he had been condemned for, that had been lost to him weeks ago. He still remembered his name, although he had long since forgotten if he had ever felt anything for it. All he really knew was that he had survived so far, but today was to be the end.
BANG!
The cell door slammed open against the wall.
One of the few human guards in the prison stepped through the doorway into the cell, a look of disgust and contempt on his face.
'On your feet.' the guard snarled. 'Time for you to get yours.'
The prisoner groaned and forced himself first to his knees and then to his feet. The guards had long ago mastered the art of teaching the prisoners of this prison how to obey orders.
The guard stepped back out into the corridor and gestured for the prisoner to follow and then to proceed him along the corridor. As they walked they passed other cells, some empty, some occupied. Most of the occupied ones had inmates who had long since been broken and were simply laying on their bed shivering, or muttering insanely to themselves.
The prisoner found himself beginning to take notice of where he was and where he was going. The reality of his coming end pushing his mind to start working again from the almost dormant state it had regressed to.
The animal instincts were the first to awaken, along with the desire, no, the need, to survive.
Stumbling slightly as they came to a junction, the prisoner put his hand on the wall and slowed down. The guard thrust out his hand.
'Move...' he started to say.
The prisoner ducked and spun towards the guard, his hand lashing out towards the guards stomach, and, well, if he actually hit a little below where he had aimed, the guard might complain, but the prisoner wasn't going to.
Quickly searching the guards pockets, he grabbed the guards wand. It was a poor match, barely responding to him, but it would be better than nothing. Dragging the guard into an empty cell, he managed to cast a weak stunner that would maybe keep him unconscious for a few minutes before leaving the cell and closing the door.
Now what...
He started down the corridor again, having no idea of where he was in the prison, or where the exits were, one direction was as good as any other. So he might as well keep moving and trust to luck. If such a thing could exist in such a place.
He came to junction, which way to go, left or right? He chose right. Behind him he heard shouts. The guard had woken up and was raising the alarm. Damn! This wand really was a pathetic match for him wasn't it.
Pushing himself as hard as he could, he continued on.
A hallway. Three doors and stairs going up and down. Which way to go. Which way to go.
Up! If nothing else, if he could find the roof he could jump and deny the Dementors his soul.
He came to the top of the stairs, another corridor stretched away in front of him. Nothing else for it, might as well keep going. It's not as if he might encounter anything worse than what is waiting for him if he gets caught, now is it.
The distant sounds of cell doors being opened and closed echoed up from below. Need to keep moving, they'll expand the search quickly enough, need to keep in front of them.
It's more cells on this floor, there isn't going to be an exit to the outside on this level. Need to find stairs going up again.
Another hallway, no doors this time. Damn, no stairs either. Three corridors, not counting the one he just came down. Which one to chose, which one to chose. That one will do. It doesn't have anything to recommend it over the other two, but he needs to chose one of them, so that one will have to do.
Moving quicker now, his body getting more accustomed to moving again, he makes his way down the corridor. The cells all appear to be empty. Not sure if that's a good, or a bad sign.
Yes! Another hallway. With a stair this time. Going up!
Why doesn't this place have any signs in it? None of the doors have anything to say where they go! Four doors to choose from, nothing to tell them apart, nothing to say where they go to.
Nothing else for it. Ear against the first one. Listen for anything on the other side. Can't hear anything. Okay. Slowly, carefully open it a fraction and peer through the crack. An office of some sort. No one in it. No window. Leave it and check the next door. No sounds from it, but it's locked. Try an unlocking spell. Damn wand, not sure if the spell wasn't strong enough, or if it just failed. Next door. Voices! Can't make out what they are saying, but no opening that door. Last door. Last option before heading back down the stairs. No voices behind this one. It opens. It's another corridor.
Move! That other doors opening! They're going to see him! Shut the door behind him! Run!
Shouts from behind! Glance back. A guard in the doorway! Move quicker! Footsteps echoing down the corridor alongside the shouts as they follow.
The end of the corridor. A door. Where does it go? No choice. Go through the door or be caught by the guards. It's not locked. Step through the door. Close it behind him. Look around as he starts to run.
It's a courtyard. He can see the sky above him. And the walls around him. He can hear the shouts of the guards through the door behind him as he looks at the Dementors gathered in front of him.
Time slows.
He stumbles to a stop as the Dementors flow into a semi-circle facing him. The one directly in front of him begins to advance as he fall to his knees. Terror and despair over powering his muscles.
It approaches and raises its scabbed and decaying looking hands to it hood. He has no hope left. He no longer even remembers that hope ever existed. All that is left for him is to stare at the grey, glistening, disgusting skins of the creature in front of him as it leans down and he feel his very soul being drawn up and towards the mockery of a mouth before him. The shouts of the guards dimming even as they get closer.
BANG!
The cell door slammed open against the wall.
The prisoner jerked awake, gasping for breath.
One of the few human guards in the prison stepped through the doorway into the cell, a look of disgust and contempt on his face.
'On your feet.' the guard snarled. 'Time for you to get yours.'