AN: So I know that I have to finish off another story BUT LIKE I AM SO CRAZY OBSSESSED WITH HP/LV GUYS PLS SEND HELP like there's just something so great about Harry being dark and interacting with Voldemort (not necessarily in a slash way). I dunno, I just like dark characters. And this piece of crap story wouldn't leave my brain. So now I shall throw it into the abyss that is the internet.
WARNING: This is AU as hell. There will be dark themes. Probably gore. Possible slash. OOC-ness will happen because I'm not friggin J.K. Rowling.
There was a faint sound of dripping water coming from the end of the hallway. The soft pit-pat was echoed off metal walls, but due to the poor lighting no one could ever find the source of the leak. No matter the season, the hallway was damp, dark, oppressive. Even escaping through one of the doors along the walls did not allow any reprieve from the heavy weight of the dank air.
A lone figure limped down this hallway. Worn sneakers scuffed the concrete floor, as the figure slowly approached a door near the end of the hall. At first glance, all you could see was a man – a boy still, really – with worn jeans and a faded black hooded jacket. The hood was up, shadowing the face. The boy reached out, unlocking the heavy metal door in front of him. It swung open into a small room.
The room was indeed tiny, only allowing enough room for a ratty cot and a small side table. There was a tiny window in the corner of the room, covered only by bars. The light overhead refused to turn on after 10pm, leaving the room in darkness. The boy stood in the doorway, a shaking silhouette. Closer inspection would easily reveal that there was blood soaking through the sweatshirt. His frame shook with every harsh breath. It would be easy to mistake the shaking as pain.
Slowly, the boy walked forward. The hood fell back, revealing a sharp face, wavy hair matted to his forehead with sweat. Red eyes glowed dimly as he dropped down onto the mattress. Outside of the window, he could hear the very distant wailing of sirens in a city slowly burning to the ground.
A part of him longed to be there, to watch that particular corner of hell fall to ruins. But he was a leader now. He could no longer indulge in such childish desires if it put his followers at risk. A long sigh escaped him. He knew his followers would follow his orders, scattering across the country in hiding until it was safe to meet again. It was never safe to hide a large group in one place – too easy to pick them off all in one go. They were still too weak. He had to take his time to think things through, and trust his followers to carry out their mission.
Tiredly, he laid to rest on the cot. No matter how great his abilities were now, he was still young and growing. Ambition and purpose could only carry a person so far when they're suffering from sheer exhaustion.
He would take this moment to rest. Revolutions were never easy, after all.