Promises
Disclaimer:
Nope. Zero. Zip. Nada. Not Mine.
A/N: Just a
short drabble that popped in my head.
I’ll come for you. I promise.
Her
heart-shaped voice swam in the darkness before him, her curls hanging low as
she snuggled up to him for one quick hug before she darted away to carry the
information back to her Order so that he wouldn’t be risking his life in vain.
He laughed,
the sound ringing bitter in the empty, cold air. It fell flat and muffled
against the heavy, oppressive atmosphere prevailing in Azkaban, despite the
fact that the Dementors had all left. Colder, crueler creatures had come to
replace them, and though nobody knew their names or exactly what they did,
people swore that they left a trail of despair behind them wherever they went,
and that where they stooped to rest, grass never grew again.
Grass. He
could barely remember what it looked like. It was fresh, and it grew, and it
was green—green. He tried to remember what green looked like, or red, or blue,
or even that awful color pink, but all he could see was the black of his walls
and the grey of the cot and the dirty muddy color of his lank hair and the
pale, brownish color of his dirty skin.
He thought
perhaps he might have been in here for maybe six months, but he couldn’t be
sure because he didn’t have a window and he didn’t remember where the door was
since it was never used anyway, and he never saw the sun. Food appeared in his
cell when it was time to eat, but it was irregular and sometimes, if he missed
it, it disappeared again, so it was of no use to measure time by. A light
dimmed and brightened slightly as time went by, but it was never bright enough
to really be able to tell the difference.
And time ran
like wet ink and left long wet smears that blended into each other until there
was nothing but one large black streak of time that went on and on and on, with
bits of darkest black when his inhuman jailers passed by and the despair
overwhelmed him and he woke up huddled in the far corner of his prison, curled
in a ball and whimpering and shaking.
Sleep was no
refuge. Their eyes, accusing and dead and tormented staring at him, pointing
long bony fingers that had teeth marks and strips of flesh cut off, huddled
together, more and more of them. A Muggle girl he had Crucio’ed that day for his initiation, her long blue-black hair
dull and matted with blood, large black eyes staring at him as her heels kicked
out at the floor and she coughed and coughed, choking on her own blood until a
large red bubble formed out of her mouth and grew bigger and bigger, a thin red
haze over her lips, until it burst, and a stream of dark black blood flowed out
of her mouth, and it was all over.
A Squib,
screaming as he was thrown to the ground and given to the werewolves, hungry
and starved and ready for meat. His skin torn brutally apart by long incisors
over three inches long, holes with torn, lacerated flesh around it as teeth
sank and tore. On his arm was a large bite mark, a mouthful of flesh torn out,
leaving strings of muscles with no where to go, the white of bone exposed,
blood clotting on the edges even as it ran rapidly down his arm, his eyes
screaming for help.
The Death Eaters,
laughing and pointing at him, sneering and raising heavy canes. Voldemort’s red
eyes, glinting snake-like in the darkness as he raised his wand to deliver yet
more pain. MacNair, laughing as he murmured, “A spy, are you now? A wee
traitor? Always knew you were soft, boy. And what are you going to give me to
make my silence worthwhile? A touch of that pretty arse, maybe?” and then his
horrified gurgle that trailed off to a choked silence as he felt a knife slip
between his ribs.
Memories,
always more memories, overwhelmed him, until he could not tell the difference
between waking and sleeping and he wondered if he was in a prison after all, or
just caught in the hell of his own mind.
And over and
over the chant of the memories, the one promise, the warm sweet promise that
held so much in it—home, love, safety, warmth—all the things he had never had
but thought he might have had, if only, if only…
I’ll come for you. I promise. Brown eyes that were so soft and warm
as they smiled up at him…
And hours
turned into days, and days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months,
and—
I’ll come for you. I promise. But somewhere along the way, Draco
Malfoy had stopped believed in promises.
