REMEMBER

LADY SHINIGAMI

DISCLAIMER: DUH

CHAPTER 2

It was odd, to say the least. I had been brought here as a prisoner, for having betrayed everything I had been brought up to believe in, and yet, I was being allowed to live because of my expertise on vampires.

I hadn't attended my last year at Hogwarts because I was busy studying and experimenting on the vampires that had allied themselves to Voldemort, and I had, through a lengthy process of trial and error, created a half dozen super vampires, categorized as Fury-class.

It was my creation that evidently struck down the Boy Who Lived.

Now, to clear up any confusion, I shall attempt to piece together everything that is relevant. Growing up as a child, I had always had the morbid fascination for vampires in general, and my parents nurtured that fascination, since the subject of my obsession was Dark in nature, and by the time I finished my sixth year at Hogwarts, I knew everything there was to know about the Dark beings.

When Voldemort and some of his vampire allies wished to be even stronger, I couldn't refuse the opportunity. With my Godfather's aid, I started theorizing and experimenting on a few dozen volunteers, and other the course of several months, I was able to create six perfect specimens, and they were immediately sent out into battle.

They thrived. Until they met up with Him. Harry Potter, the bloody Boy Who Lived. All of my vampires were killed, completely destroyed. He was just too much for them. I mean, I will readily admit that he is a significantly powerful wizard, powerful than most, and the thing was, I firmly believe that he hid most of his power anyway, in an attempt to be normal.

Of course, before this took place, I betrayed everything I had been working for, when they killed my mother. They called her 'a loose end' that needed to be taken care of. My father killed her, just as I emerged from one of my labs, and he was smiling. I would have called him insane, except for the fact that there was a glimmer of sanity shining in his eyes, and he was... gleeful that my mother was now dead.

I fought tooth and nail. I publicly declared my betrayal, my refusal to do anything else for the Dark Lord, now that my mother was dead. She only stayed silent about my family's Dark activities because of me, and if I was happy doing what I was doing, then so was she.

I must have gone berserk because I took out more than half a dozen of other Deatheaters before they managed to contain me, or so I heard from random other Deatheaters passing by my cell when they thought I was not conscious.

For some reason that I know naught of, they kept me alive for many months, never allowing me to leave my cell, or even see the smallest bit of daylight. The only light I ever saw was the bit of torchlight from under my cell door, and when they lifted the small flap to deliver my food. Whenever they remembered, that is.

I was released two years after my capture, and presented to the Dark Lord, who seemed worried as I was brought in. I knew that I wasn't the cause for his worry, but in my quick observations upon entering the large room, I also couldn't figured out any possible means for his apparent worry.

I knew I was a wretched sight, after two years of imprisonment. My hair was knotted and lank, and my skin was an unhealthy shade of a grayish pale, and I had become terribly thin, barely managing to survive my time confined. And although my body had wasted away to almost nothing, my mind was still exceptionally sharp, and I wondered what my skills were needed for now.

Voldemort then turned his attention to me, and I knew that something was entirely not right with him, well, with his was in normal circumstances. He was different, different in the way he held himself, different in the way he surveyed the room of its occupants, different in a way that was not natural, of any species.

He reminded me terribly of my greatest creations, my Fury vampires.

And I knew then, in that single moment, that he was the greatest of them, and nothing I could have created would ever have surpassed him.

Yet, as he locked his fierce, sharp gaze with mine, I realized that he knew it as well.

"Draco Malfoy. For two years, I have kept you alive for a single purpose, and for two years, I have not had the need to release you from your solitary cell, until now. Now I give a choice; you can either return to your cell and rot there, forgotten and wasted. Or, you can use that great mind of yours for a history making moment, and live. You have five seconds to decide." His tone held no argument, and no mercy.

"What do I have to do?" I asked, as a way of accepting his gracious offer.

"You accept?" The question was a simple confirmation.

"Yes."

He smiled, if somewhat grimly. "Excellent. Then here is your challenge. I want you to find a cure for a certain illness that is as rare as your Fury vampires, an illness that has struck seemingly because of the modified DNA of your Furies, and, luckily, for you, I have your subject."

"How important is it that the subject lives?"

The grim smile was gone, and those eyes held a very dangerous gleam. "Your life will be forfeit should the subject die before a cure can be found."

Very well. I knew the stakes, then. But still, I had to ask one more question, one more to satisfy my unceasing curiosity.

"Understood. Who is the subject?"

"Harry Potter. I need you to ensure his survival."

- Excerpt from the working journal of Genetic Alchemist, Draco Malfoy