I was dumped on another floor, naked and bleeding, and as I lay there, pain
coursing through my body, I heard a door slam and my torturers exit. I was
alone. I lay quietly for some time, taking in what I could, sure that these
things I was seeing were to be the last things I'd ever look upon. Funny
how beautiful leaves can look, even seen through a filthy window. I
observed the stones of the ceiling, the rusty pile of chains that had been
discarded long ago.
I was sure I was going to be killed, for I wasn't going to join Voldemort. One solitary tear trickled down my dirt and blood-streaked face as I remembered Harry at our last meeting. I had lied to him. And now I was going to die. I wouldn't ever see him again. Even if he did find me, very unlikely, I'd be dead before he got here.
I grimaced at the thought of being murdered, and cursed myself silently for thinking such thoughts about Harry. Of course he'd find me. I had to have hope. I didn't have anything else. My own father wanted me to die, even though he insisted joining Voldemort was like nothing ever felt before, a pleasure beyond imagination. The Death Eaters, to me, were like empty shells, soulless, dead beings that murdered others. I remembered how, before I had met Harry, I had been sort of like that. I hadn't given a fuck about anyone except myself. I was a rude, snobby brat, and I deserved to die. It was a miracle Harry would ever consider talking to me. Our first meeting, I had insulted his best friend.
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
I had then held out my hand, eager for Harry to shake it, and, to my surprise, Harry had refused. No one refused a Malfoy. At that instant, he was my enemy.
How it had changed. I remembered Harry kissing my wounds on my wrists, and I knew at that moment, we were connected. We had something to share. No more petty fights about bloodlines and parents. No rows over who made more money, or who got better grades. I had been fascinated with Harry at that moment, awed but frustrated all at the same time.
Thank God I had acted on my feelings.
Opening my eyes from my pleasant daydream, I peered around the dungeon. The room had darkened slightly as the sun began to sink below the horizon. I couldn't see out of the window, and swallowed nervously when I realized that I was still alone.
I lifted myself up on an elbow, groaning softly as the pain coursed through my body. White-hot knives sliced open my back, my legs, and my fingers came away from my back sticky with clotted blood. Easing myself up by my other elbow, I was able to look at the condition of my body. Just as I thought. Red welts, bleeding wounds, and bruises.
I closed my eyes again, leaned back my head, and summoned up strength from who-knows-where inside of me. I had to get up. I had to find out where Harry was, where Lucius was, if I was going to die or if I was going to live.
My hope was slowly diminishing. Harry hadn't arrived, and it was surely a bad sign that the Death Eaters were being silent. They were supposed to be preparing me for receiving the Dark Mark. I shook my head, determined to find out what was going on. As I was slowly lifting myself up, the door opened. Opened with such force as to crumble the stone it came in contact with on the wall. In the doorway were two hooded figures, and I'm sure the rest of the group was behind them. The figures stopped, save for one, slowly walking towards me, polished shoes not making a sound on the rough floors. Just below me, he lowered his hood, revealing a shock of white- blond hair that spilled past his shoulders. His pale, pointed face looked down at me, grey eyes narrowed, and then, he laughed.
I hadn't the slightest idea of what he was doing. I hadn't a clue what I was going to do, for that matter. I had no wand with which to curse him, I could barely stand, and besides, did I really think that one broken boy could even come close to matching the powers of Voldemort?
Lucius smiled down at me, cruelly, and, quickly, offered me a hand. I narrowed my eyes at him, mimicking the look he had taught me so well as a child, and refused. There was a soft murmur from the otherwise silent body of somber figures. "What," whispered Lucius, "do you mean by this? Is my son refusing his own father?" His face was mask of coldness; seeming to be etched of the very stone I was lying on.
I responded, my voice barely audible: "Yes."
Lucius smiled, if you could call it that, and turned. "Bring him forward." He said, chuckling as he again turned to me. "Are you sure this is want you want, Draco?"
I didn't respond, peering behind him to see what the Death Eaters were dragging forward. It seemed to be a body, and as it got closer, I realized who it was. Crying in pain, softly, not really caring who saw, I felt all hope for survival drain me. Limply stretching out on the floor, I stared at the form.
Exactly my height, a bit too thin by standards, and a mop of black hair. Green eyes lay hidden beneath paper-thin eyelids, bruises were beginning to color the delicate wrists, as if someone had dragged them a little too far a little too roughly.
I cried out in pain, clumsily reaching for the figure, as I realized it was not breathing. No gentle up-and-down movement of the chest, not even shallow sighs parting the lips.
Harry was dead.
I was sure I was going to be killed, for I wasn't going to join Voldemort. One solitary tear trickled down my dirt and blood-streaked face as I remembered Harry at our last meeting. I had lied to him. And now I was going to die. I wouldn't ever see him again. Even if he did find me, very unlikely, I'd be dead before he got here.
I grimaced at the thought of being murdered, and cursed myself silently for thinking such thoughts about Harry. Of course he'd find me. I had to have hope. I didn't have anything else. My own father wanted me to die, even though he insisted joining Voldemort was like nothing ever felt before, a pleasure beyond imagination. The Death Eaters, to me, were like empty shells, soulless, dead beings that murdered others. I remembered how, before I had met Harry, I had been sort of like that. I hadn't given a fuck about anyone except myself. I was a rude, snobby brat, and I deserved to die. It was a miracle Harry would ever consider talking to me. Our first meeting, I had insulted his best friend.
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
I had then held out my hand, eager for Harry to shake it, and, to my surprise, Harry had refused. No one refused a Malfoy. At that instant, he was my enemy.
How it had changed. I remembered Harry kissing my wounds on my wrists, and I knew at that moment, we were connected. We had something to share. No more petty fights about bloodlines and parents. No rows over who made more money, or who got better grades. I had been fascinated with Harry at that moment, awed but frustrated all at the same time.
Thank God I had acted on my feelings.
Opening my eyes from my pleasant daydream, I peered around the dungeon. The room had darkened slightly as the sun began to sink below the horizon. I couldn't see out of the window, and swallowed nervously when I realized that I was still alone.
I lifted myself up on an elbow, groaning softly as the pain coursed through my body. White-hot knives sliced open my back, my legs, and my fingers came away from my back sticky with clotted blood. Easing myself up by my other elbow, I was able to look at the condition of my body. Just as I thought. Red welts, bleeding wounds, and bruises.
I closed my eyes again, leaned back my head, and summoned up strength from who-knows-where inside of me. I had to get up. I had to find out where Harry was, where Lucius was, if I was going to die or if I was going to live.
My hope was slowly diminishing. Harry hadn't arrived, and it was surely a bad sign that the Death Eaters were being silent. They were supposed to be preparing me for receiving the Dark Mark. I shook my head, determined to find out what was going on. As I was slowly lifting myself up, the door opened. Opened with such force as to crumble the stone it came in contact with on the wall. In the doorway were two hooded figures, and I'm sure the rest of the group was behind them. The figures stopped, save for one, slowly walking towards me, polished shoes not making a sound on the rough floors. Just below me, he lowered his hood, revealing a shock of white- blond hair that spilled past his shoulders. His pale, pointed face looked down at me, grey eyes narrowed, and then, he laughed.
I hadn't the slightest idea of what he was doing. I hadn't a clue what I was going to do, for that matter. I had no wand with which to curse him, I could barely stand, and besides, did I really think that one broken boy could even come close to matching the powers of Voldemort?
Lucius smiled down at me, cruelly, and, quickly, offered me a hand. I narrowed my eyes at him, mimicking the look he had taught me so well as a child, and refused. There was a soft murmur from the otherwise silent body of somber figures. "What," whispered Lucius, "do you mean by this? Is my son refusing his own father?" His face was mask of coldness; seeming to be etched of the very stone I was lying on.
I responded, my voice barely audible: "Yes."
Lucius smiled, if you could call it that, and turned. "Bring him forward." He said, chuckling as he again turned to me. "Are you sure this is want you want, Draco?"
I didn't respond, peering behind him to see what the Death Eaters were dragging forward. It seemed to be a body, and as it got closer, I realized who it was. Crying in pain, softly, not really caring who saw, I felt all hope for survival drain me. Limply stretching out on the floor, I stared at the form.
Exactly my height, a bit too thin by standards, and a mop of black hair. Green eyes lay hidden beneath paper-thin eyelids, bruises were beginning to color the delicate wrists, as if someone had dragged them a little too far a little too roughly.
I cried out in pain, clumsily reaching for the figure, as I realized it was not breathing. No gentle up-and-down movement of the chest, not even shallow sighs parting the lips.
Harry was dead.