Author: Lady Irene I ( ~ladyirenei )
Translated by: A Yellow Hedhehog
This story was written by a Russian author (and my friend) Lady Irene I. Any comments will reach her (and who knows, she might even answer :) .
Any mistakes are my fault, not the author's. If you notice them, please point them out.
Counting drops as they hit the floor was the only kind of activity that seemed nearly sane here, at the bottom level of Azkaban, in one of the gloomiest and most cramped of its cells. Drip-drop, and two more drops have ended their independent life paths, having become just an insignificant part of a larger system—of the puddle that had formed in his cell. Drip-drop, and he's already grinning at the sight of two unfortunates once again being sacrificed for the greater good. Drip—this time just one unlucky drop is briskly running towards change, in expectation of a bright future and a better world.
He sighed. The drops in his exhausted mind were slowly being transformed into hundreds of dead bodies, falling into an abyss, and still not even knowing that they are dead already, and therefore trying to escape. It was hopeless, absolutely meaningless and so bitter.
Another sigh was heard in the cold cell covered with moss and other plant specimens, filling its unbearably small space with the air of despair.
Even dementors seemed to be uneasy down here. At any rate, while they were constantly present at the higher levels, they only came here about two times a day, fed (unless there was nothing to consume) and went back upstairs.
Honestly, were they capable of talking, he'd have asked them to stay.
His right-hand neighbour had gone mad two years ago. The cell on the left was empty, and for some reason they didn't put anyone there.
The bottom level was the dampest, darkest and coldest of all. Only the most dangerous criminals were held here, the ones people on the outside, as a rule, wish to kick the bucket. That's why, even on the days when the minister and other prominent persons, in order to put on a semblance of caring even about the most unworthy citizens of the magic world, would deign to visit the unapproachable fortress on an island, they never descended to them—to the level of the living dead. And why would they? The prisoners were condemned, they bore a stigma, they were loathed, and if one of them died and the news hit the outside, everyone would only be glad.
Or, at least, that was what happened usually. This time, however, something had changed.
Slowly, with bated breath, he rose to his feet. His body was pathetic to look at, and, frankly speaking, he resembled a skeleton rather than a living man. It seemed impossible that life inside it was still holding on and still refusing to surrender.
Having barely gained a foothold (it was becoming increasingly harder for him to stand), he listened: it was already possible to make out voices in the distance.
His heart stopped when he thought he heard the familiar authoritative voice and confident steps. This just couldn't be happening.
A beat, another one, and his heart is already racing, threatening to pop out of the prisoner's haggard chest, and hope is slightly glittering in his eyes.
"Please", he whispered, his lips hardly obeying him. "Please. . . ."
At last, after several minutes of tense anticipation, he is certain: they are coming for him. Soon, soon he'll be free. And he didn't even dare to hope, he almost believed this would never happen. Almost believed he'd die here, surrounded by bars and stone walls.
When several men, wrapped in black cloaks head-to-toe, stopped by his cell, he smiled a little. Treacherous tears burned his cheeks, and he clenched his fists frantically.
"My Lord. . . ."
He forced himself to bow deeply, overcoming the pain in a body long unused to movement.
"Step away to the wall."
It was impossible to mistake Malfoy's voice with anyone else's; only Lucius could speak like that. He was always astonished—how does he do it? He says a word or two, and his interlocutor is already at a loss, or doesn't know what to say, or is just under the cold charm of the illustrious lord.
"Bombarda!"
A single movement, but what a graceful one. That's Snape. He had this remarkable ability to work magic as if he were dancing.
"Come out", was a quiet command of his lord.
He gathered the remainder of his strength and took the first step towards the exit. Then another one. And another still. And there he is, standing before his lord, his God, his faith, his love and his teacher.
"My Lord..." he whispers again.
"Harry Potter", the lord says and squeezes his shoulder for a moment, and that turns out to be enough to understand: he's coming home, to freedom; he's coming back for the dark side to give battle again. And this time—to win.