a/n: Not that I'm trying to make excuses, but this was written at two in the morning, during one of my insomniac moments, when I've got a story that just won't leave me alone until I get it down...and I'm ranting, aren't I?
disclaimer: yes, yes, we've all been through this before. I don't own the characters...mumble mumble J.K. Rowling...now on to the story...
It was a dreary, melancholy sort of day. One where the streets were engulfed in shadows from the looming grey clouds overhead, and not a speck of blue could be found in the sky. There was no sign of the sun either. It had disappeared along with any hope the order had of victory.
When one looked back on the war, he or she couldn't help but be confused. Dumbledore and his army had had such a good chance at first. Who knew that along the way in battle, so many things could have gone so horribly wrong?
An ominous wind blew through the deserted streets (no one dared to venture outside anymore) and scattered the fallen autumn leaves. Somewhere, far away in the Scottish countryside, term would have already started at Hogwarts.
But as it is, with the death of its beloved headmaster, the school had been destroyed. All that remained were the ruins, crumbling stonewalls echoing with memories of a distant past.
Locked away in a deep underground dungeon, Harry couldn't see the gloomy weather, let alone what had become of Hogwarts. In fact, he couldn't see anything at all, the cell was so dark. Not thatsome light would be any better, he had dropped his glasses back at Privet Drive, where they had ambushed him.
He was laying on the ground, flat on his back, arms and legs spread in a prone position. They didn't bother with chains anymore, his body was too numb and weak to do him any good. They had also stopped bringing him food. How long he had gone without water, he didn't know, and he was used to the pangs of hunger now.
He heard footsteps approaching. Harry struggled to sit up. He could feel the dried blood (he recognized the smell) caked on his arms and chest crack. He didn't know whether it was his or not.
The steps stopped right behind his door, and he could hear the lock click. The door creaked as it swung open, finally allowing light in. Harry squinted; his eyes hadn't adjusted from the darkness. He could barely make out the outline of his visitor.
Whoever it was, he heard them scoff.
"So this is what has become of the great Harry Potter."
He stiffened. The voice sounded familiar.
"It's amazing where a year will find you."
Yes, there was no mistaking that drawl, that sneering tone –
The visitor had crossed the cell, closing the distance between them. Harry could smell him, the subtle musk of cologne mixed with the crisp scent of dewy maple leaves, the slight traces of burnt charcoal in his cloak. He heard the soft rustling of fabric as the blurred figure pulled an undistinguishable object from his pocket.
Harry felt a hand roughly grab his hair, yanking his head backwards. Then he was wearing his glasses and the world came into focus. He was staring at Draco Malfoy's face, straight into his eyes, with irises the cold hue of iron blades. Malfoy curled his lips.
"Now Potter, what's with that glare? That is no way to treat your master." His smile widened. "Perhaps you have yet to be housebroken."
It took him a moment to fully understand what Malfoy said. What?! Harry thought.
"Yes, it was just decided, by a council and everything," he said, clearly amused at Harry's expression. With his other hand, he cupped Harry's chin. "Don't worry that pretty face of yours. I've found a perfect use for you."