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Harry was utterly bored. There was no other word for it. And even though he knew that he should be grateful that Lord Voldemort had finally decided to leave him alone and nothing bizarre was happening. His body was yearning to feel that rush of adrenaline again. Harry found the map and pocket watch on the side table and made up his mind.
He looked down at his blood-stained shirt again and pulled it off. He expected the wardrobe to be empty but was mildly surprised to realize that it was stocked with clothes. He pulled out a soft white linen shirt and a pair of black pants. They seemed like they would fit him.
A few minutes later, Harry was staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror with his mouth agape. Was this really him? He had never worn anything that had fitted his lean frame. His cousin's clothes had always been three or four sizes too big. He tore his gaze from the mirror and picked up the map and the pocket watch. It was nearly midnight. He was certain that nothing good would come out from exploring the castle at this hour but he just couldn't sit around and do nothing.
So, he exited his room and opened the map. He spotted the dining hall, the throne room and the relics room on it. But his gaze was drawn to a single caption, Azkaban. The name sounded interesting and Harry knew that was where he was going.
He began making his way through the long winding corridors lit with torches. The castle was incredibly silent and Harry wondered why it wasn't ringing with the sounds of those death eaters and whatever lurked within these walls. A gruesome picture of the death eaters feeding on some pour innocent soul filled his vision and made him pause. He shook his head to make the image vanish and it did. He began walking again and wondered where Lord Voldemort was and what he did in his spare time? Lord Voldemort had said that he was a vampire and he wondered why hadn't he bitten him instead of Bella.
He knew one thing for sure now, Voldemort was willing to hurt him but not kill him. And that made him wonder why. Why didn't Voldemort kill him? He stopped thinking and looked down at the map. He took a turn and came to a flight of stairs that were leading downwards into total darkness. Should he really go down? He could possible die down there. Was the rush really worth it? Well he would probably die in this strange castle anyway.
Harry pulled a torch from the nearest bracket and began making his way down the stone steps. The air grew colder and colder and the little light from the torch began to fade as he neared the end of the steps.
When Harry felt solid ground beneath his feet, the torch flickered but the flame didn't die. But despite the small light, Harry felt startled by the impenetrable dark and the blistering cold. His heart was racing and Harry scolded himself. There was that rush, that he had been yearning for. Suddenly, an odd, shuddering gasp escaped his lips. He felt as though he had been doused in icy water. He felt wrapped up in the piercingly, bitingly cold and total, impenetrable, silent darkness. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.
What was going on? Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense that he was shivering all over. Goose bumps had erupted up his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing. Something was here. Something was doing this to him.
And that something was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air. He felt a creeping chill behind him and he realized that something was right behind him. Harry turned around slowly. This was his own doing. He was going to die here. He might as well face whatever was going to kill him. With the flickering light from his torch, he saw a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Harry's eyes darted downwards, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, greyish, slimy-looking and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water.
It was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry's gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of the black material. And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it was trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings. Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart.
Harry's eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn't see. He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his ears as though of water. He was being dragged downwards, the roaring growing louder. And then, from far away, he heard screaming, terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but couldn't. A thick white fog was swirling around him, inside him. It was as though freezing water was rising in his chest, cutting at his insides,
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
Harry felt desperate to help whoever was screaming. Why was she saying his name? Was she trying to save him?
'Stand aside, you silly girl … stand aside, now."
Who was that? The voice sounded familiar. It sounded too familiar but Harry couldn't figure it out who it was,
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead."
Why was she pleading for his life? She probably didn't even know him. Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry's brain and all his thoughts for leaving him one by one. He was falling, hurtling through the icy mist
"Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy"
A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Harry knew no more.
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