Fallen angels at my feet
Whispered voices at my ear
Death before my eyes
My father allows me to see the prisoners.
I must be prepared, he says. I may see some disturbing things.
He smirks as he says this.
He leads me into a dark wing of the large building, only a torch to light our way.
I pause every so often as we stride down the corridor and look in at the people who lay behind the barred doors.
Most are crying hysterically, whispering incoherently under their sobs.
They are pathetic.
Some lie crumpled on the cold stone floor, blood seeping from their open wounds. They take what I know will be their last breaths.
Whoever invented the Cruciatus Curse was brilliant.
I know that it is something important when my father's confident strides come to a halt in front of the last cell.
I follows the grey eyes, so much like my own, and finds myself looking at a girl.
Her deep red hair is tangled and wild about her face. Pale, almost translucent skin. Her tattered clothing is stained with blood.
A deep looking cut runs the length of her left cheek, and a smaller one lies just below her hair line, but that is the extent of her wounds.
Her dark eyes are wide and unfocused, with a glazed appearance, and he can tell she has been crying.
"What is wrong with her?" I ask, casting a cold glance at her blank face.
"I have been informed that this one is a bit . . . off," my father replies.
I smirk as thoughts of what I could do to this tiny, fragile looking girl run through my head. "Well, this should be interesting."
He turns to me then, his eyes flashing like polished steel. ""You are not to harm her. She is very important, is that understood?"
He says this in a tone that tells of things yet to come. I hate it when he speaks like this. I am never allowed to know the secrets buried in the smooth, icy layers of his words.
I cross my arms over my chest, assuming a rigid stance, and look him straight in the eye. "Yes, father," I say, my tone mocking, "I understand perfectly."
He gives me permission to stay behind as he goes to a 'business meeting'. I watch him walk away, his black cloak billowing behind him. Then it turn to face the girl.
I am interested in her. Why is she so important? What about her allowed her to get away from the Battle with only a few scratches? Why did no one kill her? Why was this scrawny, pathetic, clearly insane girl not among the thousands of bodies that littered the ground that night?
I suppose I will have to ask her.
But now her eyes are drifting closed. On the floor, she curls into a ball, her knees pulled close to her body.
I sigh in frustration. I do not like waiting.
The minutes tick away, bleeding into hours. I swear to myself that if she is not awake soon, I am going to leave.
As I think this, she stirs. Her eyes flutter open and travel over the cell. She looks as though she may burst into tears at any moment.
"It's about time you woke up," I say.
She looks up at me, and I notice that her eyes are clear and aware now. Shock registers on her face. She seems to know me.
She narrows her eyes in anger and suspicion.
"What are you doing here? What have you done with my family, with Harry?" Her voice cracks and she angrily swipes at her eyes.
As she says "Harry", a smirk plays across his face.
"Weasley," he mutters, low enough to keep her from hearing.
"Well," he begins, leaning back and stretching his hands behind his head, "I will answer your questions if you answer mine."
She glares at him, her brown eyes blazing. There's that Weasley temper.
"Why should I tell you anything, Malfoy?" She says his last name as if it is a curse, her words practically dripping with fury.
He rises to his feet in one graceful movement. "Have it your way then." He leans forward, his face pressed to the bars, his gray eyes locked onto hers. "But I will be back. And I will find out what I want to know. One way or another. I get what I want, Weasley."
She matches his stare with equal intensity. He didn't think that Gryffindors could be this cold.
"Good night," he says with a sneer, turning to walk away. "Pleasant dreams."