DISCLAIMER: I only own the story. None of the characters are mine. I can only wish that the world of Harry Potter is mine. Alas J.K. Rowling owns them.
-oOo-
Silence. Just silence. A pin could drop and it would be heard in the unbearable silence in the dark dungeon. But for a boy covered in grime and blood the silence meant peace, a moment of reprieve from the living nightmare he had found himself in.
The dirty floor of the dungeon was cold but it felt like a cool balm to his aching body. Not even a single torch was burning, although his eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, he could see only what little human eyes are capable of seeing in a completely dark room.
Was it morning already or was it still night? He could not tell. There was no window in his cell.
How long has he been in the dungeon? He doesn't know but he felt like he had been there for years.
The pain in his right torso blossoming as he inhaled the dank air reminded him of the agony he had experienced and will experience again. He wondered how much time he still have before the torture would start again.
Will he die during his next session? He hopes so. If it means escape from this nightmare he hopes that death would finally claim him.
Death. Again he thinks of death.
He was told that he was lucky to be still alive and was not immediately killed by the Dark Lord when the latter found out that he had failed to kill Dumbledore.
If he had the energy to laugh he would do so. How utterly ironic that he had joined the Death Eaters due to his fear of death, his and his parents' death. And now all he could wish for is to be claimed by death just as it had already claimed his father and mother.
He closed his eyes. He was tired. So unbearably tired.
Just as sleep was about to claim his consciousness to bring his mind back to the dark void, a sudden burning feeling blossomed from his chest and quickly spread to his whole body.
He writhed in pain. His broken bones, open wounds and bruises worsening the painful burning. He clawed at the cold floor, causing the tips of his fingers to bleed again and some of his nails to finally snap off. His abused throat forced to make sounds as he screamed in pain. He saw spots as the burning pain consumed him.
And just as suddenly it had begun, the pain disappeared.
He gasped for air. His mind reeling, not knowing what was happening to him. He was alone. There as no one in his cell to inflict him pain.
To his chagrin he was given only a few seconds to recover from the pain. However, this time the pain was concentrated on his back. It felt like it was being sliced open. As his flesh was torn open in two slits on his back, a pair of wings sprouted from them.
Suddenly, instinct told him to get out of the dungeon. With a burst of magic the dungeon and the rooms above it crumbled making a gaping hole in the west wing of the Malfoy manor.
Instinctively, he spread his wings and flew away leaving bloodied black feathers.
